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THE
WORKS
OP
ROBERT BURNS
CONTAINING HIS LIFE;
BT
JOHN LOCKHART, ESQ,.
THE POETRY AND CORRESPONDENCE
OF DR. CURRIE'S EDITION;
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POET,
BY HIMSELF GILBERT BURNS, PROFESSOR STEWART, aND OTHERS;
ESSAY ON SCOTTISH POETRY
INCLUDINO
TIIE POETRY OP BURNS, BY DEt CUltlUE;
BURNS'S SONGS,
FROM JOHNSON'S " MUSICAL, MUSEUM," AND " THOMPSON'S SELECT MELODIE& .
SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS OF TIIE OTHER POETS
FROM THE BEST COLI^ECTlOKSi
WITH BURNS'S REMARKS.
BXIXG, IV ONE WOIIK, TIIE TRUF.ST CXHIBITION OF THE MAN AND THE POET, AND THE
FULLEST EDITION OF HIS POETRY AND PROSB WRITINGS HITHERTO PUBLISHED.
NEW rORK:
LEAVITT & ALLEN BROS.,
No. 8 HOWARD STREET,
PREFACE lO THE FIRST EDITION.
Tns fofiOKing trifles are not the production of the poet, who, with all
Jie advantages of learned art, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and idle-
ness of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus
or Virgil. To the author of this, these and other celehratcd names their
countrymen are, at least in their original language, a fountain shut vp, mid
a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing
poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in him-
self and rustic compeers around him, in his and their native language. —
Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse
of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps
the partiality, of friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him think
any thing of his worth showing; and none of the following works were com-
posed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations
of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe
the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own
breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, al-
ways an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were
his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be
its own reward
Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does ii
with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even
he, an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being
branded as — An impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the
world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a ^ew doggerel Scotch
rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence,
forsooth !
It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, wnose divine ele.
gie: do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that " HumUiti,^
has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to tinne !"
If any critic catches at the word genius, the author tells him once ^or /iH.
that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities,
otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done, would be a manoeuvre
below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever
give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the
loor, unfortunate Ferguoson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares,
that, even in hi* highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pre-
tensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his
sye in the following pieces ; but rather with a view to kindle at their flame,
Uian for servile imitation.
iy PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
To his subscribers, the author returns his most sincere thanks . N-t the
mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the
bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship for gra-
tl'''«-ing him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom-
V je'distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the
.■< Jite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every al-
lowance for education and circumstances of life ; but if, after a fair, can-
did, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dullness and non-
Bense, let him he done by as he would in that case do by others— let hi<iS
be oondjmned, without mercy, to contempt and oblivion.
Ik the Dedication of the Life of Burns by Dr. Currie to his friend Cap
tain Graham iMoore. the learned Doctor thus expresses himself as to his
Editorial office : — " The task was beset with considerable difficulties, and
*■< men of established reputation naturally declined an undertaking, to the
" performance of which it v/as scarcely to be hoped that general approoa-
" tion could be obtained by any exertion of judgment or temper To such
" an office my place of residence, my accustomed studies, and my occu-
" pations, were certainly little suited. But the partiality of Mr. Syme
*' thought me, in other respects, not unqualified ; and his solicitations,
•< joined to those of our excellent friend and relation, Mrs. Dunlop, and ot
•' other friends ©f the family of the poet, I have not been able to resist."
These sentences contain singular avowals. They are somehow apt to
suggest, what we have all heard before, that some are born to honour,
while others have honours thrust upon them. The Doctor's squeandshness
in favour of persons of established reputation, who might be chary of a tick-
lish and imoracticable, if not an odious task, is in ludicrous contrast with the
facts as they have since fallen out. Have we not seen the master-spirits
of the age, Scott, Byron, Campbell, honouring in Burns a kindred, if not a
superior genius, and, like passionate devotees, doing him homage ? They
have all voluntarily written of him ; and their recorded opinions evince no
feelings of shyness, but the reverse : they not only honour, but write as if
honoured by their theme. But let us leave the subject, by merely pointing
attention to the Doctor's mode of treating it. as a decisive test of the evil
days and evil tongues amidst which the poet had fallen, and of the exis-
tence of that deplorable party-spirit, during which the facts involving hia
character as a man, and his reputation as a poet, could neither be cor-
rectly stated, nor fairly estimated.
It is true. Dr. Carrie's Life contained invaluable materials. The poet's
auto-biographical letter to Dr. iMoore, — indeed the whole of his letters, —
the letters of his brother Gilbert, — of Professor Dugald Stewart, — of INIr.
Murdoch and of Mr. Syme, and the other contributors, are invaluable ma-
terials. They form trulv the verv baclfrbone of tl.e poet's life, as edited hi
V " )
Dr Cunic. They must ever be regarded as precious relics ; and howevei
largely they may be used as a part of a biographical work, tliey ought also
to be presented in the separate form, entire ; for, taken in connection with
the general correspondence, they will be found to be curiously illustrative
of the then state of society in Scotland, and moreover to contain manifold
and undoubted proofs of the diffusion and actual existence, amongst Scots-
men of all degrees, of that literary talent, \;hich had only been inferred^
hvpothetically, from the nature of her elementary institutions.
v\'e have no wish to detract from the high reputation of Dr. Currle.
It will however be remarked, that the biographical part of his labours,
as stated by himself, involve little beyond the office of reducteitr. — He
was not upon the spot, but living in England, and he was engaged with
professional avocations. If truth lies at the bottom of the well, he had nei-
ther the time nor the means to fish it up. Accordingly, it is not pretended
that he proceeded upon his own views, formed, on any single occasion, after
a painful or pains-taking scrutiny ; or that, in giving a picture of the man
and the poet, he did more than present to the public what had come to
him entirely at second-hand, and upon the authority of others ; however
tainted or perverted the matter might have been, from the then general-
ly diseased state of the public mind. The Life of the poet, compiled undei
such circumstances, was necessarily defective, — nay it did him positive in
justice in various respects, particularly as to his personal habits and mora'
character. These were represented with exaggerated and hideous features
unwarranted by truth, and having their chief origin in the malignant viru
lence of party strife.
The want of a Life of Burns, more correctly drawn, was long felt. This
is evident from the nature of the notices bestowed, in the periodicals oi
the time, upon the successive works of Walker and Irving, -.vho each ol
them attempted the task of his biographer ; and upon ti.e publications of
Cromek, who in his " K cliques," and " Select Scotti&h Songs," brought to
light much interesting and original matter. But these attempts only whet-
ted and kept alive tlie general feeling, which was not gratified in its fuil
extent until nearly thirty years after the publication of Dr. Currie't work.
It was nut until 18"^7 that a historian, worthy of the poet, appeared in the
person of Mr. John Lockhart, thv» son-in-law of Sir \Valtcr Scoit, and (ra-
ther a discordant title). Editor of the London Quarterly Review. He in
that year published a Life of Burns, both in the separate form, and as a part
of that excellent repertory known by the title of CousUihles 31/ sec/ /a hi/.
It is only necessary to read Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, to be satisfied
of his qualifications for the task, and that he has succeeded in putting
them, alter an upright and conscientious manner, to the proper use. Jt
certainly appears odd, that a high Tory functionary should stand out the
ciiampion of the Bard who sung,
" A man's a man for a' that :"
and who, because of his democratic tendencies, not only missed of public
patronage, but moreover had long to sustain every humiliation and indirect
persecution the local satellites of intolerance could fling upon him. But the
lapse of time, and the spread of intelligence, have done much to remove
prejudices and soften asperities; to say notliing of that independence of
mind which always adiieres to true genius, and which the circumstances
in the poet's history naturally roused and excited in a kindred snirit. Mr
f •••
( 1" ,
Lockhart, it will farther bo observed, besides having compiled his iv-ork vr.
der circumstances of a general nature much more favourable to accurate
delineation, likewise set about the task in a more philosophical mannci
than the preceding biographers. lie judged for himself; he took neither
flicts nor opinions at second-hand ; but inquired, studied, compared, and
where doubtful, extricated the fiicts in the most judicious and careful man
ner. It may be said, that that portion of the poet's mantle which invested
his sturdiness of temper, has fallen upon the biographer, who, as the poet
did, always thinks and speaks for himself.
These being our sentiments of Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, we have
preferred it, as by far the most suitable biographical accompaniment of the
present edition of his works. It has been our study to insert, in this edi-
tion, every thing hitherto published, and fit to be published, of which
Burns was the author. The reader will find here all that is contained
in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800, with the pieces brought to light by all the
respectable authors who have since written or published of Burns. — The
following general heads will show the nature and extent of the present
work.
1. The Life by Lockhart.
2. The Poems, as published in the Kilmarnock and first Edinburgh edition,
with the poet's own prefaces to these editions, and also as published
in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800; having superadded the pieces since
brought forward by Walker, Irving, Morison, Paul, and Cromek.
3. Essay (by Dr. Carrie), on Scottish Poetry, including the Poetry of
Burns.
4. Select Scottish Songs not Burns's, upwards of 2U0 in number, and many
of them having his Annotations, Historical and Critical, prefixed.
5. Burns's Songs, collected from Johnson's Musical Museum, the larger
work of Thomson, and from the publications of Cromek, Cunningham,
and Chalmers, nearly 200 in number.
6. The Correspondence, including all the Letters published by Dr. Currie,
besides a number subsequently recovered, published by Cromek and
others.
The whole forming the best picture of the man and the poet, and the only
complete edition of his writings, in one work, hitherto offered to the public.
Besides a portrait of the poet, executed by an able artist, long familiar with
the original picture by Nasmyth, there is also here presented, (an entire
novelty), a fac-simile of the poet's handwriting. It was at one time mat-
ter of surprise that the Ploughman should have been a man of genius and
a poet. If any such curious persons still exist, they will of course be like-
wise surprised to find that he was so good a penman.
Mew Yokk, Sept. 11, 1832.
CONTENTS OF BUUNS'S WORKS.
OF THE LIFE.
Page
Chap. I —The Poet's Birth, IJSO— Circumstances and peculiar Character of his
Father and Mother — Hardships of his early years — Sources, such as they were, of
his i\Iental Improvement — Commenceth Love and Poetry at 10, ^ i — viii
Chap. II — From 17 to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Burns work to their Father, as
I^.bourers, at stated AVages — At rural work tlie Poet feared no competitor — This
period not marked by much iMental Improvement — At Dancing-School — Pro-
gress in Love and Poetry — At School at Kirkoswald's — Bad Company — At Ir-
vine— Flaxdressing — Becomes there Member of a Batchelor's Club, ix^— xu
Chap. Ill — The Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, become tenants of Mossgiel —
Their incessant labour and moderate habits — The farm cold and unfertile — Not
J'rosperous — The iMuse anti-calvinistical — The Poet thence involved deeply in
local polemics, and charged with heresy — Curious account of these disputes —
Early poems prompted by them — Origin of, and remarks upon the Poet's prin.
cjpal pieces — Love leads him far astray — A crisis — The Jail or the \\'est Indies
— The alternative, ,„-„ — — xx — zxxiv
Hhap. IV — The Poet gives up Mossgicl to his Brother Gilbert— Intends for Ja-
maica— Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to supjdy means of outfit —
One of COO co])ies printed at Kilmarnock, IJUtJ — It brings him extended repu-
tation, and £20 — Also many very kind friends, but no patron — In these circum-
stances, Guaging first Imited to him by his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken —
Sayings and doings in the first year of liis fame — Jamaica again in view — Plan
desisted from because of encouragement by Dt. Blacklock to publish at I'^din-
burgh, wherein the Poet sojourns, „„ „^ xxxv — Ixils
Chap. V — The Poet winters in Edinburgh, 1780-7 — By his advent, the condition
of that city — Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pediintic — is lightc-l
up, as by a meteor — He is in the full tide of his fame there, and for a while ca-
ressed by the fashionable — \Vhat happens to him generally in that new world,
and his behaviour under the varying and very trying circumstances — The tavern
life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond all former experience by
bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universally admitted, as
Slot the least of his talents— The Ladies like to be carried off' their feet by it,
while the nhilosopliers hardly keep theirs — Edition of 1500 co])ies by Creech,
wliich yields mucn money to the Poet — Hesolves to visit the classic scenes of his
own country — Assailed with thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him back
to the region of poverty and seclusion, „,^„.^ ^ ^-„.,„., Ixiv — Isxi
Chap. VI — flakes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the first
pf these, after an absence of six months, amongst his friends Li the " Auld Clay
Biggin" — Finds honour in his own country — Falls in with many kind friends
during those pilgrimages, and is familiar with the great, but never secures one
effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — Lingers in Edinburgh amidst tl-e
fleshpots, winter 1787-!5 — Upset in a hackney coach, which produces a bruised
liinl), and mournful musings for six weeks — Is enrolled in the Excise — Another
crisis, in which the Poet fuids it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs. Dunlop
not to desert him — Growls over iiis publisher, but after settling with him leaves
Eilinburgh with £500 — Steps towards a more regular life, „ Ixii — Ixxv
Chap. VII fliarries — Announcements, (apologetical,) of die event — Pemarkr, —
Becomes C17U8) Farmer at Elliesland. on the Nith, in a romantic vicinity, six
n CONTENTS.
Pa^
miJes from Dumfnes — The I\Iuse wakeful as ever, while the Poet mainuiiiis a
varied and extensive literary correspondence with all and sundry — Remarks upon
the correspondence — Sketch of his person and habits at this period by a brother
poet, who shews cause against success in farming — Tlie untoward conjunction of
Gauger to Farmer — The notice of the squirearchy, and the calls of adniirir.g
visitors, lead too uniformly to the ultra convivial life — Leaves tlliesland (17'Jl)
to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries, — IxxSii — 5V
CiiAP. VIII Is moreheset in town than country— His early biographers, (Dr.
Currie not excepted), have coloured too darkly under that head — It is not correct
to speak of the Poet as having sunk into a toper, or a solitary drii.ker, or of his
revels as other than occasional, or of their having interfered with the punctual
discharge of his official ckities — lie is shov/n to have been the aft'ectionate and be-
loved husband, although passing follies im])Uted ; and the constant and most as-
siduous instructor of his children— Impulses of the French Eevolution — Synip.
toms of fraternizing — The attention of liis official superiors is called to them —
Practically no blow is inflicted, only the bad name — Interesting details of this pe-
riod—Gives his whole soul to song making — Preference in that for his native
dialect, with the other attendant facts, as to that portion of his immortal lays, x.n— cil
Chap. IX The Poet's mortal period approaches — His peculiar temperament —
Symptoms of premature old age — These not diminislu-d by narrow circumstances
Chagrin from neglect, and death of a Daughter— Th.e Poet misses public pa-
tronage: and even the fair fruits of his own genius — tlic appropriation of which
is debated for the casuists who yielded to him merely the shell— His magnani-
mity when death is at hand ; his interviews, conversations, and addresses as a
dying man— Dies, 21st July 179o— Public funer;.l, at wl-.ich many attend, and
amongst the rest the future Premier of England, who had steadily refused to ac-
knowledge the Poet, living— His family muniScently provided for by the public
Analysis of character— His integrhy, religious state, and genius— Strictures
upon him and his writings by Scott, Campbell, Byron, and otiiers, . — „ cx-.cxxxiv
Verses on tlie death of Burns, by ]Mr. Roscoe of Liverpool, cxxxv
Character of F>ums and his Writings, by Mrs. Riddell of Glenriddell, c\xxvii
Preface to th.e First Edition jf Burns's Poems, printed in Kilmarnock, ..„„- cLxiii
Didlcalion to the Cdedonia-" Hunt, prefixed to the Edinburgh Edition, . dn%
vii
CONTENTS OF THE POEMS
\ Bar(? s Epitap.i, ~
Address to a Hoggis,
o a Lady,
to a Louse,
to a Mouse,-- - - -
to Colonel de Peyster,
to Edinburgh, -~-
to General Demourier,
to J. Syme,~v
to Mr. Mitche ,
to Mr. William Tytler,
to Robert Graham, Esq.
to the Deil,
to the Owl,-, ,
to the Shade of Thomson,
to the Scotch Representatives,-
to the Toothache,-
to the LTnco Guid,
A Bodication to Gavin Hamilton,
,\ Dream (a Birth-day Ode to the King),
A Grace before Dinner,-™.
Ansiver to a Tax Surveyor, .
A Prayer in Piospect of Death,
in Anguish,
A Sketch,
A Winter N'ight,-.
A Yision,-~~w~~.
— - 55
40
T.'
42
'.'9
7-1
4.1
S5
17
71
Gl
51
14
S2
55
4
41
IS
75
72
.-fi, 7S
. 58, 78
.-, 82
t'9
— 69
Death and Dr Honibook,-
Despondency, an Ode,
a Hymn,
Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson,
on William Creech, ~
on Peg Nicolson,— ..,.- — -... -.
Tarn Samson,
on the Year 1788, .
9
32
78
40
76
77
t'3
68
Ipistle to a Voung Friend, .
to Captain Riddel, -
to Davie, a Brother Poet (1), .
to Cavie, a Brother Poet (2),
to Gavin Hamilton,
to J. Lapraik, a Scots Poet,-
to J. Rankin with Poems,-
to Mr. .Macadam,
to Terraughty, .
to the Reverend Mr. M'Math,
to \V. S. Ochiltree, —— — ~™
Epitaph on a Friend,
on a Noisy Polemic,-
on a Ruling Elder,^ —
en Gavin Flamilton, .
on R. .\itkcn, .
39
81
50
59
79
45, 45, 79
47
81
81
79
46
75
55
on tlie Poet's Father, .
or. VVee Johnny, .
Extempore Effusions in the Court of Session,
on Falsehood,-
to a Friend,
to Mr. Syme, ,
Refusal to Dine,
when at Carlisle, -
Halloween, ...-....■. .,„..,.„.
Holy Fair, ™ "'
Impromptu, a Lady's Birth-day,——
Inscription, Altar of Independence,-.
Lamcnt of Queen Marj-,
55
55
55
55
82
85
hS
74
71
85
24
6
73
72
50
Lament for James Earl of Giencairn,
for a Scotch Bard gone to the West 1
Lines left at a Friend's House,
left at Carron, ~
left at Friar's Carse Hermitage, „
left at Tavmouth Inn, — .
on a Posthumous Child,.
on a Wounded Hare,
on Bruar Water,
on Captain Grose
on Mi-;s Cruikshanl<s,
on Religion,
on Sensibility, to Mrs. Dunlop, .—
on Scaring some Water-fowl in Loch Turit,
on the Death of J. Maeleod,
on the Fall of Fyers, —-
on the Highland-
on William Smellie,.
to a Mountain Daisy
to an Olfended Friend, .
to an Old Sweetheart with his Poems
to a Voting Lady with Books, .
Page
_ oi
ndies, 4C
37
6S
IS
58
59
54
51
56
56
78
76
53
57
53
7ti
71
58
74
62
75
59
7J
39
52
to Mis L. with Heattie's Poems,-
to Robert Graham, Esq
to Ruin,
to Sir John Whitefoord, — .
M.an was Made to Mourn, a Dirge, —
Monody on a Capricious Female and Epitaph, -
New- Year's Day, a Sketch, .
Ode on a Miserly Character,,
on my Early Days,
on Pastoral Poetrv, .
on the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair,
to Liberty,-
Poor Maillie's Elegy, .
Scotch Drink,-
Sonnet on the Death of Mr. Riddel,
Stanzas on Death, .
Strathallau's Lament,-
Tam o' Shnnter, -
Tam Samson's Elegy and Epitaph,
The Auld Farmer's New-Year's Salutation to his
Briis o' Ayr, ,™~ — — ™ 10
Calf, — ; ~— '■ ™~ — i<
Cotter's Saturday Night, .-— ^- 53
Death and Dying VV ords of Poor Maillie, _ 16
First six Verses of 9Uth Psalm, 58
Henpecked Husband, — —„—..-- — -> 68
Lament on a Friend's Love Disappointment, 51
Ordination, ^ '3
Twa Dogs, — -..- -. — ~- I
Whistle, — L— -^ — .- 59
Vision, „— — — i'O
™, 81
53
73
71
49
61
7fl
61
77
16
3
72
37
63
52
Vowels, a Tale,
Winter, a Dirge,—
Essay on Scottish Poetry iDr. Currie), .
84-33
CONTENTS OF TIIE SELECT SCOTTISU "SONGSL
imircw and his Cu.ty Gun,,
^nnie Lawrie,
fts I wfiit 0!it in a May Morning, ,
AuM Rub Morris, .
Robin Gray,~.
Aye wauki})' 0,~~~
A waulirife Minny, .
Awa Whigs Awa, „
Deds of Swe;t Roses,
Beis the Gaikie
Bessy Bell anl Mary Graj
Hide ye Vet 1 2 sets).
Blink o'er thi Burn Sweet Hetty
Blue Bonnet? over the Border,-.
Bonnie Barbara Allan, .
Dundee,
Mary Hay,-
Came ye o'er frae France,
Carle .-.n' the King come,
CaulJ Kail in Aberdeen,-,
Ca the Kwes to the Knowes, —
Charlie is my Darbrig, -
Clout the Cau'dron,.
Cofkpc-n,
Come under my Plaidie,
Comin' thro' the Rye, „
Com Rigs are Boniue, -.
Crail Town (Iram Coram Dago),
Cromlei's Lilt, ..,.
Dinna think Ronnie Lassie,,
Donald Coupar,
Down the Biun Davie,-
Dumbarton's Drums,—-.
Dusty Miller,,
Ettriek Ranks, .^..^
Fair Annie of Lochroyan, .
F'airly Shot of Her, ».— ~— .
False' Love and hae ye Played Me This, .
Farewell to Ayrshire,
Fare ye weet my Auld Wife
For Lack o' Gol I She's left me.
For the Sakeo' Somebody, .
rye gar rub her o'er wi' Straw,-,
Gala Water,™— ^,.
Get up and Bar the Door O, .
Go to Berwick Johnic, - „-.
Ciude YiU Comes and Gude Vill Goes,-.
Ilame never cam' He,
Haud awa frae me Donald,
Hap and row the Feelie o't,-
llere's a Health to them that's awa,-
Hey ca' through,—-.
Highland Laddie,
Hooly and Fairlie,.
HugKic Graham,-,
I had a Horse and I had nae mair,
I'm o'er N'oung to Marry Net, .
I'll never leave \e, -
I loo'd nae a Laddie but anc, —.-,
Jenny Dang 'he Weaver, —-.
If ye'll be my Dawtie and sit on my I'laid,
In the Garb of Old >-a"i. ,
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Jockey said to Jenny,——
John Hay's Bonnie Lassie,
John o' Badenyon,
Johnny Copo,-
Johnny Faa,
Johnr.y's Gray Breeks,
Jumpin John, ,.—---.
Kale of Aberdeen, -
Kathrnie Ogie,
Keep the Country Bo.mic Lassie,
Kelvin Grove,
Kenmure's on and awa Willie,
KiUycrankie (the Battle), -
Killyerankie O (the Braes),
Kind Robin loes nie, .
Lady Mary Ann,-
Lass gin ye Loe me tell me now,
Lassie lie near me,-
Lewis Gordon, — -
Little wat ye wha's comin',
Lochaber lio more,
Lochnagar,
Logan Braes, (double set),-
Logie o' Buehan,,
lis
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136
ms
159
Lord Ronald, my Son, -—
Low down in the Broom, ,
JIacpherson's Rant, — — — -
Maggie Lauder,
Mary's Dream, -
Mary Scot, the Flower o' \arrow,
Merry hae 1 been Teething a Heckle,
Mill, Mill, 0,_.
My Auld Man, .
My Dearie, if thou Die, .
My Jo Jiuiet, .
M y Lo\e she's but a Las,sie yet, — ,-,
l\ly Love's in Gcrmanie,
My Mither's aye Glowrin o'er me,
My Native Caledonia,
in;
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185
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ifii)
173
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164
My only Joe and Dearie O, ~ — .
My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing
My Wife has taen the Gee, .
Neil Gow's Farett'«ll to Whisky O, .
O an' ye were Dead Gudeman,-
O can ye labour Lea Voung Man,.
Och hey Johnny Lad,,
O dear Minny what shall I do, .
O merry may the Maid be.
O on oehrio (the Widow of Gleneo;,
Old King Coul,-
OurGuidman cam' Hame at E'en, .
O'er the Muir araang the Heather, .
O'er Bogie v\i' my Lo'e - -—
O Waly, Waly up yon Bank,—
Polwarth on the Green,
Poverty parts Gude Comp;uiy,-
Ro.'ilin Castle,-
Roy's Wife,.
Sae Merry as We hae been,
Sandy o'er the Lea, .. ..
Saw ye Johnny ('omin', — ^
Saw ye my Father, —
21
12
21
64
23
65
18
'.3
65
74
53
66
66
170
167
139
161
160
183
119
163
161
150
1S3
128
185
le^
103
170
_- 116
_ 165
- 103
CONTENTS.
IX
^av/ ye ti<ip niy PeR^V.
She r(V^<^ and let me in, ,^^,***
J^tecr Ikt uj) riiiil haiul lier ;;aun,
Stre])lH)n nnd Lyi'' ■
Symon Droitie, .
Tak' your AiiUl Clo.iK about you,
Taiii o' the Balloch,
Tarry Woo,.
The Auld Mans Mare's dca^l,
The Auld Wile ayoiit tlio Kire,
The Hattle o' Slierra-miiir,
The lianks o' tlie Tweed, _
The Beds o' Sweet Roses, .
The Uirks of Invermav, .
The Hlvthesome Briilal,-
The Blathrie o't,.
The Bnatie rov«'s,
TheBobof Dumblaiie,,
The bomiie bruckct Lassie,
The boniiie Lass o' Branksome,
The biinnie Lass that made the Bed to me.
The Brae-; o' Ballendean, -.
The brisk young Lad, ,.
The Biume o' the Cowdenkuawcs,
The Bush abnon Traquair,
The Campbells are comin',
The Carle he cam' o'er the Craft,
The Coallier's boniiie Lassi
The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn,
The Flowers of the Forest,
The Flowers of Edinburgh,
The Foray, ~.
The Gaberlunzie Man,.
The happy Marriage, ~
The Hishland Queen, ,
Tie Jolly Beggar, -™„
The Lammie,
The Landart Laird,
The Lass of Peatie's Mill, .^
The Lass o' Liviston, ,.. — .~~-,
The Last I ime I cam' o'er the Muir,,
The Lea-Rig,^,^.^,,,^.. ....,
Page.
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105
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IH
The Life and Age o' Man,
The Maid that tends the Goats, —
The M:iltm;m,
The merry Men O,
The Miller o* Dee,
The Minstrel (DonoLhthead),
The muckin' o' Geordie's Hyre, .
The Old Man's Song,.
The Poets, what Fools the're to Deave us
The Poesie, . — ~ —
The Bock and the wee pickle Tow, —
The Soutois o' Selkirk,
The Tailor fell thro' the Bed,
The Turninspike ~~,.
The weary Pund o' Tow,
The wee, wee German Lairdie,
The Wee Thing,.
The Wee Witikie,
1 he White Cock.ade, „ —
The Widow, „
The Yellow-halr'd Laddie,
I he Young Laird and Edinburgh Katie,
There's nae Luck about the House, — ™~
This is no Mine Ain House,
Tibbie Fowler, .
Tibbie Dunbar,„„„
To Daunton Me,
To the Kye wi' Me, (2 sets),
Todlin Haine,
Tranent-Muir,
Tullochgorum, .
' P>"»is within a Mile o' Edinburgh iown,
..'side (.' sets),.
„ ,, ana Warn a' Willie,
Up in the Moruin' early,.
Wandering Willie,
Waukin' o' the Fauld, .
We're a' Nid Noddin,,
Were nae my Heart Light I wad Die,
Willie was a Wanton Wag, > .,
Woo'd and Married and a', .
Page.
100
11.1
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181)
171
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181
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182
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112
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142
156
175
1'.'9
121
in
174
109
133
126
182
120
167
121
if;9
CONTENTS OF BURNS'S SONGS.
Aaieu, a Heart-warm fond Adieu,,
Ae fond Kiss and then we Sever,
Afton Water, •
Again rejoicing Nature sees,
A Highland Lad my Love was born,~~-
Ara.uig the Trees where humining Bees,
A Man's a Mau for a' that,
Anna,„~.
Annie, .,
A red red Hose,
A ll.Kse Hud by my early Walk,
A Southland Jennie,
Auld Lang Syne, — ~-
Auld Rob Morris,
Bessv and her Spinning. Wheel, .
Behold the hour the Boat arrives, .
Beware of Bonnie .\nn.
Beyond thee. Dearie,
Blythe hae I been on yon Hiil,.
BIythe was She,
Oonnie Bell, -^
Jean, . ~~
Lesley,
Wee i'hing, .
jJruce at Bannoukburn,
I'Talcdonia— (their Groves o' Sweet Myrtle),,
Cau'it thou leave me thus, Katy,
Reply,
Ca* the Ewes,~., , .,..» — ~
Chloe,
Page.
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Chloris,~
Clarinda,
Come let me take Thee to my Breast,
Contented wi' LittVi
Country Lassie,
Craigieburn-wood,,
Dainty Davie, —
Deluded Swain,
Does haughty Gaul,,
Down the Burn Da\ie, ,
Duncan Grav,~
Evan Banks, „.
Fair Eliza,
Fairest Maid on Devon Banks,.
Fate gave the Word, ~,
For the Sake o' Somebody, .
Forlorn my Love,.
From thee Eliza,~.
Pagt.
^ 197
™ 197
197
197
193
193
Gala.W'atcr,,
Gloomy December, ,.,
Green grow the Rashes 0,~~
Gudewife count the Lawin',.,
Had 1 a Cave on someAVild distant Shore,
Hands'ime Nell, .
Her flowing Locks, ~- — «. — ~
Here's a htallh to Ane 1 loe dear, .
to Them that's awa.
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CONTENTS.
Hole's a Bottle and an Honest Frieml, .
Hi^hlaml Harry,-
Highliinrt Mary,
How Cruel are the Parents,
How lang and dreary is the Night,
1 am a Son of Mars,.
Panf.
2il4
20.)
205
204
201
Jamie come try me,
c.ream'd I lay where Flowers were springing,-
ni aye c,i' in by yon Town,
I'm o'er Voung to Marry yet,
it is nae Jean thy binnie Face,.
Jookey'i ta'en the Parting Ki^s,
John Anderson my jo,
John Barleycorn,
Last May abraw Wooer cam' down the Lang Glen,
Lassie wV the Lint- white LockS;
Lay thy Loof in mine Lass,
Let not a Woman e'er complain,-.
Logan ISraes,
Long, long the Night,
Lord Gregory,
jord Daer,
Macplierson's Farewell,,
Maria's Dwelling,
Mark yonder Pomp of costly Fashion,.
llary Moriion, .
Meg o' the Mill, -
My Honnie Marv.
M,' Heart's in tlie Highlands, —
My toady's Gown there's Gairs upon't, .
My Nannie's awa,.
Mv Nannie O. — .
My Peggy's Face my Peggy's Form,
My .SpGu^e Nancy,
My Wife's a winsome Wee Thmg,
Musing on the Roaring Ocean,—™
Naebody,
Nancv,
* '"■ ■^.' »-"'■'— "■ •
Now Itanks and Hracs are clail in Green, ~.
Now Spring has clad the Grove in Green,™-
Now wesllin VVin.ls and slaughtering Guns,
O' a' the airts the Wind can blaw,-
O ay my Wife she dang me,
O bonnie is yon Rosy Brier,-.
O lor Ane and Twentie Tarn,
O gin my Love were yon Red Rose,
O leave Novelles ye Mauchlin Belles,
O let me m this ae Night,
O Love will venture in, -.,— .. — «— — ,
O May, thy Morn,-
()n a Bank of Flowers,
On Cessnock Bank, .
On the Seas and far away,-
Open the Door to me O,-
O Pliilly happy be that day,-
O stay sweet warbhng Woodlark, .
O wat ye Wh.a's in yon To^n,
O were I on Parnassus Hdl, -_
O wcrt Thou in the Cauld Blast, -
O wha is She that Locs me,.
Out over the Forth,-
Pcggv .\lison.
Philiis the Fair,
Powers Celestial wnose protection,
I'uirtith Cauld, -
Rantin' Roarin* Willie,-.
20.5
206
205
211.5
205
i'06
206
2!17
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208
208
£08
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209
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2in
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2:3
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t'2ii
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1.21
ile
216
£16
221
£22
222
292
Raving W'inda around her blowing,-^— ~——~—~ 2i3
Saw ye ought o' Captain Grose, ..,— . 22.1
She's Fair and She's Pause, 2-'.^
She says she Loes me best of a', , 22.1
Sic a Wife as Willie had, — „ ■J'-Ji
Steer her up and haud her gaun, 221
Sweet fa's the Eve on Craigieburu-vvood, .- 2.'4
Tarn Glen
The .\uld Man
The Banks o' Castle Gordon,
o' Cree
o' Devon,
o' Ooon,
o' Nith,_
The Bard's Song,
The Battle o' Sherra-Muir,
The Big-bellied Bottle,-,
The Birks o' AberfeldiC;
The Blue-eyed Lassie,
The bonnie Wee Thing,
The Braes o' Balloehmyle,
The Carle o' Kellyburn'-Braes
"The Chevalier's Lament,
The Day Returns,
The Death Song, .
The Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman,
The Election
The Gallant Weaver
The Gardener,
The Gloomy Night is gatherin' fast.
The Heather was bloomin'
The Highland Lassie O, —
The I.ad that's far awa, —
The Lass o' Balloehmyle,
The Lass thit made the Bed to me,
The Lazy Mist,
The Lea-Rig
The Lovely Lass o' Inverness,
The Lover's Salutation
The Riggs o' Harley
The Soldier's Return,
The stown Glanceo' iviudness,— .
'I'he Toast
The Tocher for Me,
The Woodlark,
The "\'oung Highland Rover,
There'll never be Peace till Jamie cmnes ha;nc,~
Thcre's a Youth in this City,
There's News Lasses,
There was once a Day,
This is no mine ain Lassie, — — — .
Thou has left me ever Jaime, —
Tibbie 1 haescen the Day,
To Mary in Heaven,
True-hearted was He,
Wae is my Heart and the Tears in my Ee, „
Wandering Willie,——. — ~ ,-
What can a Voung La-sie do wi' an Auld .Man, -.
Wha is that at my Bower Door, -— ~— — — — .
When Guildford 'Goc<l, ,
Where ate the Joys I hae met in the Morning, -,
Whistle and I'll come to ye my Lad
Wdlie brew'd a Peck o Maul, „
Will ^'e go to the Indies my Mary,,
Wilt thou be my Dearie,
Von Wild Mossy Mountains,
Voung Jockey was the biythest Lad,
Vounp f eggv, .■„»>,——.—.. — .
225
225
225
226
2i''
CIO J
256
226
226
227
2.'8
22 ■!
223
2';S
229
2J9
25C
250
250
251
231
232
£32
252
253
255
233
23 i
234
255
255
255
257
2.56
258
2'57
257
253
£37
257
258
239
2'iO
239
240
210
240
240
241
241
242
242
243
212
245
2U
21,'
CONTENTS OF THE CORRESPONDENCE.
17S3, 1784
Page
Lcn {yCtters, at 2i?, in good English, but unavail-
ing. ^ — _„ 2i7_9
To Mr. Murdoch— state ot the Poet and liis Opi-
nions, ~ — .^^^ — ^-„,~-„„„.„,.„.,,„ 249
Extracts from the Scrap-book, „,.„„ 250-2
1786.
To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh— first pub-
lish in<;, „ ,
To Mr. Macwhinnie, Ayr— same topic,
To Mr. James Smith, Mauchline— route for Ja-
T<i Mr. David Brice — same — about to become
Poet in print— ihe last foolish action he is to
commit, ~~— «-«»-.„„„„„.,„„,.,.,.„„, , ,
To Mr. Aitken, Ayr — Authorship — Excise — a fu-
ture state, ~~~ ...„„,.,.^»,.„,„„„ .„,„
To Mrs Dimlop— first Letter— her order for Co-
pics — his early devotion to her ancestor. Sir W.
To Mrs. Stewart of Stair — introductory— hurry —
f;oin£; abroad -sends Songs, „,„„„
From br Blacklock to the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie—
witli just estimate of the l-'oet's merits— which
puts an end to tlie West India scheme, and brings
liim to Edinburgh, „„ ........„„„,.,.,.,„..„
From Sir John Whitefoord — complimentary,-,—-
From the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie — pressing interview
with Dr. Blacklock — good advice,
■R) Gavin Hamilton, Mauchline — from Edinburgh
— the Poet eminent as Thomas a Kempis or
John Bunvan— favours of tlie Edinburgli public.
To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline — with the Lines on
Lord Daer, r,^.,,,,,.,,,,,,^,.,,,,^,,,,,,,^
1787.
To Mr. John Ballantine, Ayr — occurrences at
Eduiburgh, ^-^^ ~-»™™„l_„„„,.».„„„„.„,.,„
To Mr. William Chalmers, Ayr — the s.ime, and
humourously apologetical. .^^ .„,„,„..„„
To Mr. John Ballantine — Fanning projects and
farther mcidcnts at Edinburgli, ..
To tne Earl of Eglinton— a thaiikful Letter,
To Mrs. Dunlop— tre.its of Dr. Moore and lils
Writings — critic.il remarks on his own — and
upon himself at the height of popular favour,-.
To Dr. Moore — introductory — the Poet's views of
V'ro'ii Dr. Moore — thinks the Poet not of the ir-
ritab'ile genus — admires his love of Country and
independent spirit, not less than his Poetical
Beauties— sends Miss Williams Sonnet on the
Mountain Daisy, „. ,„ t'60
To Dr. Moore — general character of Mi.ss Wdliaras'
Poems, „-„„-„,„-„, 26'J
To Mr. John Ballantme — printnig at Edinburgh,
and getting \\\i phiz done, -. . 261
From Dr. Moore — with his View of Society — and
other Works, .,. 261
To ihe Earl of Glencairn — with L,ines for his Pic-
To the Earl of Biieian — as to Pilgrimages in Cale-
donia. ,,,,',,,,,.,,,,„ 262
2.52
2J2
2.33
255
251
255
2,55
256
256
256
257
-'j7
257
25S
258
259
259
Proceedings as to the Tombstone of Fergjss'm, 2Ci-i
To Mr. James Candlish, Glasgow — the Poet clings
to Revealed Religion, leaving Spinosa — but still
the Old Man with his deeds, 261
To the same — first notice of Johnson's Musical
Museum, ..„„„„,^ ,„„„„ 364
To Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh— the Bard— his
situation and views, , , „„. 264
To the same, .„-„„„ . „, , 265
To Dr. Moore — leaving Edinburgh for his first
Pilgrimnge, - -„,..„, „,„-^ .„, 265
To Mrs. Dunlop — sore under her literary criti-
To tlie Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair — leave taking,„ .
From Dr. Bl.air — who notices hi-^own claims for
first introducing Ossian's Poems to the world —
gives the Poet, at parting, » certificate of cha-
racter, with much good advice, both wordly and
poetical.
265
265
266
To Mr. Willi.im Creech— with the Elegy during
the first Pilgrimage, ..„„ .-„„„ 263
From Dr. Moore — sparing use hereafter of the
Provincial Dialect recommended — more valua-
ble hints also given, ,.., „„„,..„„ 267
To Mr. William Nieoll — the Poci's Itinerary in
braid .Scots,-—™ , , , .„ 2d7
From Mr. John Hiitcheson, Jamaica — Poems
excellent — but better in the English stvle— Scot- ■
tish now !)ccoming obsolete — dissuades from the
West Indies — " there is no encouragement for a
man of learning and genius there," — - 26S
To Mr. W. Nieoll— on arriving at home— morali-
zes over the Scenes and Companions of his re-
cent elevation— gloomily a> to the future, 268
To (iavin Hainilton — occurrences of the second
Pilgrunnge. _— - -„^— — 269
To Mr Walker, Blair-in-Athole — the s.ime — the
Duke's family,-, 270
To Mr. Gilbert lUiriis-furth^'r adventures, — „- 270
From Mr.Ramsay of (Jchtertyrc — with Inscriptions
—Tale (>f Oiven Caineron^hints for a Poetical
Coinpositioti on the grand sc.de and other taste-
ful and interesting m.ittL'r.- 271-2
From Mr. Walker, .-Vthole-llouse— particulars of
the Poet's visit there — female contrivances to
prolong his say,-, .— — „, 273
Ftom Mr A. M. an admiriUif I''riend returned
from abroad — with tributary Ver.se>, t'?j
From Mr. Ramsay to the Re . William Voung —
introductory of the Poet, -. „— „-„ 2H
From the same to Dr. ulacklock — with thanks for
the Poet's ac(|uaintance and Son.;s— .\nec<lotes, 274
From Mr. Murdoch — a kind Le'aer from an old
Tiit.ir, rejoicing in the fruits of the genius he
had helped to cultivate, ~ „ — ^— „, 275
From Mr R , from Gordon. Castle — incidents
of the Poet's vi.sit there, -—„— „ 275
From the Rev. John Skinner — jirefers the Natural
to the Classical Poet — his own Poesy — contri-
butes to the Song-making cnterprize, — „— „„ 27fl
From Mrs. Ross of Kilraivach — Gaelic airs — the
Poet's .''Jorthern Tour,, ,. ., ,,,^„ 277
To Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield— lihymes, 278
Fragment — Letters to Miss Chalmers, 278-81
To .Miss M an Essay on the complimentary
style, — .-. ■ ,,,,, 281
To Mr. Robert Aiiislie — friendship,-, ,—,.- 281
To :Mr. John Ballantine— with Song, \ e Banks
and Braes o' Bonnie i .onn, „-,,, ,.,.....jj., , , , , ,,,, 231
XI.
CONTENTS.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES.
Page.
Sketch of his
. 281-6
To Pr. Moore, from tlie Poet-
Life „„„ _„,
From Mr. Gill)ert Burns, a rumunf; Commentary
on tlie fore.>oin!i,„„..^ 'i'86-90
From Mr. Murdduh, as to the Poet's early Tui-
tion, . ^,,,,. .,,,. ...,-, r , n -I .....J. V90-2
From Professor Dugald Siewart— his Sketches of
the Poet,-™- „,„„_ ,-„,.„.292-5
From Mr. Gilbert Burn,';, giving history of origin
of the principal Poems, , 29i-7
From the same, in continuation — and Essay on
Education of lower Classes, ~~ , r'97-,'5n2
Peath and Character of Gilbert Bums,- --r,-. , 31-2
The ^oet'sScraj)-b!ook. (farther extracts), 3U2-o
LETTERS, 17S3.
fo Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh— second visit —
bruised limb, - 304
To the same — repelling insinuation as to iiTili-
To a Lady — upon the use of sarcasm iminittd to
him against her, - „-, „„ 3 4
To Mr. Robert Cleghorn— origin of the Cheva.
504
304
3C5
305
answer — and with Fanning
lier's Lament,
From the same,
opinions, „.„
To Mr. James Smith, .^vonfield — marriage pre.
To Mrs. Punlip — Farming — reasons for and in-
structions m the Excise — tart expressions, —-„
From the Rev. John Skinner, with " Charming
Nancy," by a Buehan Ploughman, and other
Songs — his own Latin poetry, . »_- 306
To Professor Dugald Stewart— wishes at his going
to the Continent, -„,- ,.,.,.,.,., 306
To Mrs. Dunlop — Dryden's Virgil— likes the
Georgics — disappointed in the .iEneid, often an
imitation of Homer— Dryden, Pope's master,
in genius and h.armony of'langiiage, 307
To Mr. Robert Ainslie— a dvdl Letter may be a
kind one, , ,„ „^„^ 307
To Mrs. Dunloji — inequality of conditions, . 507
To the same— first from Kllisland— his marriage, 3(i8
To Mr. Peter Hill, with a Ewe-mi!k Cheese— s
slice of it good for indigestion of all kuids, . ^ 308
To Mr. Robert Ainshc— friendbhip— the Poet'i
suspicious temperament — his purpose to leave
the light troops of Fancv for the squadrons of
heavy-armed Thounju— Warriape, ,„„ , iJ9
To Mr. Morrison, Wright, Maiichline— the Poet's
new hc-jse, . „ /gg
To Mr. Roi.-ert Ainslie — a ser'ous Letter. ijo
To Mr. George Lockhart, Gbsgow — adnuration
of ceriain Female beauties, „ . Z\\
To Mrs. Dunlnp — a hieU-peiin\ — Friar's Carse
Hermitage and olher Lines, ,1. 311
To the s.ime — liis answers to hi r, mt Fchoes —
.Marriage Anecdotes— aicoum of his Wife— Let-
ter writing, , „™ „ — „,„_„ 312
To the same — gos-ip of a iJinner-iiarty- Life and
Age of Man— religii. us impressions, 312
To Robert Graham, Esq. with fir-t Poetical Ad-
To Mr. Beiigo, Engraver— estimate of the Poet's
new neighbours — matters poetieii, , ., , ^, 314
To Miss Chalmers — complimen'ary to her — and
explanatory of his maniage- present state and
prospeetfr-Songs,-„ . — ..,.,. 515
To Mrs. Dunlo)! — twins— ex' A.Tsms— verses, „„ 316
To Mr. Peter !1i1I-m pinioiis of the Poetry of
Thomson, - ., ,-,■,■,...,, ,. ,. , , ..^ 317
To Mrs. Dunlop — the Major's present, 317
To ajiologetical for the bloody and t\rannical
Mouse of Stewart,-™ ,,,,.,„,.../ 518
To Mr James Johnson, Engraver, Edinburgh —
with Song^ and good .idvice for his Musicil Mu-
seum, „ . „ Sig
To Dr. Biaekloek- with Poetical Pieces and Songs
— liis .Marriage and other movemenis, 319
To Mis. Dunlop— consolatory — the Poel'^ esli.
mate of worldly coneeins, as against the func-
tions of the immortal soul — .\ulil LangS>ne
and (;ther .Song's, — - -.-.,. , , . ., ,,, ,,.,,, 320
Tr a yount Lad>, tntlosiiig a liallad upon her,-, o'Z^
I'S,^
Poft
To Sir John WhitefoQ .^thanks for his ToIunUry
defence of the Poet, ---. ,-,r.,,r,,., ■ , , . u 5T
From Mr. Gilbert Bum -Mew. Year's wishes,„ 3Zl
To Mrs. Dunlop — Ihesa e — approvesof set times
of Devotion— glowing ?ntiments of a Life be-
vond the Grave, , , ,,.- ■ , , ,. j,.,^ 321
From the Rev. P. Cari e— of Mylne and his
Works, „„„„- 322
To Dr. Moore — poetical imrposes — worldly s!ate
of the Poet and his Friends, 322
1 o Mr. Robert Ainslie — advice and encourage.
ment, — — — „ „- 323
To Bishop Geddes — " What am 1 ?— Where 1 am i
— and for what am I destined ?" 324
To Mrs. Dunlop — contrast of high and low —
Mylne's Poems, — „ 324
From William Burns, the Poet's Brother— his out.
set and prnoress ,. ■ , ,,,,,,,,,,■ n... .J.J 3';'5
To the Rev. P. Carfrae— Mylne's Poems, 326
10 Dr. Moore— the Bard's sufferings from the
Death and Funeral of a sordid Female,-., 326
To Mr. Peter Hill— eulogy of frugality— order for
To Mrs. Dunlop — Sketch of Fox, „ 528
To .Mr. Cunningham— effusions of Friendship, ~ 328
From Dr. Gregory — iron bound criticism - ■ ..... 32a
To Mr. James Hamilton, Glaspow — consolation, 529
To Mr. William Creech — Toothache, 329
To Mr. M-Auiey of Dumbarton - descriiitive of
the Poet's feelings and condition, — — .. 330
To Mr. Robert Ainslie— the same tojiics, 3 0
From Dr. Moore — advice — to jire-erve and ]iiiiish
his lays, and to abandon the Scotti>h stanza and
dialect — Zeluco, — -,-, ..„ „„—„.„ 531
To .Mrs. Dunlo)) — low spirits — religious feelings,™ .'ijl
From Miss J. Little — with a poetical tribute, , 33i
From Mr. Cunningham — reniiniscences of Fergus-
To !\Ir. t^unningham, in answer, ~— — „ 533
To Mr. Dunloii — domestic matters— Poetical Tri-
bute from Miss L a Future Stale— Zeluco, 334
From Dr. Blacklock — a friendly Letter in Rhyme, 331
To Dr. Blacklock — a suitable answer, " 335
To Captain Riddel — the night of the Whistle, 335
To the .same — the Scrap-book, —————— —-.„„., 33S
To Mr. Robert Ainslie — the word '• Exciseman," 335
To Robert (Jraham, Esq.— Cajitain fJrose and lo.
cal polemics, ^— — 336
i oMrs. Dunlop — " under the mlseiics of a diseas.
Cd nervous systCTn," . .,,,,,, ,, 337
To Sir John Sinclair — the Library of Dunscure,— 558
From Cajitain Riddel to Sir John— on same sub-
ject, — — — — -— , 338
1790.
To Gilbert Rums— the Players^Verscs for them,
From William Bums — at Newcastle— wants inlor-
mation and fraternal instructions,
To Mrs. Dunlop— the Poet Falconer— Ballads, _
From Mr. Cunningham — friendly notices,
From Mr. Peter Hii; — " a poor rascally Gauger,"
— Borouj;h Reform— Books — Note, with secrets
worth klinmng, . „ r. rr-. r., .r. r.,.j. ,. r ,....., . . j . .. . j .
To Mr. William Nieoll — last illmss and death of
Peg Nieolson — matters theatrical — eccle>iastieal
squabbling — Exciseman's duty, - -
To Mr. Cunningham— on Letter writing— exist-
ciicc — and the course of the Poet's reading —
Deism — Scepticism,
To Mr. Peter Hill — a large order — existence,
539
3.59
3iC
541
541
342
3i5
513
From William Bums, at London— his ad\entures
shears ihi! 6u// preach at Covent Garden Cha-
To Mrs. Dunlop — advantages of the Union— Lord
Chestcrhekl — .Mirror — Lounger- Man of Fell-
ing,
rroiii Mr. Cunningham — Iriendlv notices
To Dr r.Iooie — Letter writing — Zeluco— .Miss
To Mr. Muriloih — len wing friendly intercourse.
From Mr Munloeli — Death of William Burns,—
To Mr. Cunningham — Independence^Sinolletl's
Ode, — .,,... -
545
3.5
34£
.^46
34-
CONTENTS.
x\n
Page.
From Dr. Blacklook— a Letter In Rhyme— Dr.
Aniicr^on and the Hee, 34S
From Mr. Ciinniriiiham— a Song for each of the
fonr Seasons siigffcsteil, — 349
To Mrs. Oiinl'ip — Bittli of a Posthumous C'hilil—
Oile I hereon, . ~ 319
To Crawford Tait, Ksq.— recommencling a young
Xo • Partitanshiii ~- 3o0
1791.
To Mr. Ci>nninr;h(<m— ElcRy on Miss Burnet,
To Mr. Peter Hill -Kssay on Poverty,
From A. F. Tytle-, Ksq.— Tam o' Stianter,
To Mr. Tytler— in answer, ~
• o Mrs. budldiv -broken arm— Elegy on Miss
Rurnet — a remembrance, ~~« ;
Vo L^(iy Marv Constable— a SnulT-box, .
To Mrs. Graham of FIntry— Ual'ail on Queen
Mary — the Piiefs gratitude, ^. —
From the Rev. Principal Baird— Michael l!ruce,„
T^ Prmeipal H lird— otfering every aid for pub.
Istiing Bruce's Works,
To the Rev. Archibald AUisoi.— his Kssays on
To Dr. Moore— Songs and Ballaas — Zeleuco — pri.
To Mr. Cunningham— Song, "_ There'll never be
peace till Jamie come Name,'" ....,.....„~_~~~~
To Mr. Dalzell, Factor to Lord Gleneairn — the
Poet's grief for his Lordship— his wish to attend
the Funeral .. — — ^ ««. ■
From Dr. Moore — crilieises Tam r)' Shanter, and
other pieces— solicits the Poet's remarks on 7,c.
leueo— advises him to be more chary of giving
Cop es— and to use the modern English,
To Mrs- Dunlop — a domestic occurrence — ixclu-
sive advantag s of humble life.
To Mr. Cunningham— in behalf of a persecuted
Schoolmaster, .„..»..,««-«—— ~~~~~~.^ . —
From the Earl of Buehan — crowning of Thomson's
Bust at Ednan,
To the same — in answer,.
To Mr. Thorn;.- SIcan, Manchester — ilisappoiiit-
meiit — perseverance recommended — The Poet's
From the Earl ''f Bujhan — suggests Harvest-home
for a theme to the Muse, ~ — .
To Lady E. Cunningham — condolence on the
death of hei Brother, Lord Gleneairn,
To Mr Robert Anislie— a Mind diseased, .„_ —
From Sir J'hn Whitefoord— Lament for Lord
From A. k! i'ytler, Esq.— the Whistle — the La-
To Miss Davies — sentimental — with some hints as
to a R idieal Reform, .
To Mrs Dunlo)! — with the Death-Song — Higli-
To Captain Grose — lauds Professor Dugald Stew.
To the saiiie— Witch Stories of KirU-Alloway, ~~
"Ti Mrs. Punlop — animadversions of the Board —
malicious iiisiiniation.s— a cup of kindness,
To Mr. W. Smcllie— ijitroductory of Mrs. Riddel,
To Mr. W. Nicoll— admiration of, and gratitude
for s.ige advice, ~....... -.— •.~~~~~~~....~......
To Ml. Cunniiifham — the Poet's .Arms,
1 o M r. Clirke invitation to come to the Country,
To Mrs. Diiiilo]) — a Platonic attachment aiul a
Ball.id — Religion indispensible to make Man
better ami l.a.ipier, ~.^~~ ~~. — .... .-
To Mr. Cunningham — nocturnal ravings,
To M's. unl>p— difference in Farming for one's
sell' and Firming for another, ..,
To the same — a Family infliction— condolence, ~
To the same — shortness and uncertainty of Life—
Rights of Wom.-in.
To Robert liraham, Esq.— justiiies himself against
the charge of disairection to the British Consti-
tution, ..,« — - — ...-..— —
To Mis. Dunlop— the Poet's im|iro\cd h.iOiti— al-
3.^0
.1,51
.vil
3-Ji
553
3j.)
3.54
354
5.55
356
356
356
357
358
358
359
359
359
360
.560
3C0
361
56.'
362
363
563
3n4
364
365
3G5
566
367
3ij7
36S
569
369
370
I'age-
hisions to her suggestions for his o(Tici(iI pre mo-
To Miss B. of \'ork — mor.ilizes over the chance.
medleys of human intercourse, .....„,.~.....~..™ 371
To P.itrick MiUer, Esq of Dalswinton — an honest
To John Francis Erskineof M.ir, Esq — th:; Poet's
indepenilencc of sentiment, and p.irtici)larly his
opinions as to Reform eloquently justified, .* 372-A
To Mr. Robert Amslic — Spunkie — Schoolcraft
caught by contact, — 373-4
To Miss K- delicate, Haltery to a Beauty, 374
To Laly Gleneairn gratitude to her I'amily —
from an independent Exciseman, ~...,..,™..~, 374-A
To Miss Chalmei-s— a curious analysis which fhcws
" a Wight nearlv as miserable as a I'oet,' ~.~. 375
To John M'Mardo, Esq.— out of debt, .-, 3'.5-6
LETTERS, 1791., 1795, 1796.
To the Earl of Bnchan — with " Bruce's Address," 376
To Mrs. Riddel— Dumfries Theatricals, 376
To a Lady— the same, ,.~.. — , — . — 376
To Mr. the Poet's Dreams of Excise promo-
lion and literary leisure,
To Mrs. Riddel — Theatricals and lobster-coated
puppies,
■«-7
377
377
377
378
578
To the same — gin horse routine of Excise business.
To the same— efTects of a c-<iol reception
To the same — a spice of caprice.
To the same — firm yet conciliating, ~.
To John Syine, Esq. — praises of Nlr. A. — Song on
Mrs. Oswald, «,,«...-.««.«.-*.«.. 578
To .Miss in defence of his reputation — re-
claims his MS..^ — ..-. ~~. 378-9
To Mr Cunningl.iim— a Mind Diseased— Religion
necessary to Man, .~.^„ .~........-.,-. 379
To a L.ady'— froiTi the Shades, „„ . .580
To the Earl of (ikneairn— the Poet's gratitude to
his late Brotlier,^-, „.. ,..^....„..-,., — 380
To Dr. Anderson — his Work, the Li>cs of the
To Mrs. Riddel— .solitary confinement good to re-
claim Sinners — Ode for Uirth-day of Wa^iiiig.
To Mr. James Johnson — Songs and projects for
the Mu-eum, , ~ 381
To Mr. Miller of Dals.vinton — ('ci'lines to be a re-
gular contributor to the Poet's Corner of the
Morning Chronicle, ~ , — ~~~..«.~~ — . SSI
To Mr. (iavin Hamilton — the I'oct lee, ininends a
particular regiirien to him, ..^ ............. 382
To Mr. Samuel Clarke — penitence :ifter excess, „ 582
To Mr. Alexander Fiiidlatcr- Supervisor — " So
much for schemes," — ....- . — ~- .'83
To the Editoisof the .Morning Chronicle — its in- _
To Mr. \V. Dunbar- New-Year wishes, 383
To Miss FontLiiclle — with a Prologue for her be- _
io Mrs. [">uiilop — cares of the Married Life — Dum-
fries Tneatrieals — Cowper's Ta.^k — the I'oct's
Scrap-book, — , SSI-J
I'o Mr. Heron of Heron— I'olitical Ballads— _
Dreams of Excise promotion, 3&S
To the Right Hon W. Pitt— m behalf of the
Scots Distillers, 38f
To the M:igistrates of Dumfne— Free School E-
ducation, .,.,..^.-~~. — — — ~ — .. — .~ -. 587
To Mrs. Dunlop in London — Mr. Thomson's
Work — acting Supervisor— New Ve.ai wishes—
To Mrs. Riddel — Anacharsis — the Muses still pre-
To Mrs Diiiilo|) — in aOliclion, — ■ ~~ 388
To Mrs. Riddel— on Birth-day lovahy, 388
To Mr. James Johnson — the Nluseum — a consum-
ing illness hangs over the Poet,~ « 589
To Mr. Cunningham^from tlie lirow, Sea-bath-
ing Quarters— sad picture, __~™ ~~~~~....^,„ 389
To Mrs. turns — from the Brow— titrengthcned —
but total decay of appetite, 389
To .Mrs Uuiilop— a last farewell, 5iiS
CONTENTS OF THE POET'S CORRESPONDENCE
WITH ]MR. GEORGE THOMSON
Page.
From Mr. Tnomson— soliciting the Poet's aid to _
the Select Melodies, -™— — . -~ — ■ — •591
The Poet's answer — frankly embarking in the
Work -~- — r~r — U"
From Mr. TtioiTison— views of conslucting the
\Vorl<— and with 1 1 Songs for New Verses, oJ2
From the Poet— ^ith the " I.ea Ria"— " My Nan-
nie O"— " Will ve go to the Indies my Mary, oU^
From the Poet— with " My Wife's a wanton wee _
thing" — '• O saw ve bonnie Lesley,"-^ — > -~~ .593
From the Poet— with " Ye Banks and Bracs^^and
Streams around the Castle o' Montgomery," — oOl
From Mr. Thomson— criticisms and eorrcetions,- o9-i
From the Poet — admits some correction';, " but
cannot alter b nnic Lesley"'— additional Verse
for the " Lea Ilig,". -~— , — ~~," — -.
From the Poet— uith " .\uld Rob Morris and
From the Poet— w^dlT^Poortith Cauld" and
Galla VVate
oU5
.'95
595
From Mr. Thcnr.'OT— laiulatorv for favours re-
ceived—details the plan of his Work— P. ^. from
the Honourable A. Erskinc— a brother Poet _
and contributor, — . ~~ "59°
From the Poet— approves of the details- otUrs
matter anecdotic— the Song " Lord Gregory '—
Eii'diNh and Scots se'S of it, . ~ -ni
From the Poet— with " Wandering Uillie,'_ ^.N
From the Poet—" Open the Door to me O, -~ — -^-^
Prom the Poet—" True-hearted was he," — -— — oJ i
From Mr. homsnn— with complete list of Sonijs,
and farther iletails of the Work, — -^ .i9i-b
Fnnn the Poet— with " The Soldier's return —
" Meg o' the Mill," -— ---" "^^
From the Poet— S ng making his hobby— oilers
valuable hints for enriching and nnprovmg th_e
\Vork ,™— ^-~— ~-™ "- jyo-J
From Mr. •I'homson— in answer, . — ■ •— ~ ■^•'■^
From the Poet farther hints ami eruieal vcmai ks
—sends Song on a celebrated Toast to suit _
Tune, " Bonnie Dundee," ~ ;~ •''•^^
From the Poet— with " I he last time I cime oer
the moor," : — — — ~r-~, *""
From Mr. rhoni^on— excuses hi, taste as against ^^
the Poet's, -~- "— , r~ ~ j,,n
Kiom the Poet— doguiaticallv set against altering, lUU
■j hi' Poet to Mr. Thomson— Fraser the Hautbov
Pag*.
From the Poet— with New Song to " Allan Wa- ^^^
From the' same^^^wUh Song " Whistle and I'll
come to vou, mv Lad," and " PhiUis the i air,
to the " Muekin" o' Geordie's byre, ■""."-■ ^"^
From the same—" Cauld Kail"— a Gloamm Shot
at the Muses, ~~~— „„_-™-~~- ^^-503
From the same—" Dainty Davie"— four lines of
■.■opg and four of Chorus, ,— „ — ~ ~-~ ^oi
From Mr. Thomson— profuse acknowledgments
for many favours, ~— ~-^ -•"""" ^"*
From the Poet-Peter Pindar— "Scots wha hae
wi Wallace bled"—" So may God defend the
cause of truth and liberty as he did that day, ~ 40-
From the same- with Son" " Behold the hour the
Boat arrives," to the Highland Air " Oran gaoil, «!fi
From Mr. Thomson—" liruee's Address"— the Air
" Lewis Gordon" better for it than " Hey tuttie
tatie" — verbal criticisms, — ~ -'■""• —
From the Poet— additional Verses to " Dainty
Player— Tune and Song, " 1 he Quaker s \\ ite
— " Blvthe hae I been im von Hill," —— — "10 '-t
The same— mad ami ition— "Logan Hraes"— Frag-
ment from Withersnoon's Collection—" O gin
mv lo\e were yon Red Rose.",^ ' .~ ^^
Mr -i'hom.son- in answer— a change of Partners in
the Udik,.^ — . ~ — -—- — ~, ^"'
The p. et to Mr Thomson— T une and Air o'
" Bonnie Jean"— the Poet's Heroines, . 1U.
The same— a remittame acknowledged—" Mow-
ers of ihe Forest"- the authoress— Pinkerton s
Ancient Ballads— iiroiihecies, — . ; — •■-— ^t)i
Mr. Thomson to the Poet— .\irs waiting the Mu-
sc's leisure -— ~~r,~r T
The Poet to Mr. Thomson— I une, Robin A-
,i;,ir"_" PhiUis the Fair" to it—" Cauld Kail
in AlK-rdeen," -^ ~— ;— — ■ ■*U3
From Mr. Thomson— grateliil lor the Poets ' va-
lued Fpistles-'-wants Verses for " l)"Wti tie
burn Divic"— mentions Drawings for the W ork, 403
From Ihe Poet— Tune " Rohi" Adair" aR-a'"—
send! " Had 1 a tlave" to it— Gaelic origin of the
Tuae ™— *''*
4U6
I-)avie"— " Through the wood, Laddie"— " Cow-
den-knowe,"— " Laddie lie near me"--the Poets
form of Song making— " Gill Moiriee — ' High-
land Laddie"-" Auld Sir Simeon"—" Fee hirn
Fathei"— " There's tiae luck about the House
—the finest of Love Ballads, " Saw ye mv Fa-
ther"—" odlin hame" — sends "Auld Lang
Svne"— farther notices of other Songs and ual-
],,-,ls ^ , •lu7-o
From 'the Pwt-rcjtets the verbal criticism on the
Ode, " Bruce's Address," ..—^ ,--- ; ■»"»
From Mr. Thomson— Strictures on the Poet s no-
tices of the above Songs— again nibbling at the ^_^
Fiom'"th7pi^et™''The Ode pleases me so much I
cannot alter if— sends S.mg " Where are the
Jovs I hae ir.et in the moniin',"- —;;; 4ua
From the Poet— sends " Deluded Swam and
" Raving Winds around her blowing"— Airs
and Songs, to adopt or reject— diRcrtnces ot ^^^
From t'h'e'same^ Thine am I my FaiUilul Fair"
—to the " Quaker'!. \Vifc,"_which is just the
Gaelic Air " Liggeram cosh "
-Re-
Fr. m Mr. Thomson— in answer -^ —
From the Poet— Song to " My Jo Ja et, —
From Mr. Thomson— proposed eoiifcience
marks on Drawings and Snngs, -.— -— -
From the Poit— same subjecls-PUyel— a iMenu
— whenbyhinderanceotlheWork— >oiig ihe
Banks of Crec," • ■^.'~, — ~~
From the same-" The auspicious iienod prcg
410
410
410
411
roin uic- ^,limJ— * i'^ „i..., ,....-.--.. ,- , .,
mint With the happiness ot Millions --Inscrip-
tion on a Copy of the Woik presented to Miss
Graham of Fintry, — - — ~— ~ W\
From Mr. Thom-on in answer,. . p-~ 4"
■ On the Seas and far
From the Poet— with Song ^ - -
awav," «-. — «* ."'"''* — " "' ,' " .,i
From Mr. Thomson-criticises ih.at Song severely. 412
From the Pcet— withdrawing it—" making a Song
is like begetting a Son"— .sends " Ca the yewc« ^^^
From the same— Irish Air— studs Song to it " Sa '
flaxen were her niiplets"— Poet's taste m Music
like Fredericof Prussia's— has begun " O let me
this ae night"— Epigram, • 411
., .* ._ ..... .*■.,.
Ill lllis .11. iiij^iiv ^fb ■» , , , ,
From Mr. '1 homsoii — prufusc ot acknowinig
ments.
413
From'lh'e siin.c— Peter l'indar'» task completed—
Uilson's Collection— dressing up of Old hoiiss, 1i«
CONTENTS.
Page.
"»om th* \ Oct — " Craigie-bum Wood" and the
heioiiio— ll.'cipe fur Sons; making — Sonj; " Saw
yc my rhely" — " The Posie" — " Donochthead"
%K.t the Poet's — " \Vhistle o'er the lave o't" his
— so is •' nivthe was she" — sends Song " How
iMif; and dreary is tlie nijht" — " Let not Wo-
ma;i e'er comi)!ain" — " Sleep'st thou" — East
Indian Air— Snag " The Aiikt Man," — ,.,.,.„ 414
From Mr. Thomson — in acknowledgment, and
viith far' her commissions, _„,„~™,~™,~~~~ 415
From the Poet-thanks for Uitson — Songof Chlo-
ris — Love, Conjugal and Platonic — " Chloe" —
" lassie wi' the lint-white locks" — " Maria's
dwelling" — " Banks and Uraes o' l)onnie Doon"
— Reeijie to make a Scots Tune — humble 'S-
quest for a Copy of the Work to give to a fe-
male friend, ,™„ , — , _-™-^ 416-17
From Mr. Thomson— in answer — criticisms — sends
three Co))ies and as welcome to i.'0 as to a pinch
of sn u ff. ,„„„„™,„^ 4 1 7
From the Poet — Duet completed — sends Sonjs
"O PhiUy happy be that day" — "Contented
wi' little"—" Canst thou lenve me thus my
Katv"— Remarks on Songs antl the Stock and
Horn, . _~~~. — ~v. ..„,~-^ 418
From Mr. Thomson — modest acknowledgments —
Pictures for the Work, -^ 419
From the Poet— with Song " Nannie's awa"— Pic-
tures, . „~-™~ . „ 419
From the same — origin.Tlity a coy feature in
composition — sends " .\ man's a man for a'
that" — which shows that Song makini^ is not
confiuid to love and wine — new set of " Crai-
gip-hurn Wood," „„,„^w 419
From Mr. Thomson — in acknowledgment, ,.,.„„« 419
Vxn-.n the P.iet— with, "O letmei.i thisae Night,"
ami \nswcr, . ~.~ — . — ., .m«.~ 420
frrmi the same — .Vouse of sweet Ecelcfcchan— :;ir,
" We'll g ing nae mair to von TonTi," is worthy
of veisfs, — ■ 420
"vsa Mt. IfKWdion — in a^«er,.^..'~>»~~>.x.«~o tSO
From the Poet — witt four Songs, ' The Wood
lark" — " Long, long the Night" — " I heir groves
o sweet Myriies" — " 'Twas na her bourne blue
Ecn was mv ruin,- >. -. — 42t
From Mr. Thomson — acknowledgments — piitures
for the work, ~„~^»-, ■ -„ 4!.'0-l
Fnim the Pott — with two Songs, " How eruei .".re
the Parents" — " Mark yonder Pomp" — adds,
" Vour Tailor could not fce more punctual, "«~ 42»
From the same — acknowledgment of a present, ~„ 4'Jl
From Mr. Thomson — Clarke's Air to Mallei's U.ii-
lad of " William and Margaret," -,~~~~-~, — . 421
From f^he Poet — with four Songs a.'id Verses,
" O Whistle and I'll come to ye, my Lad" — " O
this is no my ain Lassie" — " Now Sprin;; has
clad the Grove in Green" — " O honnie was yon
rosy Brier," — Inscription on his Poems present-
ed to a young L.idy, . .. : — „ 422
From Mr. Thomson— in acknowledgment, ~-..~~ i'il
From the Poet— wiih English Song, " Forlorn,
From the same — with Song, " Last ^!ay a br.i'
Wooer cam' down the lang Glen,"— a Fiag-
From Mr. Thomson — in answer, ~ — ,w-~ 4'J3
From the s.amt — after an awful pause, 4i.'3
From the Poet — acknowledges a Pre.>ent to Mrs
li.— sends Song, " Hey for a Lass wi' a Toch-
From Mr. Thomson — in answer, J2i
From the Poet — health has deserted him, not the
From Air. Thomson — in answer, — ^„^- . -121
From the Poet — with Song, " Here's a heal h to
them that's awa." ~- ^.„~-™ — -^ — 4.I.'A
From the samo— announces his purpose to te.ise
all his Songs,. „ — -~ -™™ 425
Fi'um the same — at Sea-bathing — depressed and in
eVremitv, . > 42!
Fi\fi Mr. Thoirjon— with a liemittfaw,..— .~» *a
LIFE
O?
110J3ERT BURNS.
CHAPTER I.
Contents The PoeVs Birth, 1759 — Circumstances and peculiar Character of hs Fdihtr
and Mother — Hardships of his Early Years — Sources, such as they were, of his Moitc^
Improvement — Commencelh JLove and Poetry at 16.
*' l\Iy father was a fanner upon the Carrick Border,
And soberly he brought me up in decency and order?"
Robert Burns was born on the 25th of January 1759, in a clay-buih
cottage, about two miles to the south of the town of -Ayr, and in the im-
mediate vicinity of the Kirk of Alloway, and the " Auld Brig o' Doon."
About a week afterwards, part of the frail dwelling, wliich his father had
constructed with his own hands, gave way at midnight ; and the infant
poet and his mother were carried through the storm, to the shelter of a
neighbouring hovel. The father, William Burnes or Burness, (for so he
spelt his name), was the son of a farmer in Kincardineshire, whence he re-
moved at 19 years of age, in consequence of domestic embarrassments.
The farm on which the family lived, formed part of the estate forfeited,
in consequence of the rebellion of 1715, by the noble house of Keith
Marischall ; and the poet took pleasure in saying, that his humble ances-
tors shared the principles and the fall of their chiefs. Indeed, after Wil-
liam Burnes settled in the west of Scotland, there prevailed a vague no-
tion that he himself had beeii out in the insurrection of 1745-6 ; but thoutrli
Robert would fain have interpreted his father's silence in favour of a tale
which flattered his imagination, his brother Gilbert always treated it as a
mere fiction, and such it was. Gilbert found among his father's papers a
certificate of the minister of his native parish, testilying that " the bearer,
William Burnes, had no hand in the late wicked rebellion." It is easy to
Suppose that when any obscre nortlicrn stranger fixed himself in tliose
days in the Low Country, such rumours Mere likely enough to be cucu-
tet' concerning him
n LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
William Bnrnes laboured for some years in the neiglibourliood of Edin-
(•iiri^h as a gardener, and then found his way into Ayrshire. At the time
when Robert was b.)rn, he was gardener and overseer to a gentleman of
small estate, Mr. Ferguson of Doonholm ; but resided on a few aeres '^f
land, wliieh he had on lease from another proprietor, and where he ha-
originally intended to establish himself as a nurseryman. lie married
.\gnes Brown in December 17.57, and the poet was their first-born. Wil-
liam Rurnes seems to have been, in his humble station, a man eminently
entitled to respeet. He had received the ordinary learning of a Scottish
parish school, and profited largely both by that ami by his own experience
in the M-orld. " I have met with i'ew," (said the poet, alter he luul him-
self seen a good deal of mankind), •' who understood men, their manners,
and their ways, equal to my father." He was a strictly religious man.
There exists in his handwriting a little manual of theology, in the fori'
of a dialogue, which he drew up for the use of his children, and Iron.
«hieh it appears that he had adojUed more of the Arminian than of the
Calvinistie doctrine ; a circumstance not to be wondered at, when we con-
sider that he had been educated in a district which was never numbered
among the strongholds of the Presbyterian church. The affect ior.ate re-
verence with which his children ever regarded him, is attested by all who
have described him as he appeared in his domestic circle ; but there needs
no evidence beside that of the poet himself, who has painted, in colours
that will never fade, '• the saint, the lather, and the husband," of J/ie
Cottar's Sdturdai/ jXiffJit.
Agnes lirown, the wile of this good man, is described as "a very sagaci-
ous woman, without any appearance of forwardness, or awkwardness of man-
ner;" and it seems that, in features, and, as he grew up, iii general address,
the poet resembled her more than his fath.er. She had an inexhaustible store
of ballads and f. uiitionary tales, and appears to have nourished his infant
imagination b\ tnis means, while her husband paid more attention to '• the
weightier matters of the law." These worthy people laboureil hard tcir
the sup])ort of an increasing family. William was occupied with Mr. Fer-
guson's service, and Agnes contrived to manage a small dairy as well as
her children. But thousjh their honesty and diliuence merited better thiiiirs,
their condition continued to be very uncomfortable ; and our poet, (in h.is
Jotter to Dr. IMoore), accounts distinctly for his being born and bred " a
very poor man's son," by the remark, that " stubborn ungainly integrity,
and headlong ungovernable irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances."
These defects of temper did not, however, obscure the sterling worth
of \\ iiliam l>urnes in the eyes of Mr. Ferguson ; who, wh.en his garde-
ner expressed a m ish to try his for tuneon a farm of his, then vacant, and
confessed at the same time his inability to meet the changes of stockiuir it,
at once advanced 1 KU) towards the removal of the difliculty. Fumes ac-
cordingly removed to this farm (that of Mount (>liphant, in the parish of
.4yr) at Whitsuntide 176(5, when his eldest son was between six and seven
years of age. But the soil proved to be of the most ungrateful descrij)-
tion ; and .Mr. I'erguson dying, and his affairs falling into the hantls of a
\iari,h Jurtor, (who afterwards sat tor his pictuie in the Ttra Dp^/s), Burnes
was iilad to i:;;ive un his bar<rain at the end of six years. lie then removed
nbout ten miles to a larger and better farm, that of Lochlea, in the parish
of Tarbolton. But h»'re, affer a short interval of prosperity, some untl>r-
tcinatu misunderstanding took j)lace as lo the conditions of the leost ; the
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. iii
disputo was referred to arbitration ; and, after three 3'ears of suspense, the
result involved Burnes in ruin. The wortiiy man lived to know of this de-
cision ; but death saved him from witnessing its necessary consequences.
He died of consumption on the l-Uh I'ebruary 1781. Severe labour, and
hopes only renewed to be baflled, had at last exhausted a robust but irri-
table structure and temperament of body and (jf mind.
In t!ie midst of the harassing struggles which lljund this termination,
William Burnes appears to have used his utmost exertions for promoting
the mental improvement of his children — a duty rarely neglected by Scot-
tish parents, however humble their station, and scanty their means may
[)e. Robert was sent, in his sixth year, to a small school at Alloway
.Miln, about a mile from the house in which he was born ; but Campbell,
the teacher, being in the course of a i'uw months removed to another
Bitiiation, Burnes and four or five of his neighbours engaged Mr. John
Murdoch to su])ply his place, lodging him by turns in their own houses,
and ensuring to him a small payment of money quarterly. Robert Burns,
and (iilbert his next brother, were the a))test and the favourite pupils of
this worthy man, who survived till very lately, and who has, in a letter
published at length by Currie, detailed, with honest pride, the [)art which
he had in the early education of our poet. lie became the frecjuint in-
mate and confidential friend of the family, and speaks with enthusiasm of
the virtues of Wiiliam Barnes, and of the peaceful and happy life of his
humble abode.
" lie was (says Murdoch) a tender and afrectionate father ; he took j)lea-
6ure in leading his children in the path of virtue; not in driving them, as
come parents do, to the performance of duties to which they themselves are
averse. Me took care to find fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when
he did rebuke, h( was listened to with a kmd of reverential awe. A look
of disapprobation was felt ; a reproof was severely so : and a stripe with
the ttrtrz, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced a
loud lamentation, and brought forth a liood of tears.
" He had the art of gaining the esteem and good-will of those that were
labourers under him. I think I never saw him angry but twice : the one
time it was with the foreman of tlie band, for not reaping the field as lie
was desired; and the other tune, it was with an old man, for using smutty
inuendos and double eiifetu/res." " In this mean cottage, of which I my-
self was at times an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a larger j)o"-
tion of content than in any palace in Ivarope. 77ie (/attar's Suturduy Niyhf.
will give some idea of the temper and manners th.at prevailed there."
The boys, under the joint tuition of Murdoch and their father, made ra-
pid progress in reading, spelling, and writing; they connnittcd psalms and
hynm& to memory with extraordinary ease — the teacher taking care (as he
tells u^) that they should understand the exact meaning of each word in
the sentence ere they tried to get it by heart. " As soon," says he, " as
they were capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into its natural prose
order ; sometimes to substitute synonymous expressions ibr poetical words ;
and to supply all the ellipses. Robert and Gilbert were generally at the
upper end of the class, even when ranged ^Mth boys by flir their seniors,
The books most commonly used in the sc/iool were the Sj)tlliii(j Booh.
\X\Q Ntw Testnmott, the Bible, Masoris CuLnction of Prone and Verse, and
Fixher's English Grammar." — " Gilbert alw vs appeard to me to possess a
mere lively imagination, and to be more 0 the wit, than Robert. I at-
V LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
tempted to teach them a little church-music. Here they were kft far be-
hind by all the rest of the school. Robert's eai, in particular, was remark-
ably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long before I could get them
to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's countenance was general-
ly grave and expressive of a serious, contemplative, and thoughtful mintl
Gilbert's foce said, 3Iirth, with t/iee I wean to live; and certainly, if any
person who knew the two boys, had been asked which of them was the
most likely to court the Muses, he would never have guessed that Jiobert
had a propensity of that kind."
*' At those years," says the poet himself, in 1787, " I was by no means
a Tavnurite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for o retentive memory,
a stauborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot
piety. I say idiot piety, because 1 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 substan-
tives, verbs, and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed
much to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her
ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest
collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies,
brnwnies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-liglits,
wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other
trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong
an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I
sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places ; and though nobody
can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an ef-
fort of pliilosophy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest composition
that I recollect taking pleasure in, was 7/ie Vision of Mirza, and a hynm
of Addison's, beginning, IIoiv are thy servants blest, O Lord ! I particular-
ly remember one half-stanza, which was music to m}' boyish ear —
"• For though on dreadful whirls we hung
IJigh on ihe broken wave — "
I met with these pieces in 3Iuson's English Collection, one of my school-
boolcs. The two first books I ever read in private, and which gave me
more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were. The Life of Han-
nibal, ?Lr\i\ The llislorj/ of SirWiUiam Wallace. Hannibal gave my young
ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up and down after tlie
recruiting drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ;
while the story of Wallace poured a tide of Scottish prejudice into my
reins, which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal
rest."
Murdoch continued his instructions until the family had been about two
years at Mount Oliphant — when he left for a time that part of the country.
•' There being no school near us," says Gilbert I'urns, " and our little ser-
vices being already useful on the farm, my father undertook tc teach us arith-
metic in the winter evenings by candle hght — and in this way my two elder
sisters received all tlie education they ever received " Gilbert tells an anec-
dote which must not be oi litted here, since it furnishes an early instance
of the liveliness of his brc her's imagination. Murdoch, being on a visit
to the family, read aloud or- ■ evening part of the tragedy of Titus Andro-
nicus — the circle listened w h the deepest interest until he came to Act
2, DC. 5, where Lavinia is troduced ' with her lands cut oil', and her
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. «
toiigue cut out." At this the children entreated, with one voice, in an
ai^ony of distress, tluxt their friend would read no more. " If ye will not
hear the play out," said William IJurnes, " it need not be left with you. '
— " If it be left," cries Robert, " I will burn it." His father was about
to chide him for this return to Murdoch's kindness — but the good younij
man interfered, saj'ing he liked to see so much sensibility, and left The
School fur Love in place of his truculent tragedy. At this time Robert
was nine years of age. " Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, " could be
more retired than our general manner of living at Mount Oliphant ; we
raiely saw any body but the members of our own family. There were no
b()> .■^- of our own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed the greatest
part of the land in the vicinity was at that time possessed by shopkeepers
and people of that stamp, who had retired from business, or who kept their
farm in the country, at the same time that they followed business in town.
^ly father was for some time almost the only companion we had. He con-
versed familiarly on all subjects with us, as if we had been men ; and was
at great pains, while we accompanied him in the labours of the farm, to
jf.ad the conversation to such subjects as might tend to increase our know-
ledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrovred Salmon's Georjra-
phicnl Grammar for us, and endeavoured to make us acquainted with the
situation and history of the different countries in the world ; while, from a
book-society in Ayr, he procured for us the reading of Derham's Physico
and Asfro Theolncfy, and H(tys Wisdom of God in the Creation, to give us
some idea of astronomy and natural history. Robert read all these books
with an avidity and industry scarcely to be equalled. My father had beer.
a subscriber to Stachhouscs History of the Bible. From this Robert col-
lected a competent knowledge of ancient history ; for no book was so it-
lianino/is as to slachen Ins industry, or sn anfiqaated as to damp his researches."
A collection of letters by eminent English authors, is mentioned as having
fallen into Burns's hands much about the same time, and greatly delighted
him.
When Burns was about thirteen or fourteen years old, his father sent
him and Gilbert " week about, during a summer quarter," to the parish
school of Dalrjnnple. two or three miles distant from Mount Oliphant, fbi
the improvement of their penmanship. The good man could not pay two
fees : or his two boys could not be spared at the same time from the la-
bour of the form ! '• We lived very poorly," says the poet. *' I was a dex-
terous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to me was a brother,
(Gilbert', who could drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash the
corn. A novel writer might perhaps have viewed these scenes with some
satisfaction, but so did not I My indignation yet boils at the recollection
cf the scoundrel factor's insolent letters, which used to set us all in tears."
Gilbert Burns gives his brother's situation at this period in greater detail
— " To the buifetings of misfortune," says he, " 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 bej'ond it, in the labours of the farm. My broth.er, 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
difficulties, was very great. To think of oui fathei growing old (for he was
VI LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
now above fifty), broken down witli the long-continued latigues- of his life
v/ith a wife and five other children, and in a declining state of circumstances,
these reflections produced in my brother's mind and mine sensations of the
deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard labour and sorrow of this pe-
riod of his life, was in a 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
headach; which, at a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpita-
tion of the heart, and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in his bed, in
the night-time."
The year after this, Burns v/as able to gain three weeks of respite, one
before, and two after the harvest, from the labours which were thus stmiti-
ing his youthful strength. His tutor Murdoch was now established in tl e
town of A)T, and the boy spent one of these weeks in revising the English
grammar with him ; the other two were given to French. He labouri d
enthusiastically in the new pursuit, and came home at the end of a fort-
niHit with a dictionary and a Telcmaqne, of which he made such use at his
cisure hours, by himself, that in a short time (if we may believe Gilbert)
he was able to understand any ordinary book of French prose. His pr.?-
o-ress, whatever it really amounted to, was looked on as something oi" a
prodigy ; and a writing-master in Ayr, a friend of Murdoch, insisted that
Robert Burns must next attempt the rudiments of tliS Latin tovgue. He
did so, but with little perseverance, we may be sure, since the results were
of no sort of value. Burns's Latin consisted of a few scraps of hackneyed
quotations, such as many that never looked into Ruddiman's lUidiments
can apply, on occasion, quite as skilfully as he ever appears to have done.
Tlie matter is one of no importance ; we might perhaps safely dismiss it
with parodying what Ben Jonson said of Shakspeare ; he had little
French, and no Latin. He had read, however, and read well, ere his six-
teenth year elapsed, no contemptible amount of the literature of his own
country. In addition to the books which have already been mentioned, he
tells us that, ere the family quitted Mount Oliphant, he had read " the
Spectator, some plays of Shakspeare, Pope, (the Homer included), Tull
and Dickson on Agriculture, Locke on the Human Understanding, -lus-
tice's British Gardeners Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Taylor's Scrijitn.re
Doctrine of Original Sin, A Sekct Collection of Evglish Songs, Ilervey's
]\h'dilations," (a book which has ever been very popular among the Scottish
peasantry), " and the Works of Allan Ramsay ;" and Gilbert adds to this
list Piimela, (the first novel either of the brothers read), two stray vo-
lumes of Peregrine PirJde, two of Qmnt Fatlioni, and a single volume of
" some English historian," containing the reigns of James 1., and his son.
The " Collection of Songs," says Burns, was my radc mccuni. 1 pored
over them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by
verse ; carefully noticing the true, tender, or sublime, from affectation or
fustian ; and 1 am convinced i owe to this practice much of my critic-craft,
such as it is."
He derived, during this period, considerable advantages from the vicinity
of Mount Oliphant to tlie town of Ayr— a place then, and still, distmguish-
ed by the resideiK-e of many respectable gentlemen's families, and a con-
sequent elegance of society and manners, not common in remote provin-
cial situations. To his friend. Mr. Murdoch, he no doubt owed, in the first
'.nstance, whatever attentions he received therr fiom peoi)lu older as wt;L'
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. vV.
ns hi^licr tlian himself: some sucli persons appear to have taken R pkaisure
in lending liim books, and surely no kindness could have been ni:ire useful
to him than this. As for his coevals, he lumself says, very justi}, " It is
not commonly at that green age that our young gentry have a just sense
of the distance between tliem and their ragged playfellows. Mi/ young
superiors," he proceeds, " never insulted the cloulerhj appearanie of my
nlough-boy carcass, the two extremes of which v/ere often exposed to all
the inclemencies of all the seasons. They Mould give me stray volumes
of books : among them, even then, I could pick up some observation ; and
one, whose heart I am sure not even the -Munny Begum scenes have tainted,
helped me to a little French. Parting with these, my young friends and
benefactors, as they occasionally went otf for tlie East or West Indies, was of-
ten to me a sore affliction. — but I was soon called to more serious evils." —
(Letter to IMoore). The condition of the family during the last two years
of their residence at Mount Oliphant, when the struggle whicli ended in
their removal was rapidly approaching its crisis, has been already describ-
ed ; nor need we dwell again on the untimely bui'den of sorrow, as well as
toil, which fell to the share of the youthful poet, and which would have
broken iiltogether any mind wherein feelings like his had existed, without
strength like his to control them. The removal of the family to Locldea,
in the parish of Tarbolton, took place wlu;n Burns was in his sixteenth year
He had some time before this made his first attempt in verse, and the occa-
sion is thus described by himself in his letter to Moore. " This kind of liic — >
the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave,
brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little before which period I lirst conmiit-
ted tiie sin of Rh^Ti^.e. Vou know our country custom of coupling a man and
woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my lifteenth au-
tumn my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself.
My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing iier justice in that
language ; but you know the IScottish idiom — she was a boume, sweet, sousie
lass. In short, she. altogeth-cr unwittingly to herself, initiated me in tliat
delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin- horse pru-
dence, and book-worm [)hilosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our
dearest blessing here below ! Mow she cauglit the contagion, I caimot t''ll ;
you medical people talk much of infection irom breathing tlie same air, the
touch, ^c. ; but I never expressly said 1 loved Iier. Indeed, I did not know
myself why I liked so much to loiter bcliind witli her, when retiuning in
the evening from our labours ; why tiie tones of her voice made my heart-
strings tin-ill like an .'Eolian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat SL<h
a furious ratan, when 1 looked and lingered over her little hand, to |)ick ( ut
the cruel nettle-stings and tliistles. Among her other love-ins})iring t>i a-
lities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, to which I attempt*. d
giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as lu
imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who
had Greek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song, which was said to be com-
posed by a small country laird's son, on one of his lather's maids, with whom
he was in love ; and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ;
for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living
in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself.
" Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been rr.y
T'lv, and till within the last twelve months, have been my higliest enjoy
viil LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
The earliest of the poet's productions is the little ballad,
" O once I loved a bonny lass.
Burns himself characterises it as " a very puerile and silly performance ,*
yet it contains here and there lines of whicli he need hardly have been
ashamed at any period of his life : —
" She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
Bairh decent and genteel.
And then there's something in her g
Gars ony dress look weel."
" Silly and puerile as it is," said the poet, long afterwards, " I am al-
ways pleased with this song, as it recalls to my mind those happy days
when my heart was yet honest, and my tongue sincere...! composed it in a
wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this hour 1 never recollect it but my
heart melts, my blood sallies, at the remembrance." (MS. Memorandum
book, August 178S.)
In his first epistle to Lapraik (1785) he says —
" Amaist as soon as I could spell,
1 to the cranibo-jingle fell,
Tho' rude and tough ;
Yet crooning to a body's sell
Does weel eneugh."
And in some nobler verses, entitled " On my Early Days," we have the
fdlowing passage : —
" I mind it weel in early date,
Wlien I was beardless, young and blate,
.And first could thrash the barn.
Or haud a yokin' o' the pleugh,
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh,
Vet unco proud to learn —
AVhen first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckoned was,
An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass —
Still shearing and clearing
The tiilier stookit raw,
WV claivers and haivers
Wearing the day awa —
E'en then a wish, I mind its power,
A wish that to my latest hour
Shall strongly heave my breast :
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake,
iomc useful plan or book could make,
Or sing a sang, at least :
The rough bur-tliisile sjireading wide
Amang th.e bearded bear,
1 turn'd die weeder-clips aside.
And spared the symbol d';ar."
He is hnrdly to be envied who can contemplate without emotion, this
exquisite picture of young nature and young genius. It was amidst such
scenes that this extraordinary beinjx felt those first indefinite stirrings ol
immortal ambition, which he has himself shadowed out under the ningniri-
ccnt image of " the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops, around tlie walls
ol Jiii cave."
CHAPTER II.
\iBTENTS Prom 17 to 24 — Robert antl Gilbert Burns work to Iheir Fniher, as Lnhourtr$^
at stilted Wiiyes — At Rural W: rh the Poet feared no Competitor — Tlus period not marked
by much Mental Improvement — At Dancini/- School — I'rnpress in Lore and Pietry — A
School lit Kirkosu-ahfs — Bad Company — At Irvine — Flaxdressiny — Becomes there Mem
ber of a Batchelors Club.
** O enviable early days,
^V'hen dancing thnuj;htless pleasure's mare,
To care and guilt unknown !
How ill exchargcd for riper limes,
To feel the follies or the crimes
Of others — or my own !"
As has been already mentioned, William Burnes now quilted Mount
Olipliant for Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, for some little
space, fortune appeared to smile on his industry and frugality. Robert
and (lilbert were emploj'ed by their father as regular labourers — he allow-
ing them t? of wages each per annum; from which sum, however, the
value of any home made clothes received by the youths was exactly de-
ducted. Robert Burns's person, inured to daily toil, and continually expos-
ed to every variety of weather, presented, before the usual time, every ciia-
racteristic of robust and vigorous manhood. He says himself that he never
feared a competitor in any species of rural exertion : and Gilbert Burns,
a man of uncommon bodily strength, adds, that neither he, nor any labourer
he ever saw at work, was equal to the youthful poet, either in tlie corn
field, or the severer tasks of the thrashing-floor. Gilbert says, that Ro-
bert's literary zeal slackened considerably after their removal to Tarbolton.
He was separated from his acquaintances of the town of Ayr, and pr(;I)a-
bly missed not only the stinmlus of their conversation, but the kindness
that had furnished him with his supply, such as it was, of books. J5ut the
main source of his change of habits about this period was, it is confessed
on all hands, the precocious fervour of one of his own turbulent passions.
" In my seventeenth year," says Burns, " to give my manners a brush, I
went to a country dancing-school. — My father had an unaccountable anti-
pathy against these meetings : and my going was, what to this moment I
rtp.nt. in opposition to his wishes. .My father was subject to strong pas-
sions from that instance of disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike
to me, which 1 believe was one cause of the dissipation which marked my
succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively with the strictness,
and soViety, and regularity of Presbyterian country life; for though liie
Will- o'- Wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were almost tlie sole lights oi
rKy path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several years
afterwards within the lino of innocence. 'Ihe great ri^.islbrtune of my life
was to want an aim. I saw my father's situation entailed oi me jKrpetual
labour. The only two openings by ich I could enter the tenii)!e of 1 or-
X LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
tune, wer" the gate of nigardly economy, or the path of little chicaning
bargain-making. The first is so contracted an aperture, I could nevei
squeeze myself into it ; — the last I always hated — there was contamination
in the very entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, v/ith a
strong appetite for sociability, as v.-ell from native hilarity, as from a pride
of observation and remark ; a constitutional m.elancholy or hypochondria
cism that made me fly solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, my
••eputaticn for bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a
strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense -• and U
will not seem surprising that 1 was generally a welcome guest whe/c I vi-
sited, or any great wonder that, always where two or three met together,
there was I among them. But far beyond all other impulses of my heart,
vi;i\% tin penchrait pour I' adorcAle moitie (III genre hiimain. My heart was com-
cletely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other;
and as in every othe/ warfare in this world my fortune was various, some-
times I was received with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a
repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no competitor and
thus I set absolute want at defiance ; and as I never cared farther i'oi. my
labours than v/hile I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in tlie
way after my own heart. A country lad seldom carries on a love adven-
ture without an assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and in-
t»'ei)id dexterity, that recommended me as a proper second on these occa-
sions, and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret oi
half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in knowing
the intrigues of half the courts of Europe."
In regard to the same critical period of Burns's life, his excellent brother
writes as follows : — " 1 wonder k,ow llobert could attribute to our father that
lasting resentment of his going to a dancing-school against his will, of which
he was incapable. I believe the truth was, that about this time he began
to see the dangerous impetuosity of my brother's passions, as well as iiis
not being amenable to counsel, which often irritated my father, and vrhich
he would naturally think a dancing school was not likely to correct. But
he was proud of Robert's genius, which he bestowed more expense on
cultivating than on the rest of the family — and he was equally delighted
with his warmth of heart, and conversational powers. He had indeed that
dislike of dancing-schools which Robert mentions ; but so far overcame it
during Robert's first month of attendance, that he permitted the rest of
the family that were fit for it, to accompany him during the second month.
Robert excelled in dancing, and was for some time distractedly fond of it.
And thus the seven years we lived in 'I'arbolton parish (extending from tl)e
seventeenth to the twenty-fourth of my brother's age) w ere not n^arke.I by
much literary improvement ; but, during this time, the foundation was laicJ
of cerUxin habits in my brother's character, which afterwards became but
too prominent, and which malice and en\'y have taken delight to enlarge
on. Though, when young, he was bashful and awkward in his intercourse
with women, yet when he approached manhood, his attachment to their
society became very strong, and he was constantly the victim of lome
fair enslaver. The symptoms of his passion were oi'ten such as nearly to
equal those of the celebi'ated Sappiio. I never indeed knew that he
fainted, sunk, anil d:eil away ; but the agitations of his mind and body
exceeded any tiling of the kind I ever knew in real life. He had always a
|>articu!ar jealousy of people >vh() were richer than hiniscil', or wnu had
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. x«
Tijre conseq ence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on persons
of tliis description. When he selected any one out of the sovereignty of
his good pleasure to whom he should pay his particular attention, she was
install y invested with a sufHcient stock of charms, out of tlie plentiful
stores of his own imagination : and there was often a great dissimilitude
between his fair captivator, as she appeared to others, and as she seeme(?
wlien invested with the attributes he gave her. One generally reigned
paramount in his ailections ; but as Yorick's aiTections fiovvxnl out toward
Madame de L at the remise door, v.hile the eternal vows of Eliza were
upon him, so Robert was frequently encountering other attractions., which
formed so many under-plots in the drama of his love."
Thus occupied with labour, love, and dancing, the youtli " without an
aim" found leisure occasionally to clothe the sulHciently various moods oi
his mind in rhymes. It was as early as seventeen, (he tells us),* tliat he
wrote some stanzas which begin beaL:tifully :
" I drcam'd I lay wliere flowers wert- springing
(jiaily in the sunny beam ;
Listeniiif,' to the wild birds singing
By a i'allen crystal stream.
Straight the sky s^rew bl.ick and danng,
Tl;ro' the woods tlie whiilwinds rave.
Trees with aged arms were warring,
O'er the swelling d-umlie wave.
Such was life's dei.eicl"ul morning." Sus.
On comparing these veises witl those on " Handsome Nell," the ad-
vance achieved by the young bard in the course of two sfeort years, must
be regarded with admiration ; nor should a minor circumstance be entirely
overlooked, that in the piece which we have just been quoting, there occurs
bat one Scotch word. It was about this time, also, that he wrote a ballad ol
much less ambitious vein, which, years after, he says, he used to con over
with delight, because of the faithfulness v/ith which it recalled to him the
circumstances and feelings of his opening manhood.
— " IMy father was a farmer upon the Carrick Border,
And carefully he brought me uj) in decency and order.
And bade me act a manly part, tho' I had ne'er u farthing ;
For without an ho. .est manly heart, no man was worth regarding.
Then out into the world my course I did determine ;
T/io' to he rich -mis not m;i uinh, yet to he great xi'tn charming ;
Aly tfilrnts thcij were not the -.carsf, nor i;rt vvj education ;
llcsolved was I at least to try to mend my situation.
• • • • • • •
No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befnend mc;
So 1 must toil, ar.d sweat, and l)roil, aiid labour to sustain me.
To ))lough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bied me early ;
For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly.
Thus all obscure, unknown and poor, thro' life I'm doomed to wander;
Till down my weary hones 1 lay, in everlisting slumber.
No view, nor care, but slum whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow;
1 live to-day, as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow," &c.
These are the only two of his very early productions in which we ha"»e
"iothing expressly about love. The rest were composed to celebrate the
;har'PH of those rural beauties who followed eat.,h other in the dominion ci
* Reliques. p. 2i2
%U LIFE OF ROBERT BURN'S
his fancy — or shared tlie ca{)r*icious throne between them ; and we maj
easily believe, that one who possessed, with his other qualidcations, such
powers of flattering, feared competitors as little in the diversions of his
evenings as in the toils of his daj'.
The rural lover, in those districts, pursues his tender vocation in a style.
»he especial fascination of which town-bred swains may find it some-
vhat difficult to comprehend. After the labours of the day are over, nay,
very often after he is supposed by the inmates of his own fireside to be in
his bed, the happy youth thinks little of walking many long Scotch miles
to the residence of his mistress, who, upon the signal of a tap at her win-
dow, comes forth to spend a soft hour or two beneath the harvest moon,
or, if the weather be severe, (a circumstance which never prevents th«s
journey from being accomplished), amidst the sheaves of her father's barn.
This " chappin' out," as they call it, is a custom of which parents com-
monl)' wink at, if they do not openly approve, the observance ; and the
consequences are far, very far, more frequently quite harmless, than per-
sons not fomiliar with the peculiar manners and feelings of our peasantry
m.ay find it easy to believe. Excursions of this class form the theme of
almost all the songs which Burns is known to have produced about this pe-
riod,— and such of these juvenile performances as have been preserved,
are, without exception, beautiful. '1 hey show how powerfully his boyish
fancy had been affected by the old rural minstrelsy of his own country,
and how easily his native taste caught the secret of its charm. The truth
and simplicity of nature breathe in every line — the images are always just,
of' en originally happy — and the growing refinement of his ear and judg-
ment, may be traced in the terser language and more mellow flow of each
successive ballad.
The best cf the songs written at this time is that begmning,—
" It was upon a Lammas night,
\\'hen corn ri^s are boniiie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie.
The time Hew by wi' tentless heed,
Till, 'tween the late and early,
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed
To see me thro' the bailey."
We may let the poet carry on his own story. " A circumstance," says
he, " which made some alteration on my mind and manners, was, that I
spent my nineteenth summer on a smuggling coast, a good distance from
home, at a noted school (Kirkoswald's) to learn mensuration, surveying,
dialling, &c., in which I made a good progress. Hut I made a greater pro-
gress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that
time very successful, and it sometimes happened to me to fidl in with those
who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were
till this time new to me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though
L learnt to fill my glass, and to mix without -fear in a drunken squabble, yet
I went on v.-ith a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered \'irgo.
a morth which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming y/A//"^',
who lived next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set me
off at a tangent from the sphere of my stuilies. I, however, struggled on
with my si/ws and co-sines for a H'w days more ; but stepjKiig into the gar-
den one chaiming noon to take the sun's altitude, there 1 met mv angeL
love : —
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xiil
" Proserpine, fjathcing flowera,
Herself a fairer flower.*'
" It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remain
ing week 1 staid, 1 did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul about
her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights of my stay in ttic
country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and inno-
cent girl had kept me guiltless. I returned home very considerably improved.
My reading was enlarged with the very important addition of Tliomson's
and Shenstone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a new phasis ; and I
engaged several of my school-fellows to keep up a literary correspondence
with me. This improved me in composition. I had met with a collection
of letters by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them most
devoutly ; I kept copies of any of my own letters that pleased me ; and a
comparison between them and the composition of most of my correspon-
dents flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though I had
not three farthings wortii of business in the world, yet almost every post
brought me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding son ol' dav-
book and ledger. My life ilowed on much in the same course till m^'
twenty-third year. ) ire I'dmoiir, et vice la bageitelhy were my sole princi-
ples of action. The addition of two more authors to my library gave me
great pleasure; Sterne and ^Mackenzie — Tristram Shaiuhj and The Man
of Fti'Ung — were my bostini favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for
my mind ; but it was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour.
I had usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand; I took up one or other,
as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as
it bordered on fatigue. My passions, once lighted up, raged like so many
devils, till they found vent in rhyme; and then the conning over my ver.ses,
like a spell, soothed all into quiet."
Of the rhymes of those days, ^^yv, when he wrote his letter to Moore, had
appeared in print. Winter, a dirge, an admirably versified piece, is of their
number ; The Death of Poor 3Iaifie, Mailie's Ekgif, and Jahii Barleycorn ;
and one charming song, inspired by the Nymph of Kirkoswald's, whose at*
tractions put an end to his trigonometry.
Now westlin winds, and slaiightena diui
Bring Autumn's pleasimt weather ;
The moorcock s])rings, on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather. . . .
— Peggy dear, tlie evening's clear,
Tliick flies the skimming swallow ;
The sky is blue, the Kelils in view,
All fading green and yellow ;
Come let us stray our gladsome way," &c.
John Barleycorn is a clever old ballad, very cleverly new-modelled and
jxtended ; but the Death and Elegy of Poor Mailie deserve more atten-
tion. The expiring animal's admonitions toucliing the education of the
" poor toop lamb, her son and heir," and the " yowie, silly thing," her
daughter, are from the same peculiar vein of sly homely wit, enibeddc:!
upon fancy, which he afterwards dug with a bolder hand in the Twa Dogs,
and perhaps to its utmost depth, in his DeaUi and Doctor Hurnhooh, It
need scarcely be added, that Poor Mailie was a real personage, though she
did not actually die until some time after her last words were written. She
had been purchased by Burns in a frolic, and because exceedingly attached
to his oers/in
xiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
*• Tbro' all the town she trotted by him ;
A lant; half-mile she could ilescry liini ;
M'i' kindly bleat, Avhen she did spy him,
She run wV sjjeod :
A friend mair faitlifu' ne'er came ni^h him,
Than JMailie dead."
These lilt.e pieces ai-e in a mucli broader dialect than an}' of their prs«
decessors. His merriment and satire were, from the beginning, Scotch.
Kot\vitlistanding the luxurious tone of some of Burns s pieces produced in
those times, we are assured by himself (and his brother unhesitatingly con-
firms the statement) that no positive vice mingled in any of his loves, until
after he had reached his twenty-third year. He has already told us, that
Ills short residence '• away from home" at Kirkoswald's, where he mixed
in the society of seafaring men and smugglers, produced an unfavourable
alteration on some of his habits ; but in i781-'2 he spent six months at
Irvine ; and it is from this period that his brother dates a serious change.
'' As his numerous connexion-3," says Gilbert, " were governed by the
strictest rules of virtue and modesty, (from v/hich he never deviated till
h";s twenty-third year), he became anxious to be in a situation to marry
'i his was not likely to be the case while he remained a farmer, as the stock-
ing of a farm required a sum of money he saw no probability of being mas-
ter offer a great while. He and I liad for several years taken land of our
father, for tlie purpose of raising flax on our own account ; and in t!)e
course of sellin<r it, Robert bcijan to think of turnimi flax-dresser, both as
bemg suitable to his grand view of settling in life, and as subservient to
the flax-raising." Burns, accordingly, v/ent to a- half-brother of iiis mo
thei s, by name Peacock, a flax-dresser in Irvine, with the view of learn-
ing this new trade, and for some time he applied himself diligently ; but
mis-rortune after misfortune attended him. The shop accidentally caught
lire during the carousal of a new-year's-day's morning, and Robert '' was
left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." — " I was obliged," says he,
" to give up this scheme ; the clouds of misfortune Avere gathering thick
round my father's head ; and what was worst of all, he Avas visibly far gone
in a consumption ; and, to crown my distresses, a hcllefUle whom I adored,
and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the held of matrimony, jilted
me, with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The finishing evil that
brouglit up the rear of this infernal file, was, m}' constitutional melancholy
being increased to such a degree, that for three months i was in a state
of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have got
their mittimus — Depart from mc,yc citrsed." The following letter, addressed
by Burns to his father, three days before the unfortunate fire took place,
will show abundantly that the gloom of his spirits had little need of that
aggravation. When we consider by whom, to whom, and under what cir-
cumstances, it was written, the letter is every way a remarkable one : —
" HONOUUED Sll{,
<' I HAVE purposely delayed writing, in he hope that I should have
the pleasure of seeing you on New-year's day; but work comes so hard
unon us, : at I do not cIi'' \-x. 'o oc G>.v*'it ou thf.: cc.'''>u:><, .J.-> well as for
som: other iiitle reasoiis, which I shall tell you ».i meeting. My health is
nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder;
and, on the whole, I a. > jt'i'-.t better than otherwise, though I mei.tl by
very slow degrees. The weakness of my .icrvcs has so debilitated my
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Xf
niii.i, tliat I dare nc-itlicr review past wants, nor look forward into futurity
fiv; the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast ])roduccs most unhappy
cfFi cts on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or twc
my spiiits are alightened, I gltminer a little into futurity ; but my principal,
and indeed my only pleasurable employment, is looking backwards and for-
wards in a moral and religious way. I am (juite transported at tlie thought,
that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the
pains and uneasiness, and disquietudes of this weary life ; for I assure you
I am heartily tired of it ; and, if I do not very much deceive myseli", I
could contentedly and gladly resign It.
' The soul, uneasy, and confined at home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.'
" It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, IGth, and 17th
verses of the "/th chapter of Re^'elations, than with any ten times as many
verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm
with which they inspire me for all that this world has to offer. As for tliis
wo'-ld, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the
bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. 1 shall never again be cap-
able of entering into such scenes. Indeed, lam altogether unconcerned
at the thoughts of this hfe. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably
await me, and I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing, to meet
them. I have but just time and paper to return you my gratelul thanks
fo^ the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were too much
ne.;lected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have been remem-
beivd ere it is yet too late. Present my dutifid respects to my mother,
and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. INIuir; and, with wishing you a
merry New-year's- day, I shall conclude.
" 1 am, honoured Sir, your dutiful son,
" IloBEUT Burns."
" P. S. — ^ly meal is nearly out ; but I am going to borrow, till I get
more."
The verses of Scripture here alluded to, are as follows : —
" l'>. Therefore are the)' I'-eforethe throne of God. and serve him day and night in his tem-
ple ; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell amonf; them.
" IC. They shall hunger no mere, neither thirst any more ; neither shall the sun light on
tJiem, nor any heat.
" 17- l-"or the Lamb that is in the midst of the throne sh:ill feed them, and shall lead theso
unto living fountains of waters ; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."
" This letter,"' says Dr. Currie, " written several years before the publi-
cation of his Poems, when his name was as obscure as his condition was
humble, displays the philosophic melancholy which so generally forms the
poetical temperament, and that buoyant and an:bitious spirit which indi-
cates a mind conscious of its strength. Xi Irvine, Burns at this time j)os-
sessed a single room for his lodgings, rented, perhaps, at the rate of a shil-
ling a-week. Ho passed his days in constant labour as a flax-dresser, and
Ins food consisted chiefly of oat-meal, sent to him from his father's family.
The store of this humble, though wholesome nutriment, it appears, was
nearly exhausted, and he was about to borrow till he should obtain a sup-
ply. Yet even in this situation, his active Imagination h.ad formed to itself
oictures of eminence and distinction. His despair of making a figure in
Kvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
tlie world, shows how ardently he wished for honouraole fame ; aiid his
contempt of life, founded on this despair, is the genuine expression of
youthful and generous mind. In such a state of reHection, and of suffering,
the imagination of Burns naturally passed the dark boundaries of our earthly
horizon, and rested on those beautiful representations of a better world,
where there is neither thirst, nor hunger, nor sorrow, and where happiness
shall be in proportion to the capacity of happiness." — Life, p. 102.
Unhappily for himself and for the world, it was not always in the recol-
lections of his virtuous home and the study of his Bible, that Burns sought
for consolation amidst the heavy distresses which " his youth was heir to.'
Irvine is a small sea-port ; and here, as at Kirkoswald's, the adventurous
spirits of a smuggling coast, with all their jovial habits, were to be met
with in abundance. " He contracted some acquaintance," says Gilbert,
" of a freer manner of thinking and living than he had been used to, whose
society prepared urn for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue, which had
hitherto restrained liim."
One of the most intimate companions of Burns, while he remained at
Irvine, seems to have been David ISillar, to whom the Epistle Ui Da-
vie, a Brother Poet, was subsequenth' addressed. Sillar was at this time a
poor schoolmaster in Irvine, enjoying considerable reputation as a writer
oi local verses : and, according to all accounts, extremely jovial in his life
and conversation.
Burns himself thus sums up the results of his residence at Irvine : —
" From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but thepsinci-
pal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friend-hip I formed v< ith a
young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune He
vas the son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in the neighboialiood,
taking him under his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with ;; view
of bettering his situation in life. The patron dying just as he was re;-.-ly to
launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea ; v.here,
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 ot
Connaught, stripped of every thing His mind was fraught with
independence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved and admir-
ed him to a degree of enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. In
some measure 1 succeeded ; I had pride before, but he taught it to flow 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 women was the presiding star ; but he
spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor — which hitherto I had regard-
ed with horror. Here his friendship did me a mimchief^' Professor Walker,
when prc{)aring to write his Sketch of the Poet's life, was informed by an
aged inhabitant of Irvine, that Burns's chief delight while there was in dis-
cussing religious topics, jmrticularly m those circles which usually gather
in a Scotch churchyard after service. The senior added, that Burns com-
monly tooK the high Calvinistic side in such debates; and concluded with
a boast, that " the lad" was indebted to himself in a great measure for
the gradual adoption of " more liberal opinions." It was during the same
period, that the poet was first initiated in the mysteries of free masonry,
" which was," says his bro.her, " his first introduction to the life of a boon
companion." He was introduced to St. Mary's Lodge of Tarbolton by
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xvii
John Ranken, a ■•'ery dissipated man of considerable talents, to whom he
afterwards indited a poetical epistle, which will be noticed in its place.
" Rhyme,'' Hums says, " 1 had given up ;" (on going to Irvine) " but
meeting with Ferguson's Scotti.s/i Poems, I strung anew my wildly soand-
ing l\re with emulating vigour." Neither flax-dressing nor the tavern
could keep him long from his proper vocation. But it was probably this
accidental meeting with Ferguson, that in a great measure finahy deter-
mined the Scoff/sh character of Burns's poctr}- ; and indeed, but for the
lasting sense of tliis obligation, and some natural sympathy with the personal
misfortunes of Ferguson's life, it would be difficult to account for the very
higli terms in which Burns always mentions his productions.
Shortly before Burns went to Irvine, he, his brother (lilbert, and some
seven or eight young men besides, all of the parish of Tarbolton, had form-
ed themselves into a society, which they called the Bachelor's Club ; and
which met one evening in every month for the purposes of mutual enter-
tainment and improvement. That their cups were but modestly fdled is
evident ; for the rules of the club did not permit any member to spend
more than threepence at a sitting. A question was announced for dis-
cussion at the close of each meeting; and at the next *hey came prepared
to deliver their sentiments upon the subject-matter th^s proposed. Burns
drew up the regulations, and evidently was the principal person. He in-
troduced his friend Sillar during his stay at Irvine, and the meetings ap-
pear to have continued as long as the family remained in Tarbolton. Of
the sort of questions discussed, we may form some notion from the minute
of one evening, still extant in Burns's hand-vvritii g. — Question for Hal-
liTWEEN, (Nov. 11), 1780. — " Suppose a yowig man, bred a farmer, bid
without aivj fort line, has it in his power to marry either of two tcomeii, the one
a girl of large fortune, hut neither Jiandmme in person, nor agreeable in con-
versation, but who can manage the. household affairs of a farm well encvgh ;
the other of them a girl every way agreeable in person, conversation, and behavi-
our, but ivitkout any fortune : tchich of them shall he choose ?" Burns, as
may be guessed, took the imprudent side in this discussion.
" On one solitary occasion," says he, " we resolved to meet at Tarbol-
ton in July, on the race-night, and have a dance in honour of our society.
Accordingly, we did meet, each one with a partner, and spent the evening
in such innocence and merriment, such cheerfulness and good humour, that
every brother will long remember it with delight." There can be no doubt
that Burns would not have patronized this sober association so long, unless
he had experienced at its assemblies the pleasure of a stimulated mind ;
and as little, that to the habit of arranging his thoughts, and expressing
them in somewhat of a formal shape, thus early cultivated, we ought to at-
tribute much of that conversational skill which, wLen he first mingled with
the upper world, was generally considered as the most remaikable of all his
personal accomplishments — Burns's associates of the Bachelor's Club,
must have been young men possessed of talents and acquirements, other-
wise such minds as his and Ciilbert's could not have persisted in measuring
themselves against theirs ; and we may believe that the periodical display
of the poe> s own vigour and resources, at these club-meetings, and (more
frequently than his brother approved) at the Free Mason Lodges of Irvine
and Tarbolton, extended his rural reputation ; and, by degrees, prepared
persons not immediately included in his own circle, for the extraordinary
impression which his poetical efforts were ere long tc cr=«.ti? aU over " the
Carrick border."
xvii: LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
David Sillar gives an account of the beginning of his own acquaintance
H'itli Burns, and introduction into this Bachelor's Club, which will always be
read with much interest. — " Mr. Robert Burns was some time in the parish
of Tarbolton prior to my acquaintance vvith him. His social disposition
easily procured him acquaintance ; but a certain satirical seasoning with
which he and all poetical geniuses are in some degree influenced, while i(
set the rustic circle in a roar, was not unaccompanied with its kindre<l at-
tendant, suspicious fear. I recollect hearing his neighbours observe, he had
a great deal to say for himself, and that they suspected his principles. lie
wore the only tied hair in the parish ; and in the church, his plaid, which
was of a particular colour, I think fillemot, he wrapped in a particular
manner round his shoulders. These surmises, and his exterior, hnd such
a magnetical influence on my curiosity, as made me particularly solicitous
of his acquaintance. Whether my acquaintance with Gilbert was casual
or premeditated, I am not now certain. By him I was introduced, not
only to his brother, but to the whole of that family, where, in a short time,
I became a frequent, and I believe, not unwelcome visitant. After the
commencement of my acquaintance with the bard, we frequently met
upon Sundays at church, when, between sermons, instead of going with
our friends or lasses to the inn, we often took a walk in the fields. In these
walks, I have frequently been struck with his facility in addressing the fair
sex ; and many times, when I have been bashfully anxious how to express
myself, he would have entered into conversation with them with the great-
est ease and freedom ; and it was generally a death-blow to our conversa-
tion, however agreeable, to meet a female acquaintance. Some of the Cvw
opportunities of a noontide walk that a country life allows her laborious
sons, he spent on the banks of the river, or in the woods, in the nei'-'li-
bourhood of Stair, a situation peculiarly adapted to the genius of a rural
bard. Some book (generally cno of those mentioned in his letter to Mr.
Murdoch) he always carried and read, when not otherwise employed. It
was likewise his custom to read at table. In one of my visits to Lochlea,
in time of a sowen supper, he v/as so intent on reading, I think Tristram
Shandy, that his spoon falling out of his hand, made him exclaim, in a
tone scarcely imitable, ' Alas, poor Yorick !' Such was Burns, and such
were his associates, when, in May 1781, I was admitted a member of
tiie Bachelor's Club.'
The misfortunes of William Burnes thickened apace, as has already been
seen, and were approaching their crisis at the time when liobert came
home from his flax-dressing experiment at Irvine. The good old man
died soon, after ; and among other evils which he thus escaped, was an af-
fliction tliat would, in his eyes, have been severe. The poet had not, as
he confesses, come unscathed out of the society of those persons of " li-
beral opiijjt'ns" with whom he consorted in Irvine ; and he expressly
attributes to their lessons, the scrape into which he fell soon after " he
put his hand to plough again." He was compelled, according to the then
all but universal custom of rural parishes in Scotland, to do penance in
church, before the congregation, in consequence of the birtl; of an illegi-
timate child ; and whatever may be thought of the propriety of such ex-
hibitions, there can be no difference of op' ion as to the culpable levity
witii which he describes the nature of his oli'enre, and the still more re-
preliensihl-e bitterness with which, in his Epistle to Kanken, he inveighs
against the clergyman, who, in rebuking him, only performed what was
LR'E OF ROBERT BURNS. Xli
ihen B regular part of the clerical duty, and a part of it that could i:evet
have been at all agreeable to the worthy man whom he satirizes under
the appellation of " Daddie Auld." T/ie Poet's Welcome to an llkgitiimite
Child was composed on the same occasion — a piece in which some very
manly feelings are expressed, along with others which can give no one
pleasure to contemplate. There is a soiig in honour of the same occasion,
or a similar one about the same period. The rantin Dog the Daddie o't, —
which exhibits the poet as glorying, and only glorying in his shame.
When I consider his tender affection for the surviving members of his
own family, and the reverence with which he ever regarded the memory of
the father whom he had so recently buried, I cannot believe that Burns has
thought fit to record in verse all the feelings which this exposure excited
in his bosom. " To wave (in his own language) the quantum of the sin,"
he who, two years afterwards, wrote The Cottars Saturday Night, had not,
we may be sure, hardened his heart to the thought of bringing additional
sorrow and unexpected shame to the fireside of a widowed mother, l^ut
his false pride recoiled from letting his jovial associates guess how little he
was able to drown the whispers of the still small voice ; and the fermenting
bitterness of 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, who, whatever their private errors might be, had at least done him
no wrong.
It is impossible not to smile at one item of consolation which Burns pro
poses to himself on this occasion : —
" Tne mair they talk, Fm kend the letter ;
E'en let them clabh !"
This is indpod a singular manifestation of " the last infirmity of Dobie
rniridfi."
CHAPTER III.
Contests — 77iC Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, become tenants of Moss"iel~. Their incessant
lahnnr and moderate habits— The farm cold and unfertile— Not prosperous The Muse
anti-calvinistical— The poet thence involved deeply in local polemics, and charged with he-
res J/— Curious account if these disputes — Earli/ poems prompted by them. Origin of and
remarks vpnn the poet's principal pieces— Love lead* him far astray— A crisis The mil or
the West Indies— The alternative
•• The star that rules my luckless lot
Has fated me the russet coat.
And damn'd my fortune to the groat;
But in requit,
Has bless'd me wi' a random shot
O' country wit."
Three mmiths before the death of William Burnes, Robert and Gilbert
took the farm of Mossgiel, in the neighbouring parish of Mauchline, with
the view of providing a slielter for their parents, in the storm v/hich they
liad seen gradually thickening, and knew must soon burst ; and to this
place the whole family removed on William's death. The farm consisted
of 119 acres, and the rent was £90. " It was stocked by the property
and individual savings of the whole iamily, (says Gilbert), and was a joint
concern among us. Every member of the family was allowed ordinary
wages for the labour he performed on the farm. My brother's allowance
and mine was £7 per annum each ; and during the whole time this family
concern lasted, which was four years, as well as during the preceding pe-
riod at Lochlea, Fiobert's expenses never, in any one year, exceeded liis
slender incoiue."
" I entered on this farm," says the poet, " with a full resolution, come,
go, I will he imae. I read farming books, I calculated crops, I attended
markets ; and, in sliort, in spite of the dei-'d, and the world, ami the jleah,
I believe I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfor-
tunately buying bad seed, the second, from a late harvest, we lost half
our crops. Tliis overset all my wisdom, and I returned, I'die the dog to his
vomit, (tml tJie sow that was tvasJicd to Iter tvallowiiig in the mire."
*' At the time that our poet took the resolution of becoming ?rwe, he
procured," says Gilbert, " a little book of blank paper, with the purpose,
expressed on the first page, of making farming memorandums. These
farming memoraivhims are curious enough," Gilbert slyly adds, " and a
spe« "imen may gratify tlui reader.". — Specimens accordingly lie gives ; as.
*' O why the deuce sliould I repine,
And be an ill fbrcboder ?
I'm twcnty-tliree, and five foot ninfi—
V\i ^o and be a sodjjcr," &c
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxi
■* O leave novells, j'c Mauchline belles,
Ve're safer at your spinning wheel ;
Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks — like Kob Mossgiel.
Your fine T)m Jones and (Irandisons,
They male your youthful fancies reel.
They heat your veins, and fire your brains,
And then ye're prey for Rob .'Moss^'iel," &c. &c.
Tlie foul jeais dating which Burns resided on tliis cold and ungrateful
farm of Mossgiel, were the most important of his hfe. It was tlien that
his genius developed iis highest energies ; on the works produced in these
years his fame was first established, and must ever continue mainly to rest:
it was then also that his personal character came out in all its brightest lights,
and in all but its darkest shadows; and indeed from the commencement
of this period, the history oi' the man may be traced, step by step, in his
own immortal writings. Bums now began to know that nature had meant
him for a poet ; and diligently, though as yet in secret, he laboured in
what he felt to be his destined vocation Gilbert continued for some time
to be his chief, often indeed his only confidant ; and any thing more inte-
resting and delightful than this excellent man's account of the manner in
v> hich the poems included in the first of his brother's publications were
composed, is certainly not to be found in the annals of literary history.
The reader has already seen, that long before the earliest of them waa
known beyond the domestic circle, the strength of Burns's understanding,
and the keenness of his wit, as displayed in his ordinary conversation, and
more particularly at masonic meetings and debating clubs, (of wliich he
formed one in Mauchline, on the Tarljolton model, immediately on his re-
moval to Mossgiel), had made his name known to some considerable extent
in the country about Tarbolton, Mauchline, and Irvine ; and this prepared
the way for his poetry. Professor Walker gives an anecdote on this head,
which nmst not be omitted. Burns already numbered several clergj'men
among his acquaintances. One of these gentlemen told the Professor, that
after entering on the clerical profession, he had repeatedly met lUn-ns in
company, " where," said he, " the acuteness and originality displayed by
him, the depth of his discernment, the force of his expresbions, and the
authoritative energy of his understanding, had created a sense of his
power of the extent of which I was unconscious, till it was revealed to
me by accident. On the occasion of my second appearance in the pulpit,
I came with an assured and tranquil mind, and though a i'cw persons of
education were present, advanced some length in the service with my con-
fidence and self-possession unimpaired ; but when I saw Burns, who was
of a different parish, unexpectedly enter the church, I was atfectcd v.ith
a tremor and embarrassment, which suddenly apprised me of the impression
which my mind, unknown to itself had previously received." Tiie Pro-
fessor adds, that the person who had thus unconsciously been measuring
ihe stature of the intellectual giant, was not only a man of good talents
and education, but '• remarkable for a more than ordinary portion of con
stitutional firmness."
Every Scotch peasant who makes any pretension to understanding, is a
tlieological critic — and Burns, no doubt, had long ere this time distinguish-
ed himself considerably among those hard-headed groups that may usually
be seen gathered together in the church-yard after the sermon is over. It
mav be guessed that from the time of his residence at Irvine, his stric-
xxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
tures were too often delivered in no reverend vein. " Polemical divinity,
says he to Dr. IMoore, in 1787, " about this time, was putting the coun-
try half mad, and I, ambitious of shining in conversation-parties on Sun-
days, at funerals, S:c., used to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and in-
discretion, that I raised a hue-and-cry of heresy against me, which has not
ceased to this hour,"
To understand I'urns's situation at this time, at once patronized by a
number of clergymen, and attend-i-d with " a hue-and-cry of heresy," we
nuist remember his own words, " that })olemicaI divinity was putting the
country hali'mad." Of both the two parties which, ever since the revolu-
tion of 1ikS8, have pretty equally divided the Church of Scotland, it so
happened that some of the most zealous and consjiicuous leailcrs anil par-
tizans were thus opposed to each other, in constinit warfare, in this parti
cular di>;trict ; and their feuds being of course taken up among their con
gregations, and spleen and prejudice at work, even more furiously in the
cottage than in (//e manse, lie who, to the annoyance of the one set of belli
gerents, could talk like Burns, might count pretty surely, with whateve
alloy his wit hajipened to be mingled, on the applause and countenance of
the enemy. And it is needless to add, they were the less scrupulous sect
of the two that enjoyed the co-operation, such as it was then, and far more
important, as in the sequel it came to be, of our poet.
William Burnes, as we have already seen, though a most exemjilary and
devout man, entertained opinions very difi*erent iVom those which conmion-
ly obtained among the rigid Calvanists of his district. The worthy and
pious old man hin^self, therefore, had not improbably infused into his son's
mind its first prejudice against these j)ersons. The jovial spirits with whom
Burns associated at Irvine, and afterwards, were of course habitual dcriders
of the manners, as well as the tenets of the
" t)rilKKlox, ortlioilox, wIm believe in Jolin Knox."
We liave already observed the effect of the yoimg poet's own first collision
with the ruling powers of presbyterian discijiline ; but it was in the very
act of settling at Mos.^giel that Burns formed the connexion, ^hich, more
than any circumstance besides, influenced him as to the matter now in
(|ucsti:)n. The farm belonged to the estate of the Earl of Loudoun, but
the brothers held it on a sub-lease from Mr. (Javin Hamilton, writer (?. p.
attorney; in .Mauchline, a man, by every account, of engaging manners,
open, kind, generous, and high-spirited, between whom and Robert rnirns.
a c!o.^e and intimate friendship was ere long formed. Just about this time
it happened that Hamilton was at 0]>en feud with Mr. .\uld, the minister
(jf Mauchline, (t!ie same who had already reJtnhcd the poet), and the ruling
elders of the ])arish, in conse(]uence of certain irregularities in his personal
coniluct and ileportment, which, according to the usual strict notions of
kirk discijjline, were consiilered as fairly demanding the vigorous interfer
ence of these authorities. 'I'he notice of this person, his own landlord, and,
a.^ it wt)u!d seem, one of the principal inhabitants of the village of .Maucl>-
line at the time, nnist, of course, have been very flattering fj our polemical
young f'armer. He espoused (Javin Hamilton's (piarrel warmly. Hamilton
was naturally enough disjjosed to mix up his personal affair with the stand
ing controversies whereon .'Vuld was at variance with a large and powerful
body of his brother clergymen ; and by degrees Mr Hamilton's ardent /y;v>-
/tv/e'camc to be as veh.emently interested in the church politics of Ajrshire,
LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. xxiij
Bs lie could have been in jjolitics of another order, had ho happened to be
a freeman of some open borough, and hii patron a candidate ibr the honour
'^f representing it in St. Steplien's. Mr. Cromek lias been severely criti«
cised fo'" some details of Mr. (Javin Hamilton's dissensions with his parish
minister ; but perhaps it might have been well to limit tlie censure to the
tone and spirit oi' the narrative, since there is no doubt that these petty
squabbles had a large share in directing the early energies of Hurns's po-
etical talents. Even in the west of Scotland, such matters would hardly
excite much notice now-a-days, but they were quite enough to produce a
world of vexation and controvers^y forty years ago ; and the English reader to
whom all such details are denied, will certainly never be able to compre-
hend either the merits or the demerits of many of Burns's most remarkable
productions. Since I have touched on this matter at all, I may as well
add, that Hamilton's family, though professedly adhering to the Presbyte-
rian Establishment, had always lain under a strong suspicion of Episcopa-
lianism. Gavin's grandfather had been curate of Kirkoswald in the troubl-
ed times that preceded the Revolution, and incurred great and lasting po-
pular hatred, in consequence of being supposed to have had a principal
hand in bringing a thousand of f/ie Higldand hu.sl into that region in IG77-8.
The district was commonly said not to have entirely recovered the effects
of that savage visitation in less than a hundred years ; and the descendants
and representatives of the Covenanters, whom the curate of Kirkoswald
had the reputation at least of persecuting, were commonly supposed to re-
gard with any thing rather than ready good-will, his grandson, the witty
writer of Mauchline. A well-nursed prejudice of this kind was likely
enough to be met by counter-spleen, and such seems to have been the truth
of the case. The lapse of another generation has sufficed to wipe out every
trace of feuds, that were still abundantly discernible, in the days when
Ayrshire first began to ring with the equally zealous applause and vituper-
ation of, —
" Poet Burns,
And his priest-skelping turns "
It is impossible to look back now to the civil war, which then raged
among the churchmen of the west of Scotland, without confessing, that on
either side there was much to regret, and not a little to blame. Proud
and haughty spirits were unfortunately opposed to each other ; and in the
su])erabundant display of zeal as to doctrinal points, neither party seems
to have mingled much of the charity of the Christian temper. 'I'he ^^ hole
exhibition was unlovely — the spectacle of such indecent violence among
the leading Ecclesiastics of the district, acted most unfavourably on many
men's minds — and no one can doubt that in the unsettled state of Robert
Burns's principles, the elfect must have been powerful as to him.
.Macgill and Dalrymple. the two ministers of the town of Ayr, had long
been suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions on several points, par-
ticularly the doctrine of original sin, and even of the Trinity; and the for-
mer at length published an Essay,
the notice of the Church-courts. More than a year was spent m the dis-
cussions which arose out of this ; and at last Dr. Macgill was fain to ac-
knowledge his errors, and promise that he would take an early opportunity
of apologizing for them to his own congregation from the pulpit — which
oromise, however, he never performcfl. The gentry of the country took
xxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
tor the most part, the side of Macgill, who was a man of cold unpopulai
manners, but of unreproached mora! character, and possessed of some ac-
compHshmei.ts, though certainly not of distinguished talents. The buli
<~f the lower orders espcused, with far more fervid zeal, the cause of those
who conducted the prosecution against this erring doctor. Gavin Hamil
ton, and all persons of his stamp, were of course on the side of Macgill —
Auld, and the Mauchline elders, were his enemies. Mr. Robert Aiken, a
writer in Ayr, a man of remarkable talents, particularly in public speakins.-..
had the principal management of Macgill's cause before the Presbytery,
and, I believe, also before the Synod. He was an intimate friend of Ha-
milton, and through him had about tliis time formed an acquaintance, whicli
soon ripened into a warm rricndsliip, v.ith Burns. Burns, therefore, was
from the beginning a zealous, as in the end he was perhaps the most effective
partizan, of the side on v.hich Aiken liad staked so much of his reputation.
Macgill, Dalrymple. and their brethren, suspected, with more or less jus-
tice, of leaning to heterodox opinions, are the Ncio Light pastors of his
earliest satires. The ])rominent antagonists of these nien, and chosen cham-
pions of the Auld Light , in Ayrshire, it must now be admitted on all hands,
presented, in many particulars of personal conduct and demeanour, as broad
a mark as ever tempted the shafts of a satirist. These men prided them-
selves on being the legitimate and undegenerate descendants and repre-
sentatives of tlie haughty Puritans, v.lio chiefly conducted the overthrow
of Popery in Scotland, and wlio ruled for a time, and would fain have con-
tiimed to rule, over both king and people, with a more tyrannical dominion
than ever the Catholic priesthood itself had been able to exercise amidst
that iiigh -spirited nation. With the horrors of the Papal system for ever
in their mouths, these men were in fact as bigoted monks, and almost as
relentless inquisitors in their hearts, as ever wore cov.d and cord austere
and ungracious of aspect, coarse and repulsive of address and manners
very Pharisees as to the lesser matters of the law, and many of them, to all
outward appearance at least, overflowing with pharisaical self-conceit, as
well as monastic bile. That admirable qualities lay concealed under this
ungainly exterior, and mingled with and checked the worst of these gloomy
passions, no candid man will permit himself to doubt or suspect for a mo-
ment ; and that Burns has grossly overcharged his portraits of them, deep-
ening shadows that were of themselves sufficiently dark, and excluding al-
together those brighter, and perhaps softer, traits of character, which re-
deemed the originals withm the sympathies of many of the worthiest and
best of men, seems equally clear. Their bitterest enemies dared not at
least to bring against them, even when the feud was at its height of fervour,
charges of that hein;)us sort, which they fearlessly, and I fear justly, j)re-
ferred against their antagonists. No one ever accused them of sipiing the
Articles, adn)inistering the sacraments, and eating the bread of a Church,
whor,e fundamental doctrines they disbelieved, and, by insinuation at least,
disai'owed.
The law of Church-patronage was another subject on Mhich controversy
ran higii and furious in the district at the same period ; the actual condi-
tion of things on this lead being upheld by all the men of the New Light,
and condenmed as equally at variance v/itli the precepts of the gosjjcl, and
the rights of freemen, hy not a \'i;\v of tiie other party, and, in particular,
by certain conspicuous zealots in tlie innnediate neighbourhood of lUirns.
While this warfare raged, there broke out an inte tine discord within the
LIFE 01' HOBEIIT BUKiVS. xx»
onin;i of tiip fiiction Aviiicli he loved not. Two of the foremost h'adors oi
t!u; Aii!(l Light parly quarrelled about a question of jiarish boundaries
the matter was taken up in the Presbytery of Kilniarnoek, and there, in
the t'pen court, to which the announcement of tlie discussion had drawn a
multitude of the country people, and Burns among the rest, tl:e revf rend
divines, hitherto sworn friends and associates, lost all command of temper,
and abused each other coriDn pnpulo, with a fiery virulence of personal in-
vective, such as has long been banished from all popular assemblies, where-
in the laws of courtesy arc enforced by those of a certain unwritten code.
" The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light," says Burns, " was
a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both
of them ilraimttis pcrsorue m my Ho!;/ Fail-. I had a notion myself, that
the piece had some merit ; but to prevent the worst, I gave a copj' of it to
a friend who was very fond of such things, and told him that 1 could not
guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it j)retty clever. With
a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar oj
appl(nis(>" This was The Ilali/ Tnilzie, or Ttca Ilerrls. The two //tr//s,
or pastors, were .Mr. Moodie. minister of Kiccartoun, and that Ubvourite vic-
tim of lUirns's, John llussell, then minister of Kilmarnock, and afterwards
of Stirling — " From this time," Burns says, " 1 began to be known in the
country as a maker of rhymes ^^"'^ Wi/Iic's Prayer next made its
appearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held several
meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, and see if any of it might
be pointed against profane rhymers. Burns's reverend editor, Mr. Paul,
presents llo'u Wtl/ie's Pniyer at full length, although not inserted in Dr.
Currie's edition, and calls on the friends of religion to bless the memory of
the poet who took such a judicious method of" leading the liberal mind to
a rational view of the nature of piayer." — " This," says that bold com-
mentator, " was not only the prayer of Holy Willie, but it is merely the
metrical version of every prayer that is offered up by those who call them-
selves the pure reformed church of Scotland. In the course of his read-
ing and polemical warfare. Burns embraced and defended the opinions of
Taylor of Norwich, Macgill, and that school of Divines. He could not
reconcile his mind to that picture of the Being, v.hose very essence is
love, which is drawn by the high Calvinists or the representatives of the
Covenanters — namely, that he is disposed to grant salvalion to none but
a 'iktw of their sect ; that the whole Pagan world, the disr iples of Maho-
met, the Boman Catholics, the Lutherans, and even the Calvinists who
differ from them in certain tenets, must, like Korah, Dathan and Abiram,
descend to the pit of perdition, man. Avoman, and child, without the possi-
bility of escape ; but such are the identical doctrines of the Cameronians
of the j)resent day, and such was Holy Willie's style of prayer. The hy-
pocrisy and dishonesty of the man, who was at the time a reputed Saint,
were perceived by the discerning penetration of I'urns, and to expose
them he considered his duty. The terrible view of the Deity exhibited
in tliat able production is precisely the same view which is given uf him,
in diil'erent words, by many devout preachers at present. They inculcate,
th.at the greatest sinner is the greatest favourite of heaven — that a reform-
ed bawd is more accejjtable to the Almighty than a pure virgin, who has
hardly ever transgressed even in thought — that the lost sb.eep alone \\\\\ be
saved, and that the ninety-and-nine out of the hundred will be left in the
wilderness, to perish without mercy — that the Saviour of the world loves
xxvf LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
the elect, not from any lovely qualities which they possess, for they are
hateful in his sight, but " he loves lliem because he loves them." Such
are the sentiments which are breathed by those who are denominated High
Calvinists, and from which the soul of a poet who loves maniiind, and whc
has not studied the system in all its bearings, recoils with hr.nor. . , . Tlie
gloomy forbidding representation which they give of the Supreme Being
has a tendency to produce insanity, and lead to suicide." *
This Reverend autlior may be considered as expressing in the above,
and in other passages of a similar tendency, the sentiments witli which
even the most audacious of Burns's anti-calvinistic satires were received
among the Ayrshire divines of the New Light ; that performances so blas-
pliemous should have been, not only pardoned, but applauded by minis-
ters of religion, is a singular circumstance, which may go far to make the
reader comprehend the exaggerated state of party feeling in Burns's native
county, at the period when he first appealed to the public ear : nor is it
fair to pronounce sentence upon the young and reckless satirist, without tak-
ing into consideration the undeniable fact — that in his worst offences of
this kind, he was encouraged and abetted by those, who, to say nothing
more about tlieir professional character and authority, were almost the
only persons of liberal education whose society he had any opportunity of
approaching at the period in question. Had Burns received, at this time,
from his clerical friends and patrons, such advice as was tendered, when
"ather too late, by a layman who was as far from bigotry on religious sub-
jects as any man in the world, this great genius might have made his first
a[)j)roaches to the public notice in a very different character. — " Let your
bright talents," — (thus wrote the excellent John Ramsay of Ochtertyre, in
(October 1787), — " Let those bright talents which the Almighty has be-
stowed on you, be henceforth employed to the noble purpose of supporting
t!ie cause of truth and virtue. An imagination so varied an-d forcible as
yours, may do th s in many different modes ; nor is it necessary to be al-
ways serious, which you have been to good purpose ; good morals may be
recommended in a comedy, or even in a song. Great allowances are due
to the heat and inexperience of youUi ; — and few poets can boast, like
'J'homson, of never having written a line, which, dying, they would wish to
blot. In particu'ar, I wish you to keep clear of the thorny walks of satire,
wliich makes a man an hundred enemies for one friend, and is doubly dan-
gerous when one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of indi-
viduals to their sect or party. About modes of faith, serious and excellent
men have always differed ; and there are certain curious questions, which
may afford scope to men of metaphysical heads, but seldom mend the
heart or temper. Whilst these points are beyond human ken, it is suffi-
cient that all our sects concur in their views of morals. You will forgive
ne fcr these hints."
It is amusing to observe how soon even really Bucolic bards learn the
tricks ofr.heir trade : l>urns knew already what lustre a compliment g'.iins
from being oct in sarcasm, when he made Willie call for special notice of
" Gaun Ilaniilton's deserts, ....
He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts ;
Vet has sae mony taken' arts
WV great and sma"
Frae God's ain priests t!ie people's hearts
He steals awa," &C.
• The Rev. Hamilton Paul's Life of Burns, pp. 40, 41
LIFE OF UOBEKT BUIJNS. xxvu
Nor is his other patron, Aiken, introduced with inferior skill, as having
merited Willie's most fervent cMecratioa by his '• glib-tongucd"' defence of
the heterodox doctor of Ayr i
*' liord ! visit lliem wha did employ liim.
And for thy people's sake destroy 'em."
Burns owed a compliment to this gentleman for a well-timed exercise ol
his elocutionary talents. " I never knew there was any merit in my poems,"
said he, " until Mr. Aitken rcr/d tlinn into repute."
Encouraged by the " roar of applause" which greeted these pieces, thus
orally promulgated and recommended, he produced in succession various
satires wherein the same set of persons were lashed ; as The OnHnation ;
T/ie Kirk's Alarm, Sec. S:c. ; and last, and best undoubtedly, The Holy
Fair, in which, unlike the others that have been mentioned, satire keeps
its own place, and is subservient to the poetry of Burns. This was, in-
deed, an extraordinary performance ; no partizan of any sect could whisper
that malice had fonr.ed its princii)al inspiration, or that its chief attraction
lay in the boldness with which individuals, entitled and accustomed to re-
spect, were held up to ridicule : it was acknowledged amidst the sternest
mufterings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the hands
ot a national poet. The Ilohj Fair, however, created admiration, not sur-
prise, among the circle of domestic friends who had been admitted to watch
the steps of his progress in an art of which, beyond that circle, little or
nothing was heard until the youthful poet produced at length a satirical
master-piece. It is not possible to reconcile the statements of Gilbert and
others, as to some of the minutiae of the chronological history of Ikn-ns's
previous performances ; but there can be no doubt, that although from
choice or accident, his first provincial fame was that of a satirist, he had,
some time before any of his philij)pics on the Auld Light Divines made
their appearance, exhibited to those who enjoyed his personal confidence,
a range of imaginative power hardly inferior to what the Hdi/ Fair itself dis-
plays ; and, at least, such a rapidly improving skill in poetical language
and versification, as must have, prepared them for witnessing, without won-
der, even the most perfect specimens of his art. Gilbert says, that " among
the earliest of his poems," was the Fpistle in Darie, {i. e. Mr David Sillar).
and Mr. Walker believes that this was written very soon after the death of
William Burnes. This piece is in the very intricate and difiicult measure
of the Cherry and the Slae ; and, on the whole, the poet moves with ease
and grace in his very unnecessary trammels : but young poets are careless
beforehand of difficulties which would startle the experienced ; and great
poets may overcome any difficulties if they once grapple with them ; so
that I should rather ground my distrust of Gilbert's statement, if it must
be literally taken, on the celebration of Jea?i. with which the e{)istle ter-
minates : and, after all, she is celebrated in the concluding stanztis, whicli
may have been added some time after the first draught. 'Ihe gloomy cir-
cumstances of the poet's personal condition, as described in this piece,
were common, it cannot be doubted, to all the years of his youthful his-
tory; so that no particular date is to be founded upon these ; and if this
was the first, certainly it was not the last occasion, on which Hums ex-
rrcificd his fancy in the colouring of the very worst issue that could attend
a life of unsuccessful toil. But Gilbert's recollections, however on trivia]
points inaccurate, will always be more interesting than any thing that could
xxvifi LIFE OF ROBERT BURts'S.
be put in their place. " Robert," says he, " often composed u-ithont an^
regular plan. When any thing made a strong iaipression on his mind, so
as to rouse it to poetic exertion, he would give way to the impulse, and
embody the thougl-.t in rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please
liim, he would tlien think of proper introductory, connecting, and conclud-
ing stanzas ; hence the middle of a poem was often first produced. It was,
I think, in summer 1784-, when in the interval of hiirder labour, he and I
v,'ere weeding in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the prin-
cipal part of his epistle (to Davie). I believe the first idea of Robert's
becoming an author was started on this occasion. I was much pleased
with the epistle, and said to him I v,-as of opinion it would bear being
printed, and that it would be well received by people of taste ; that I
thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many of Allan Ramsay's epis-
tles, and that the merit of these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed
to consist principally in the knack of the expression — but here, there was
a strain of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language scarce-
ly seemed affected, but appeared to be the natural language of the poet ;
that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the
consolations that were in store for him when he should go a-be<iiiin<j. Ko-
bert seemed very well pleased with my criticism, and he talked of sending
it to some magazine ; but as this plan afforded no opportunity of knowing
how it would take, the idea was dropped. It was, 1 think, in the winter
follovv'ing, as we were going together with carts for coal to the family, (and
I could yet point out the particular spot), that the author first repeated to
me tlie Ad/ress to the Ddl. The curious idea of such an address was su<r-
gested to him, by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts
and representations we have, from various quarters, of this august person-
age. Dentil and Doctor Hornbook, though not published in tlie Kilmar-
nock edition, was produced early in the year 17>)5. The schoolmaster of
Tarbolton parish, to eke up the scanty subssitence allowed to that useful
class of men, had set up a shop of grocery loods. Having accidentally
fallen in with some medical books, and become most hobby-horsically at-
tached to 'he study of medicine, he had added the sale of a "ii^w medi-
cines to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of
which, overlooking his own incapacity, he h.td advertised, that '• Advice
would be given in common disorders at the shop gratis." Robert was at a
mason -meeting in Tarbolton, when the Dominie unfortunately made too
ostentatious a display of his medical skill. As he parted in the evening
from this mixture of pedantry and physic, at the place where he describes
his meeting with Death, one of those tioating ideas of apparitions, he men-
tions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this set him to work ibr
the rest of the way home. These circumstances he related when he re-
peated the verses to me next afternoon, as 1 was holding the plough, ana
he was letting the water off the field beside me. The Epistle to John Lop.
/Y///d was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. He
Bays in that poem, Ou Fusten-eenive luul a rockin. I believe he has omit-
ted the word rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived from those
primitive times, when the country-women employed their si)are hours io
spinning on the rock or distalf. This simple implement is a very portable
one, and well fitted to the eocial inclination of meeting in a neighbour's
house ; hence the j)hrase o? r/oinr/ a-rocking, or ivith the rock. As the con-
nexion tile phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the reci
LIFE OF ROBERT BUR^S. xxTx
gave place to tlic spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both
sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as
women. It was at one of these rochinga at our house, when we had twelve
01 fifteen young people with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning —
" When I upon thy bosom lean," \\as sung, and we were informed who was
the auth.or. Upon this KoDert wrote his first epistle to Lapraik ; and his
second in reply to his answer. The verses to the Mouse and Moiuitnin
Dftisi/ were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author
was holding the plough ; 1 could point out the particular spot where each
was composed. Holding the plough was a favourite situation with Robert
for poetic compositions, and some of his best verses were produced while
he was at that exercise. Several of the poems v.'ere produced for the pur-
pose of bringing ft -ward .some favourite sentiment of the author. 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 ho^v•
this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, 3Ian tL-cis made to
Mourn, v.as composed. Robert had frequently remarked to me, that he
thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let us
worship God," used by a decent sober head of a family introducing family
worship. To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for The Cot-
tars S'lturclaj/ Night. The hint of the jilan, and title of the poem, were taken
from Ferguson's Farmers Ingle. When Robert had not some pleasure
in view, in which I was not thought fit to participate, we used frequently
to walk together, when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday aftrt-
noons, (those precious breathing-times to the labouring part of the com-
munity), and enjoyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their
Qumbcr abridged. It was in one of these walks that I first had the pleasure
9f hearing the author repeat The Cottars Saturday Night. I do not recollect
to have read or heard any thing by which I was more highly ehctrifed.
The fifth and six stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstacy
through my soul."
The poems mentioned by Gilbert Burns in the above extract, are among
the most popular of his brother's performances ; and there may be a time
for recurring to some of their peculiar merits as Avorks of art. It may be
mentioned here, that John Wilson, alias Dr. Hornbook, was not merely
compelled to shut up shop as an apothecary, or druggist rather, by the sa-
tire which bears his name ; but so irresistible was the tide of ridicule, that
his pupils, one by one, deserted him, and he abandoned his Schoolcraft also.
Removing to Glasgow, and turning himself successfully to conmiercial
pursuits, Dr. Hornbook survived the local storm which he could not eflec-
tuaily withstand, and was often heard in his latter days, when waxing cheer-
ful and communicative over a bowl of punch, " in the Saltmarket," to bless
the lucky hour in which the dominie of 'i'arbolton provoked the castigation
of Robert Burns. In those days the b'cotch universities did not turn out
doctors of physic by the hundred ; Mr. Wilson's was probably the only
medicine-chest from which salts and senna were distributed for the benefit
of a considerable circuit of parishes ; and his advice, to say the least of the
matter, was perhaps as good as could be had, for love or money, among the
wise women who were the only rivals of his practice. I'he poem wl>ich
drove him from Ayrshire was not, we may believe, either expected or de-
signed to produce any such serious eilect. Poor Hornbook and the j)oet
were old ac^quaintanccs, and in some sort rival wits at the time in the ma
son lodce.
XXX LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
In 3Ian was made to Mourn, whatever might be the casual idea that set
the poet to work, it is but too evident, tliat he wrote from the habitual
feeli-ngs of his own l^osom. The indignation with which he through life
contemplated the inequality of human condition, and particularly, the con-
trast between his own worldly circumstances and intellectual rank, was
never more bitterly, nor more loftily expressed, than in some of those
stannas : —
" See yonder poor o'erlai^nur'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile.
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil.
And see his lordly fellow worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, tho' a wee])ing wife
And helpless offspring mourn.
If ['m design'd yon lordling's slave —
V>y Nature's laws design'd —
AVhy was an independent wish
E'er planted in iny mind ?
If not, wliy am I subject to
His cruelty and scorn,
Or «hy lias man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn ?"
" I had^an old grand-uncle," says the poet, in one of his letters to Mrs.
Dimlop, " with whom my mother lived in her girlish years ; the good old
man, for such he was, was blind long 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'
In ]\Ian tons made to Mourn, Burns appears to have taken many hints
from this ancient ballad, which begins thus :
" Upon the sixteen hundred year of God, and fifty-three,
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, as writings testifie;
On January, the sixteenth day, as I did lie alone,
AVith many a sigh and sob did say —Ah ! man is made to moan !"•
Tlie Collar s Satnrdai/ MgJit is, perhaps, of all Rurns's pieces, the one
whose exclusion from the collection, were such things possible now-a-days,
would be the most injurious, if not to the genius, at least to the character,
of the man. In spite of many feeble lines, and some heavy stanzas, it ap-
pears to me, that even his genius would suffer more in estimation, by being
contemplated in the absence of this poem, than of any other single perform-
ance he has left us. Loftier flights he certainly has made, but in these he
remained ^^vit a short while on the wing, and efibrt is too often perceptible ;
here the motion is easy, gentle, placidly undulating. There is more of tlie
conscious security of power, than in any other of his serious pieces of con-
siderable length ; the whole has the appearance of coming in a full stream
from the fountain of the heart — a stream that soothes the ear, and has no
glare on the surface.
It is delightful to turn from any of the pieces which present so great a
genius as writhing under an inevitable burden, to this, where his buoyant
energy seems not even to feel the pressure. The miseries of toil and j)e-
nury, who shall alfcct to treat as unreal ? Yet they shrunk to small dimen-
sions in the presence of a spirit thus exalted at once, and softened, by the
pieties of virgin loi e, filial reverence, and domestic devotion.
• Croniek's Scottish Soncs.
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxi
Tlio Cottar i Saturday Nif/lu and the IIoJi/ Fair liavc been put in con
irast, and much marvel made that they should have spruuij^ from the s;unc
source. " 1 he annual celebration of the Sacrament of the Lord's Su[)[)ei
in the rural parishes of Scotland, has much in it," says the unfort-.^.ate
Heron, " of those old ])opish festivals, in which superstition, traffic, and
amusement, used to be strangely intermingled. Burns saw and seized in
it one of the happiest of all subjects to afford scope for the display of that
strong and piercing sagacity, by which he could almost intuitively distin-
guish the reasonable from the absurd, and the becoming from the ridiculous;
of that picturesque power of fancy which enabled him to represent scenes,
and jiersons, and groups, and looks, and attitudes, and gestures, in a manner
almost as lively and impressive, even in words, as if all the artifices and ener-
gies of the pencil had been employed ; of that knowledge which he bud ne-
cessarily acquired of the manners, passions, and prejudices of the rustics
around him — of whatever was ridiculous, no les5 than whatever was alFcct-
ingly beautiful in rural life." This is very good, but who ever disputed the
ex(|uisite graj)hic truth of the poem to which the critic refers? The ques-
tion remains as it stood ; is there then nothing besides a strange mixture
of superstition, traffic, and amusement, in the scene which such an annual
celebration in a rural parish of Scotland presents ? Does nothing of what
is *' affiectingly beautiful in rural life," mak3 a part in the original which
was before the poet's eyes ? Were " Superstition," " Hypocrisy," and
" Lun," the only influences which he might justly have impersonated ^ It
would be hard, I think, to speak so even of the old popish festivals to which
Mr. Heron alludes ; it would be hard, surely, to say it of any festival m
which, mingled as they may be with sanctimonious pretenders, and sur-
rounded with giddy groups of onlookers, a mighty multitude of devout men
are assembled for the worship of God, beneath the open heaven, and above
the tombs of their fathers.
Let us beware, however, of pushing our censure of a young poet, mad
with the inspiration of th.e moment, from whatever source derived, too far
It can hardly be doubted that the author of T/ie Cottar s Saturday Nit/Id
had felt, in his time, all that any man can feel in the contemplation of the
most sublime of the religious observances of his country ; and as little, that
had he taken up the subject of this rural sacrament in a solemn mood, he
might have produced a piece as gravely beautiful, as his lluli/ i'air is
quaint, graphic, and picturesque. A scene of family worship, on the other
han:l, I can easily imagine to have come from his hand as pregnant with the
ludicrous as that Holy Fair itself. The family prayers of the Saturday's
night, and the rural celebration of the Eucharist, are parts of the same sys-
tem— the system which has made the people of Scotland what they are —
and what, it is to be hoped, they will continue to be. And when men ask
of themselves what this great national poet really thought of a system in
which minds immeasurably inferior to his can see so much to venerate, it
is surely just that they should pay most attention to what lie has delivered
under the gra\ est sanction.
The Reverend Hamilton Paul does not desert his post on occasion ol
The Iluly Fair ; he defends that piece as manfully as Holy Willie; and,
indeed, expressly applauds Burns for hav-ng endeavoured to explode ' a*
Duses discountenanced by the General Assembly." IlaUmoe'en, a descrip
live poem, perhaps even more exquisitely wrought than the Huly Fair
and containing nothing that could offend *he feelings of anybo' y, was pro-
Kxxli LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
Sliced about the same period. Eurns's art had now reached its climax
but it is time that we shculd revert more particularl_y to the personal his-
tory of the poet.
He seems to have very soon perceived, that the farm of Mossgiel could
at the best furnish no more than the bare means of existence to so lars^e
a family ; and wearied with " the prospects drear," from which he only
escaped in oc( asional intervals of social merriment, or when gay flashes or
solitary fancy, for they were no more, threw sunshine on every thing, he
very naturally took up the notion of quitting Scotland for a time, and try-
ing his fortune in the West Indies, where, as is well known, the managers
of the plantations are, in tlie great majority of cases, Scotchmen of Burns's
own rank and condition. His letters show, that on two or three different
occasions, long before his poetry had excited any attention, he had applied
for, and nearly obtained appointments of this sort, through the intervention
of his acquaintances in the sea-port of Irvine. Petty accidents, not worth
describing, interfered to disappoint him from time to time ; but at last a
new burst of misfortune rendered him doubly anxious to escape from his
native land ; and but for an accident, his arrangements would certainly
have been completed. But we must not come quite so rapidly to the last
of his Ayrshire love-stories. How many lesser romances of this order were
evolved and completed during his residence at Mossgiel, it is needless to
inquire ; that they Avere many, his songs prove, for in those days he M'rote
no love-songs on imaginary Heroines. Mary Moriaon — Behind yon bills
where Stinchar jiews — On Cessnock hank there lives a lass — belono- to this
period ; and there are three or four inspired by Mary Campbell the ob-
ject of by far the deepest passion that ever Burns knew, and which lie has
accordingly immortalized in the noblest of his elegiacs. In introducin'T
to Mr. Thomson's notice the song, —
" Will ye go to the Indies, my pilary.
And leave auld Scotia's shore ?—
■Will ye go to the Indies, my .Mary,
Across the Atlantic's roar ?"
Burns says, " In my early years, when I was thinking of going to the West
Indies, I took this farewell of a dear girl ;" afterwards, in a note on —
" Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The Castel o' IMontgomerie ;
Green be your woods, and fdir your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie."
he adds, — *' After a pretty long trial of the most ardent reciprocal affec-
tion, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of Ma}', in a sequester-
ed spot by the banks of A..yr, where we spent a day in taking a farwell bo-
fore she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among
her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of the autumn
following she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she liad
scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried
my dear girl to her grave in a i'ew days, before I could even hear of her ill-
ness ;" and Mr. Cromek, speaking of the same " day of parting love." givea
some further particulars. " This adieu," says that zealous inquirer into the
details of Burns's story, " was performed with all those simple and striking
ceremoiu'als, which rustic sentiment has devised to prolong tender emotions,
LIFE OF HOMElCr BUHXS xxxn
antl to impose awe. The lovers stood on eacli side of a small purliiij: brook
— they laved their hands in tiie limpid stream — and, holding a liihle be-
tween them, pronouneed their vows to be faithful to eaeh other. 'I'hej
parted — never to meet again." It is proper to add, that Mr. Croniek's story
lias recently been confirmed very strongly by the accidental discovery of a
Bible presented by Burns to Marii ('(tvtphell, in the possession of her still
surviving sister at Ardrossan. lIj)on the boards of the first volume is in-
scribed, in Burns's hand-writing, — " And ye shall not swear by my nanie
falsely — I am the Lord." — Levit. chap. xix. v. I'i. On the second volume,
— " Tiiou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the I-ord thine
oath." — St. INIatth. chap, v., v. .S3. And, on a blank leaf of either, — " Ro-
bert Burns, Mossgiel." How lasting was the poet's remembrance of thia
pure love, and its tragic termination, will be seen hereafter. Highland
Mary seems to have died ere her lover had made any of his more serious
attempts in poetry. In the B pistle to Mr. Sillar, (as we have already hint-
ed), the very earliest, according to (lilbert, of these attem])ts, the i)oet
celebrates " his Davie and his Jcdti." This was Jean Armour, a young
M'onian, a step, if any thing, above Burns's own rank in life, the daughter
of a res{)ectable man, a master-mason, in the village of Mauchline, where
she was at the time the reigning toast, and who still survives, as the re-
sjjected vidcw of our poet. There are numberless allusions to her maiden
charms in the best pieces which he produced atMossgiel ; amongst others
is the six Belles of Mauehiine, at the head of whom she is placed.
" In IMauchline there dwells six proper yourfr belles,
'[ he i)ride ol' ilie ))hice antl its neiglibourlioiKl a ;
Their carri:ij,'e iind dress, a stranf,'er would guess,
In liOn'on or I'aris they'd gotten it a* :
** miss INIillar is fire, Miss IMarkland's divine,
IMiss Smitli she t as wit. and Miss Betty is braw ;
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' iSliss .Morton,
But Armour's the jewel for n:e o' them a'."
The time is not yet come, in which all the details of this story can be ex-
pccted. Jean Armour found herself pregnant.
Burns's worldly circumstances were in a most miserable state when he
was informed of Miss Armour's condition ; and the first announcement oi
it staggered him like a blow. He saw nothing for it but to fly the country
at once; and, in a note to James Smith of Mauchline. tlie confidant of lus
amour, he thus wrote : — " Against two things i am fixed as fate— staying
at home, and owning her conjugally. The first, by Heaven. I will not do!
— the last, by hell, I will never do ! — A good Ciod bless you, and make
you happy, up to the warmest weeping wish of parting friendship
If you see Jean, tell her I will meet her, so help me (iod, in my hour o»
need." The lovers met accordingly , and the result of tlie meeting was
what was to be anticipated from the tenderness and the manliness of Burns's
feelings. All dread of personal inconvenience yielded at once to the tears
of the woman he loved, and, ere they parted, he gave into her keeping a
written acknowledgment of marriage. This, under the circumstances, and
produced by a person in Miss Armour's condition, according to th.e Scots
law. was to be accepted as legal evidence of an irrccjular marriage having
really taken place ; it being of course luiulcrstood that the marriage was to
be formally avowed as soon as the consequences of their imprudence could
no longer be concealed from her family. The disclosure was deferred tc
xxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
the las* moment, and it was received by the father of Miss Armour with
equal surprise and anger. Pjurns, confessing himself to be unequal to the
maintenance of a family, proposed to go immediately to Jamaica, where he
hoped to find better fortunes. He offered, if this were rejected, to aban-
don liis larm, which was by this time a hopeless concern, and earn bread,
at least for his wife and children, by his labour at home ; but nothing could
appease the indignation of Armour. By what arguments he prevailed en
his daughter to take so strange and so painful a step we know not ; but tJie
fact is certain, that, at his urgent entreaty, she destroyed the document.
It v.as under such extraordinary circumstances that Miss Armour be-
came the mother of twins. — I'urns's love and pride, the two most powerful
feeliiigs of his mind, had been equally wounded. His anger and grief to-
gether drove him, according to every account, to the verge of absolute
insanity ; and some of his letters on this occasion, both published and un-
published, have certainly all the appearance of having been written in as
deep a concentration of despair as ever preceded the most awful of human
calamities. His first thought had been, as we have seen, to fly at once
from the scene of his disgrace and misery ; and tb.is course seemed new to
be absolutely necessary. He was summoned to find security for th.e main-
tenance of the children whom lie v.as prevented from legitimating ; but
the man who had in his desk the inmiortal poems to which we have been
referrin^^ above, either disdained to ahk, or tried in vain to find, pecuniary
assistance in his hour of need ; and the only alternative that preiented 't
eelf to his view was America or a iail
CHAPTER IV.
CCNTBNTK The Poet gives up Mosxghl to his Brother Gilhett — TnlenJs for Jiimriiceu. .
Subscription Edition of his Puems sm/i.'cstel to sup;ilt/ menus of outfit — One ofdOO cupiet
printed at Kilmiirnock, 17S6 — It tiri wis him extended repntatinn, and £20 — Alio many
vcri/ kirul 0 ieiids, but no patron — In these circumstances, Gua(iin(j first hinted to him by
his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — Snyinris and doinys in the Jin t year of his fame —
Jamaica ayain in view — Plan desisted from because of encouragement by Dr. liluc/JocA
to vublish at Edinburgh, rt-herein the Poet sojourns.
** He saw misfortune's cauld nor^-zvest,
Ijant; imistRrinj:^ up a bitter blast ;
A jillet brak his heart at last,
III may she be!
So, took a birth afore t'nc ma-^t,
An' owre the sea."
Jamaica was now his mark, for at that time the United States were
not looked to as the phice of refuge they have since become. After some
httle time, and not a Httle trouble, the situation of assistant-overseer on
the estate of Dr. Douglas in that colony, was procured for him by one ol
his friends in the town of Irvine. Money to pay for his passage, liowever,
he had not ; and it at last occurred to him that the i'ew pounds requisite
for this purpose, might be raised by the publication of some of the finest
poems that ever delighted mankind.
His landlord, Gavin Hamilton, iNIr. Aiken, and other friends, encouraged
him warmly ; and after some hesitation, he at length resolved to hazard ar
experiment which might perhaps better liis circumstances ; and, if any tole
rahle number of subscribers could be procured, could not make them v.orse
than they were already. His rural patrons exerted themselves with suc-
cess in the matter; and so many copies were soon subscribed for, that
Burns entered into terms with a printer in Kilmarnock, and began to copy
out his performances for the press. He carried his MSS. piecemeal to tlie
printer , and encouraged by the ray of light which unex})ected jwtronage
had begun to throw on his affairs, composed, while the printing was in pro-
gress, some of the best p )ems of the collection. The tale of the 7 wa iJaijs,
for instance, with which the volume commenced, is known to have been
written in the short interval between the publication being determined on
and the printing begun. His own account of the business to Dr. AJoore i.s
as follows : —
" I gave up my part of the farm to my brother : in truth, it was onl)
nominally mine ; and made what little preparation was in my power loi
Jamaica. But before leaving my native land, I resolved to publish mv
Poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power : 1
thought they had merit; and it was a delicious idea tlut 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 n)hospitable clime, and ^one to ihu
xxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
world of S])irits. I can truly say that, pavvre inrofuu/ a> I then was, I had
[jretty nearly as high an itk-a of myself and of my Avorks as I have at this
moment when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opi-
nion, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious point
of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their igno-
rance of themselves. —To know myself, had been all along my constant
stu.'y. I weighed myself alone ; I balanced mj'self with others : I watch^
cd every means of information, to see how much ground 1 occupied as a
man and as a poet : I studied assiduously Nature's design in my formation —
where the lights and shades in character were intended. I was pretty con-
fident 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,
for wliich I got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty.* — INIy va-
nity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public ; and
besides, I pocketed nearly t 20. This sum came very seasonably, as I was
thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As
soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid
zone, 1 took a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail from the
Clyde ; for
" Hungry ruin had me in the wind."
" I liad been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the
terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless
pack of t;ie law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few friends ;
my chest was, on the road to Greenock; I had composed the last song I
should ever measure in Caledonia, The gJuomy night is gathering fast, when
a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrev/ all my schemes,
by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition."
To the above rapid narrative of the poet, we may annex a few details,
gathered from his various biographers and from his own letters. — W hile
tlic Kilmarnock edition was in the press, it appears that his friends Hamil-
ton and Aiken revolved various schemes for procuring him the means OT
remaining in Scotland ; and having studied some of the practical branches
of mathematics, as we have seen, and in particular guaging, it occurred tc
himself that a situation in the Excise might be better suited to him than any
other he was at all likely to obtain by the intervention of such patrons as he
possessed. He appears to have lingered longer after the publication of the
poems than one might sui)pose from his own narrative, in the hope that
tliese gentlemen might at length succeed in their efforts in his behalf. The
poems were received with favour, even with rapture, in the county of Ayr,
and ere long over the adjoining counties. " Old and young," thus speaks
Robert Heron, " high and low, grave and gay, learned or ignorant, were
alike delighted, agitated, transported. I was at that time resident in (ial-
lo'.vay, contiguous to Ayrshire, and I can well remember how even plough
boys and maid- servants would have glady bestowed the wages they earner
the most hardly, and which they wanted to purchase necessary clothing,
if they might but procure the Works of IJurns." — The poet £oon found
that his person also had become an object of general curiosity, and that a
lively interest in his oersonal fortunes was excited among some of the ^en-
• ';i]l)CTt Burns uictiiior.s, that a single individual. ^\r. William r^rl""
Kihiiariiock. subscribed for '6b cooiUt
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxvii
try of the district, when the details of his story reached them, as it wag
pretty sure to do, along with his modest and manly preface. * Among
others, the cclebarted I'rofessor Duj^ald Stewart of Kdinbwgh, and his ac-
complished lady, then resident at their beautiful seat of Catrine, began to
notice him with much ]X)1 te and friendly att'^ntion. Dr. Hugh I'dair, wh.o
then held an eminent place in the literary society of Scotland, happened
to be paying !Mr. Stewart a visit, and on reading T/ic Ilohj Fair, at once
pronounced it the " work of a very great genius ;" and IMrs. Stewart, her
self a poetess, Mattered him jierhnps still more highly by her warm com-
mendations. J>ut above all, his little volume happened to attract the no-
tice of IMrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, a lady of high birth and ample fortune,
enthusiastically attached to her country, and interested in whatever ap-
peared to concern the honour of Scotland, 'f his excellent woman, while
slowly recovering from the languor of an illness, laid her hand acciden-
tally on the new production of the provincial press, and opened the volume
at The Cottar's Satunhn/ Night. " She read it over," says Gilbert, " with
the grcate^^t {)leasure and surprise ; the poet's description of the simple
cottagers operated on her mind like the charm of a powerful exorcist, re-
pelling the demon ennui, and restoring her to her wonted inward harmony
and satisfaction." Mrs. Dunlop instantly sent an express to INIossgiel, dis-
tant sixteen miles from her residence, with a very kind letter to Burns, re-
questing him to supply her, if he could, with half-a-dozen copies of the
book, and to call at Dunlop as soon as he could find it convenient. Burns
v\as from home, but he acknowledged the favour conferred on him in this
very interesting letter : —
" Madam, Ai/rshre, 1786.
<' I AM truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much
Iionoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. 1 am
fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive ta
the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to cori-
ceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those
whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour him
with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me,
Madam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more swcetlv
than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the
Saviour of his Country.
" Great patriot hero ! ill requited chief I"
" The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with
pleasure, was The Life of Ilannihid ; the next was The History of Sir
Jf'illiain Wulloce: for several of my earlier years I had {'i:\v other authors ;
and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of
the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In
those boyish days 1 remember in particular being struck with that part o^
V\ allace's story where these lines occur —
" Sy^.e tn th'" Lp^lan w<x)il, ivhcn it was late,
i'o make; a silent and a safe retreat."
• See Prose Compositions.
xxxviil LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
" I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my nne ot life allovi'eJ,
and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglan wood,
with as much devout enthsiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and as I
explored every den and dell v/here I could suppose my heroic countryman
to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer), that my heart
glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure
equal to his merits."
Shortly afterwards commenced a personal acquaintance with this ami-
able and intelligent lady, who seems to have filled in some degree the place
of Saii;e Mentor to the ncet, and who never afterwards ceased to befriend
him to the utmost of her power. His letters to ]Mrs. Dunlop form a very
large proportion of all his subsequent correspondence, and, addressed as
they were to a person, whose sex, age, rank, and benevolence, inspired at
once profound respect and a graceful confidence, will ever remain the most
pleasing of all the materials of our poet's biography.
At the residences of these new acquaintances. Burns v,as introduced into
society of a class which he had not before approached ; and of the manner
in which he stood the trial, Mr. Stewart thus writes to Dr. Currie : —
" His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, simple,
manly, and independent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius and
worth ; but without any thing tliat indicated forwardness, arrogance, or
vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not more than belonged to
him ; and listened, with apparent attention and deference, on subjects
where his want of education deprived him of the means of information. It
there had been a little more of gentleness anol acconmiodation in his tem-
per, he would, I think, have been still more interesting ; but he had been
accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and his
dread of any thing approaching to meanness or servility, rendered his man
ner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable
among his various attainments than the fiuency, and precision, and origi-
nality of his language, when he spoke in company, more particularly as he
aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and avoided, more successfully
than most Scotsmen, the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. At this time,
Burns's prospects in life were so extremely gloomy, that he had seriously
formed a plan for going out to Jamaica in a very humble situation, not,
however, without lamenting that his want of patronage should force him
to think of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when his ambition aimed
at no higher an object than the station of an exciseman or ganger in his
own country."
The provincial applause of his publication, and the consequent notice ol
his superiors, however flattering such things must have been, were far from
administering any essential relief to the urgent necessities of Burns's situa-
tion. Very shortly after his first visit to Catrine, where he met with the
young and amiable Basil Lord Daer, wh.ose condescension and kindness on
the occasion he celebrates in some well-known verses, we find the poet
writing to his friend, Mr. Aiken of Ayr, in the following sad strain : — " I
have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within respect
ing the Excise. There are many things plead strongly against it ; the un-
certainty of getting soon into business, the consequencesof my follies, which
may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home ; and besides,
I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causea
lAFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxix
n-Iiich von pretty well know — the pan<^ of disappointment, the sting of
pride, wilh some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on
iny vitals, like vultm-es, when attention is not called away by society, or
the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, my gaiety Is
the madness of an intoxicated criminal under the liands of the executioner.
All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and to all these reasons I havH
only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am
in, overbalances every thing that can be laid in the scale against it."
lie proceeds to say, that he claims no right to complain. " The world
has in general been kind to me, fully up to my deserts I was for some
ti'ne 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 atmosphere of fortune, while, all defenceless,
I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never
with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man a crea-
ture destined for a progressive struggle ; and that, however 1 might pos-
sess a warm heart, and inoffensive manners, (which last, by the by, was
rather more than I could well boast), still, more than these passive quali-
ties, there was something to be done. When all my schoolfellows and
youtliful compeers were striking off, with eager hope and earnest intent,
on some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I v.-as " standing idle
•n tlie market-place," or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to
flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. You see, Sir, that if to ktioiv
one's errors, were a probability of jnendivg them, I stand a fair chance ;
but, according to the reverend Wcstnu'nster divines, though conviction
must precede conversion, it is very far from always implying it."
In the midst o'f all the distresses of this period of suspense. Burns found
time, as he tells Mr. Aiken, for some " vagaries of the muse ;" and one or
two of these may deserve to be noticed here, as throwing light on his per-
sonal demeanour during this first summer of his fame. The poems appear-
ed in .July, and one of the first persons of superior condition (Gilbert, in-
deed, says tlie first) who courted his acquaintance in consequence of having
read them, was Mrs. Stewart of Stair, a beautiful and accomplished lady
Burns presceited her on this occasion with some iSISS. songs ; and among
the rset, with one in which her own charms were celebrated in that warm
strain of compliment which our poet seems to have all along considered
the most proper to be used whenever this fair lady was to be addressed io
rhyme.
" Flow {Tentl}', sweet Afton, among tliy green liraes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in tliy praijc :
"My .Mary's asleep by thy nmrniuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet .Afton, disturb not her dream.
How pleasant tliv banks and green valleys below.
Where wild in the wo(pdlands the [irimroses blow;
There oft, as mild evening sweeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my IMary and me."
It was in the spring of the same year, tliat lie happened, in the coTirse
of an evening ramble on tiie banks of the Ayr, to meet with a young and
lovely unmarried Utdy, of the family of Alexander of Ballamyle, of whom,
it was said, her personal charms corresponded with tlie character of her
mind. The incident gave rise to a ])oem, of which an accoinit will be
found in the following letter t? Miss Alexander, the object of his iiispiia-
tion • —
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
« Madaw, 3Tosf!fjiel, }Hth yov. 178d.
" Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of wayward fancy
and capricious whim, that I beheve the workl generally allows them a
larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of judgment
and prudence. I mention this as an a})ology for the liberties that a name
less stranger has taken with you in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave
to present you v/ith. 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 pro-
duce ; and what to a good heart will perhaps be a superior grace, it i<^
equally sincere as fervent.
" The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare ?av, Ma
dam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic
reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed in the
favourite haunts of my muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in
all the gaiety of the vernal year. The 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. I
listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every han
with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my pa
lest I should disturb their little songs, or irighten them to another stati
Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of
3'our harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your elusive flights to
discover j'our secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature
gives you, your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary
hav>'thorn-t\vig that shot across the way, what heart at such a time but
nuist 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, 1 spied one
of the fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic
landscape, or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted who hold
commerce with aerial beings ! Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk,
they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object.
" What an hour of inspiration for a j)oet ! It would have raised plain
dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure.
" The enclosed song was the work of my return home ; and perhaps i
iiut poorly answers what might be exi:)ected from such a scene.
" I liave the honour to be," &c.
" 'Twas even — the dwey fields were preen,
On every blade the peails hang;*
The Zephyr wanton'd round the beam,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang ;
In every glen the mavis sang.
All nature listening seemed the while,
Ex' ept where green-wood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochiiiylc.
M'ith careless step I onward strayed,
.My heart rejoiced in nature's joy,
M'hen musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden t'air 1 chanc'd to spy ;
Ilir loo]< was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile,
■ Hang, Scotticism for hunff
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xli
Perfection '.vliispcrccl iias>itifj by.
Behold tliu liiss o' IJallochniyle !*
Fair is the morn in flowery IMay,
And sweet is ni(;!it in autumn mild;
A\'hc'n roviii}; tliroiii,'h tlic jrarden fjay,
Or wanderinj^ in the lonely wild :
But woman, nature's darling child !
There all her charms site does compile: *
£ven there her other works are foilM
By the bonny lass o' Balloclimyle.
O had she been a country maid.
And I the happy country swain,
Thouf^h sheltered in the lowest shed
That ever rose on Scotland's plain.
Throuf^h weary winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil,
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonny lass o' Ballochinyle.
Then pride might climb the slippery steq),
^^'here fame and honours lofty shine ;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
()t downward seek the Indian mine :
Give me the cot below the pine.
To tend the Hocks or till the soil,
And every day have joys divine,
A\'ith the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.
Tlie autumn of this eventful year was now drawing to a close, and Burns,
Alio had already lingered three months in the hope, which he now consi-
aered vain, of an excise appointment, perceived that another year must be
ft)st altogether, unless he made up his mind, and secured his passage to
the West Indies. The Kilmarnock edition of his poems was, however,
nearly exhausted ; and his friends encouraged him to produce another al
the same place, with the view of equipping himself the better for the ne-
cessities of his voyage. But the printer at Kilmarnock would not under-
take the new impression unless Burns advanced the price of the paper re-
quired for it ; and with this demand the poet had no means of comiplying.
Mr. Ballantyne, the chief magistrate of Ayr, (the same gentleman to whom
the poem on the Twa Brigs of Ayr was afterwards inscribed), offered to
furnish the money ; and probably this kind offer would have been accepted.
But, ere this matter could be arranged, the prospects of the poe were, in
a very unexpected manner, altered and improved.
Burns went to pay a parting visit to Dr. Laurie, minister of Loudoun,
a gentleman from whom, and his accomplished family, he had previously
received many kind attentions. After taking farewell of this benevolent
circle, the poet proceeded, as the night was setting in, " to convey hia
chest," as he says, " so far on the road to Greenock, where he was to cm-
bark in a ^ev; da'^j's for America." And it was under these circuinstancea
that he composed the song already referred to, which he meant as his lore-
<rell diige to his native land, and which ends thus : —
" Farewell, old Coila's hills r.nd dales,
ller heatiiy moors and winding vales.
The scenes where wretched fancy roves.
Pursuing past unhappy loves.
" Variation. Ttij lily's hue and rose's dye
Iic.>pokc the lat^s o' BallocliOiyle.
Ill LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS,
Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes !
Tuy j)e3ce with these — my love with those —
The burstinj; tears my heart declare,
Farewell, tlie bonny banks of Ayr."
Dr. Laurie had given Burns much good counsel, and what comfort he
could, at parting ; but prudently said nothing of an effort -Hhich he had
previously made in his behalf. He had sent a copy of the poems, with a
sketch of the author's history, to his friend Dr. Thomas Blacklock of Edin-
burgh, with a request that he would introduce both to the notice of those
persons whose opinions were at the time most listened to in regard to lite-
rary productions in Scotland, in the hope that, by their intervention. Burns
miglit yet be rescued from the necessity of expatriating himself. Dr.
Blacklock's answer reached Dr. Laurie a day or two after Burns had made
his visit, and composed his dirge ; and it was not yet too late. Laurie
forwarded it immediately to INIr. Gavin Hamilton, who carried it to Burns.
It is as follows : —
" I ought to have acknowledged your favour long ago, not only as a tes
.imony of your kind remembrance, but as it gave me an opportunity of
sharing one of the finest, and perhaps one of the most genuine entertain-
ments of which the human mind is susceptible. A number of avocations
retarded my progress in reading the poems ; at last, however, I have finish-
ed that pleasing perusal. IMany instances have I seen of Nature's force or
beneficence exerted under numerous and formidable disadvantages ; but
none equal to that with which you have been kind enough to present me
There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious poems, a vein of v/it and hu-
mour in those of a more festive turn, which cannot be too much admired,
nor too warmly approved ; and I think I shall never open the book \^ithout
feeling my astonishment renewed and increased. It was my wish tc have
expressed my approbation in verse ; but v/hether from declining life, or a
temporary depression of spirits, it is at present out of my power to accom-
plish that agreeable intention.
" Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in this University, had formerly
read me three of the poems, and I had desired him to get my name in-
serted among the subscribers ; but whether this was done or not, I never
could learn. I have little intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take care to
have the poems communicated to him by the intervention of some mutual
friend. It has been told me by a gentleman, to whom I showed the per
formances, and who sought a copy with diligence and ardour, that the
whole impression is already exhausted. It were, therefore, much to be
wished, for the sake of the young man, that a second edition, more nume-
rous than the former, could immediately be printed ; as it appears certain
that its intrinsic merit, and the exertions of the author's friends, might give
it a more universal circulation than any thing of the kind which has been
published in my memory."
We have already seen with what surprise and delight Burns read this
generous letter. Although he had ere this conversed with more than one
person of established literary reputation, and received from them atten-
tioni?, for v.hich he was ever after grateful, — the despondency of his spirit
appears to have remained as dark as ever, up to the very hour when his land-
lord produced Dr. Blacklock's letter. — " 'i'l-ere was never," Heron says,
*' perhaps, one aniong all mankind whom you might more truly have called
an anj_'t'l iqsan earih than IJr. Blacklock. He was guileless and innocent
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlIH
M a child, yet endowed with manly sagacity and penetration. His heart
was a perpetual spring of benignity. His feelings were all tremblingly
alive to the sense of the sublime, the beautiful, the tender, the pious, the
vn-tuous. Poetry was to him the dear solace of perpetual blindness." Tht
was not tlie man to act as Walpole did to Chatterton ; to discourage witL
eeble praise, and in order to shift off the trouble of future patronage, to
bid the poet relinquish poetry and mind his plough.—" Dr. Blacklock "
says Burns himself, "belonged to a set of critics, for whose applause I had
not dared to hope. IIis opinion that I would meet with encouragement in
Edinburgh, fired me so much, that away I posted for that city, without a
6.ngl(3 acquaintance, or a single letter of introduction. The baneful star
that had so long shed its blasting influence on my zenith, for once niade a
revolution to tlie nadir."
CHAPTER V.
Odntents TTie Poet winters in EdinhurpTi, 17SC-7 — liy his advent, the condition of thai
t;iy, Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pedantic, is lighted up, as hy a mete(k
— He is in the full tide of his fame there, and for a while caressed by the fashionable—
What hap]>ens to him generally in that new world, and his behaviour under the varying and
very trying circumstances — The tavern life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond
all former experience by bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universally
admitted, as not the least of his talents — The Ladies like to be carried off their feet by it,
while the philosophers hardly keep theirs — Edition of 1500 copies by Creech, which yield*
Hitch money to the Poet — Resolves to visit the classic scenes of his own country — Assailed
dth thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him hack to the region of poverty and S€clusio'<u
" Edina ! Scotia's darling seat !
nil liail thy palaces and tow'rs,
Wliere once beneath a monarch's feet
Sdt legislation''s sovereipfn powers ;
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'ra,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade."
BuKNs found several of his old Ayrshire acquaintances established in
Edinburgh, and, I suppose, felt himself constrained to give himself up
for a brief space to their society. He printed, hov/ever, without delay, a
prospectus of a second edition of his poems, and being introduced by
JNlr. Dalrymple of Orangefield to the Earl of Glencairn, that amiable
nobleman easily persuaded Creech, then the chief bookseller in Edinburgh,
to undertake the publication. The Honourable Henry Erskine, Dean of
the Faculty of Advocates, the most agreeable of companions, and the most
benignant of wits, took him also, as the poet expresses it, " under his
wing." The kind Blacklock received him with all the warmth of j)aternal
affection, and introduced him to Dr. Blair, and other eminent literuti ;
liis subscription lists were soon filled ; Lord Glencairn made interest
with the Caledonian Hunt, (an association of the most distinguished
members of the northern aristocracy), to accept the dedication of the forth-
coming edition, and to subscribe individually for copies. Several noblemen,
especially of the west of Scotland, came forward with subscription-moneys
con.siderably beyond the usual rate. In .so small a capital, where everj
body knows every body, that which becomes a favourite topic in one
leading circle of society, soon excites an universal interest : and bef >re
]3urns had been a fortnight in Edinburgh, we find him writing to nis
earliest patron, Gavin Hamilton, in these terms : — ' For my own affairs, I
am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempisor John Ban*
yan ; and you may expect henceforth to see my birth-day incribed among
the wonderful events \n the Foor Robin and Aberdeen Almanacks, along
with tiie l>lack Monday, and the Battle of Bothwell Brid|je."
LIFE OF ROBEUT BURXS. x v
It is but a nii'lanclioly business to trace ainon<^ tbe records of literary
liistory, tb.e manner in wliicb most great original geniuses have been greet-
ed on their first appeals to the world, by the contemporary arbiters ot
taste : coldly and timidly indeed have the sympathies oi' professional criti-
cism (lowed on most such occasions in past times and in the present : 15i.'.t
the reception of Burns was worthy of TIte Mini of Fedtnij. Mr. Henry
Mackenzie was a man of genius, and of a polished, as well as a liberal tast-e.
After alluding to the provincial circulation and reputation of the first edi-
tion of the 5)oems, Mr. Mackenzie thus wrote in the Lounger, an Edin
burgh periodical of that period : — •' I hope I shall not bo thought to assume
too much, if 1 endeavour to place him in a higher point of view, to rail
for a verdict of his country on the merits of his works, and to claim (c
him tliose honours which, their excellence appears to deserve. In men-
tioning the circumstance of his humble station, 1 mean not to rest his pre-
tensions solely on that title, or to urge the merits of his poetry, when con-
sidered in relation to the lowness of liis birth, and the little opportunity of
improvement which his education could afford. These particulars, indeed,
must excite our wonder at his productions ; but his poetry, considered ab-
stractedly, and without the apologies arising from his situation, seems to
me fully entitled to command our feelings, and to obtain our applause."
After quoting various passages, in some of which his readera
" must discover a high tone of feeling, and power and energy of expres-
sion, particularly and strongly characteristic of the mind and the voice ot
a poet," and others as shewing " the power of genius, not less admirable
in tracing the manners, than in painting the passions, or in drawing the
scenery of nature," and " with what uncommon penetration and sagacity
this heaven-taught ploughman, from his humble and unlettered condition,
had looked on men and manners," the critic concluded with an eloquent
ajipeal in behalf of the poet personally : " To repair," said he, " the wrong
of suffering or neglected merit ; to call forth genius from the obscurity in
wh.ch it had pined indignant, and place it where it may profit or delight
the world — these are exertions which give to wealth an enviable superiori
ty, to greatness and to patronage a laudable pride."*
The appeal thus made for such a candidate was not unattended to.
Burns was only a very short time in Edinburgh when he thus wrote to one
of liis early friends : — '• I was, when first honoured with your notice, too
obscure ; now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too sud-
denly into the glare of polite and learned observation ;" and he concludes
the same lettt.r with an ominous prayer for " better health and more spi-
rits."!— Two (ir three weeks later, we find him writing as follows : — " (Ja-
niiary 14, 17S7). 1 went to a Mason Lodge yesternight, where the M.W
Grand Master Charteris, and all the (irand Lodge of Scotland visited. The
meeting was numerous and elegant : all the different lodges about town were
pre*jnt in all their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided with great so-
lemnity, among other general toasts gave, ' Caledonia and Caledonia's bard,
Brother Burns,' which rung througii the whole assembly with multiplied
honours and repeated acclamations. As 1 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 1 had finished, one of the
• The Lounper for Saturday, December 9, \'iW>.
+ I.<;tter to 31r. BaUantyne of Ayr, December 13, l/iiC ; Reliques, p. 12.
xir LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS
Grand Officers said, so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting ac-
cent, ' very well indeed,' which set me something to rights again." — And
a few weeks later still, he is thus addressed by one of his old associates
who was meditating a visit to Edinburgh. " By all accounts, it will be a
difficult matter to get a sight of you at all, unless your company is bespoke
a week beforehand. There are great rumours here of your intimacy with
the Duchess of Gordon, and other ladies of distinction. I am really told
that —
*' Cards to invite, fly by thousands each night ;"
and if you had one, there would also, 1 suppose, be ' bribes for your old
secretary.' I observe you are resolved to make hay while the sun shines
and avoid, if possible, the fate of poor Ferguson. Qucerenda pccunia prU
mum est — Virtus post nwnmos, is a good maxim to thrive by. You seem-
ed to despise it while in this country ; but, probably, some philosopher?
in Edinburgh have taught you better sense."
In this proud career, however, the popular idol needed no slave to whis-
per whence he had risen, and whither he was to return in the ebb of the
spring-tide of fortune. His " prophetic soul" carried ahvays a sufficient
memento. He bore all his honours in a manner worthy of himself; and
of this the testimonies are so numerous, that the only difficulty is that oi
selection. " The attentions he received," says Mr. Dugald Stewart, " from
all ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have turned any
head but his own. I cannot say that I could perceive any unfavourable effect
which they left on his mind. He retained the same simplicity of manners
and appearance which had struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the
country ; nor did he seem to feel any additional self-importance from the
number and rank of his new acquaintance." — Professor Walker, who met him
for the first time, early in the same season, at breakfast in Dr. Blacklock's
house, has thus recorded his impressions : — " I was not much struck with his
first appearance, as I had previously heard it described. His person, though
strong and well knit, and much superior to what might be expected in a
ploughman, was still rather coarse in its outline. His stature, from want
of setting up, appeared to be only of the middle size, but was rather above
it. His motions were firm and decided, and though without any preten-
sions to grace, were at the same time so free from clownish constraint, as
to show that he had not always been confined to the society of his profes-
sion. His countenance was not of that elegant cast, which is most fre-
quent among tlie upper ranks, but it was manly and intelligent, and marked
oy a thoughtful gravity which shaded at times into sternness. In his large
dark eye the most striking index of his genius resided It was full of mind ;
and would have been singularly expressive, under the management of one
who could employ it with more art, for the purpose of expression. He
was plainly, but properly dressed, in a style mid-way between the holiday
costume of a farmer, and that of the company with which he now associ-
ated. His black hair, without powder, at a time when it was very gene-
rally worn, was tied behind, and spread upon his forehead. Upon the
whole, from his person, physiognomy, and dress, had I met him near a sea-
port, and been required to guess his condition, I should have probably con-
jectured iiiin to be the master of a merchant vessel of the most respectable
class. In no part of his manner was there the slightest degree of ailecta-
tiori, nor roiild a stranger have suspected, from any thing in his behaviou'
LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. xlvii
ar conversation, that he liad been for some months the favourite of all the
"a'^Iiioiiahle circles of a metropolis. In convcrr-ation he was jioucrl'ul. His
concej>tions and expression were of corresponding vigour, and 0!i all subjects
were as remote as possible from common places. Though someAvhat autho-
ritative, it was in a way which gave little olfence, and was readily imputed
to his inexperience in those modes of smoothing dissent and sol'tening asser^
tion, M-hich are important characteristics of pohshed manners. After break-
fast I requested him to communicate some of his unpublishf"' pijCwo, and
he recited liis farewell song to the Banks of Ayr, introducing it with a des-
cription of the circumstances in which it was composed, more striking than
the poem itself I paid particular attention to his recitation, which wau
plain, slow, articulate, and forcible, bat without any eloquence or art. He
did not always lay the emphasis with propriety, nor did he humour the
sentiment by the variations of his voice He was standing, during the time,
with his face towards the window, to which, and not to liis auditors, he di-
rected his eye — thus depriving himself of any additional effect which the
language of his composition might have borrowed Irom the language oi' his
countenance. In this he resembled the generality of singers in ordinary
company, who, to shun any charge of affectation, withdraw all meaning
from their features, and lose the advantage by which vocal perlbrmers on
the stage augment the impression, and give energy to the sentiment of the
^ong. The day after my first introduction to Burns, I supped in company
witli him at Dr. Blair's. The other guests were very few, and as each
had been invited chiefly to have an opportunity of meeting with the poet,
the Doctor endeavoured to draw him out, and to nuike him the central
figure of the group. Though he therefore furnished the greatest i)r()])or-
tion of the conversation, he did no more than what he saw evidently was
expected." *
To these reminiscences I shall now add those of one to whom is always
readily accorded the willing ear, Sir Walter Scott. — He thus writes : —
*' As for Burns, I may truly say, Viryilinm vidt Unit inn. 1 was a lad of
fifteen in 178G-7, when he came first to Edinburgh, but had sense and
feeling enough to be nmch interested in his poetry, and would have given
the world to know him ; but 1 had very little ac(juaintance with any lite-
rary people, and still less with the gentry of the west country, the two
sets that he most frequented. Mr. Thomas Grierson was at that time
a clerk of my father's He knew Burns, and promised to ask him to liii!
lodgings to dinner, but had no opportunity to keep his word ; otherwise I
might have seen more of this distinguished man. As it was, 1 saw him
one day at the late venerable Professor Fergusson's, where there were se-
veral gentlemen of literary reputation, among whom I remember the cele-
brated iMr. Dugald Stewart. Of course we youngsters sat silent, looked,
and listened. The only thing I remember which was remarkable in Burns's
manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bunbury's, re-
presenting a soldier lying dead on tlie snow, his dog sitting in misery jn
one side, — on the other, his widow, with a child in her arms. These lines
«refc written beneath, —
" Coltl on Canadian hills, or Miiulen's plain.
Perhaps that ))arent wept her soldier slain —
I'.eni o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew.
The big drops, mingling witii the milk *ie drew,
• Morrisi)n'8 Burns, vol. i. pp. Ixxi, IxxiL
Xiviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS,
Gave the sad presage of liis future years,
The child of misery baptized in tears."
" Burns seemed much affected by the print, or ra'dier the ideas which
it suggested to liis mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the
lines were, and it chanced that nobody but myself remembered that they
occur in a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpromising
title of The Justice of Peace. I whispered my information to a friend
present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look ant.
a word, Arhich, though of mere civility, I then received, and still recollect,
with very great pleasure.
" His person was strong and robust ; his manners rustic, not clownish ;
a f-ort of dignified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its ef-
fect, perhaps, from one's knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His
features are represented in Mr. Nasmyth's picture, but to me it ronveys
the idea, that they are diminished as if seen in i^erspective. I think his
coinitenance was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits. I
would have taken the poet, had I not known what he was, for a very sa-
gacious country farmer of the old Scotch school, i. e. none of your modern
agriculturists, who keep labourers for their drudgery, but the douce gude-
wan who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense and
shrewdness in all his lineaments; the eye alone, 1 think, indicated the
poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast,
which glowed (1 say literally glniced) when he spoke with feeling or inte-
rest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though 1 have seen
the most distinguished men of my time. His conversation expressed perfect
self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the men who
were the most learned of their time and country, he expressed himselt
with perfect firmness, but without the least intrusive forwardness ; and
when he differed in opinion, he did not hesitate to express it firmly, yet at
the same time with modesty. I do not remember any part of his conver-
sation distinctly enough to be quoted, nor did I ever see him again, except
in the street, where he did not recognise me, as I could not expect he
should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh, but (considering what lite-
rary emoluments have been since liis day) the efforts made for his relict
were extremely trilling. I remember on this occasion I mention, I tliought
Burns's acquaintance with English Poetry was rather limited, and also, that
having twenty times the abilities of Allan Ramsay and of lerguson, he
talked of them with too much humility as his models ; there was, doubt-
less, national predilection in his estimate. This is all I can tell you about
Burns. I have only to add, that his dress correspontled with his manner.
Pie was like a fitrmer dressed in his best to dine witli the Laird. 1 do not
sj)eak in inalnm par/an, when I say, I never saw a man in comjiany with
his superiors in station and information, more perfectly free fnmi either
the reality cr the affectation of em!)arrassment. 1 was told, but did not
obseive it, that his address to females was extremely deferential, and al-
ways with a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, which engaged th.eir
attention particularly. I have heard the late Duchess of (jordon remark
tills. — I do not know any thing I can add to these recollections of Ibrty
years since."' —
There can be no doubt that Burns made his first appearance at a period
higiily favourable for his reception as a I'ritish, and especially as a Scottish
poet. Nearly forty years had elapsed sin e the death of Thomson : —
LIFE OF KOBERT BURNS. xlix
Collins, Gray, Goldsmith, had successively disappeared : — Dr. Jolinson
tiad belied tlie ricii promise of his eurly appearance, and confined liim-
self to prose ; and Cowper liad liardly begun to be recognized as having
anv considerable pretensions to fdl the long-vacant throne in England. At
home — without derogation from the merits cither o(" Doufjhis or the Min-
strel, be it said — men must have gone back at least three centuries to find
a Scottish poet at all entitled to be considered as of that high order to which
the generous criticism of iMackenzie at once admitted " the Ayrshire
Ploughman." Of the form and garb of his composition, much, un(]ueslion-
ably and avowedly, was derived from his more immediate predecessors,
Ramsay and Ferguson : but there was a bold mastery of hand in his pic-
turesque descriptions, to produce any thing equal to which it was neces-
sary to recall the days of Christ's Kirk on the Green, and Peebles to the
Pi(i;/ ; and in his more solemn pieces, a depth of inspiration, and a massive
energy of language, to which the dialect of his country had been a stranger,
at least since " Dunbar the Mackar." The IMuses of Scotland had never
indeed been silent; and the ancient minstrelsy of the land, of which a slen-
der portion had as yet been committed to the safeguard of the press, was
handed from generation to generation, and preserved, in many a fragment,
faithful images of the peculiar tenderness, and peculiar humour, of the na-
tional fancy and character — precious representations, which Burns himself
never surpassed in his happiest efforts. But these were fragments ; and
with a scanty handful of exceptions, the best of them, at least of the seri-
ous kind, were very ancient. Among the numberless effusions of the
Jacobite Muse, valuable as we now consider them for the record of man-
ners and events, it would be difficult to point out half-a-dozen strains
worthy, for poetical excellence alone, of a place among the old chivalrous
ballads of the Southern, or even of the Highland Border. Generations had
passed away since any Scottish poet had appealed to the sympathies of Iiii
countrymen in a lofty Scottish strain.
The dialect itself had been hardly dealt with. " It is my opinion," saic)
Dr. Geddes, " that those who, for almost a century past, have written in
Scotch, Allan Ramsay not excepted, have not duly discriminated the ge-
nuine idiom from its vulgarisms. They seem to have acted a similar part
to certain pretended imitators of Spenser and Milton, who fondly imagine
that they are copying from these great models, when they only mimic tlieir
antique mode of spelling, their obsolete terms, and their irregular construc-
tions." And although 1 cannot well guess what the doctor considered as
the irregular constructions of JNlilton, there can be no doubt of the general
justice of his observations. Ramsay and Ferguson w^rc both men of hum-
ble condition, the latter of the meanest, the former of no very elegant
habits ; and the dialect which had once pleased the ears of kings, who
thfmsclvcs did not disdain to display its powers and elegances in verse,
did not come untarnished through their hands. Ferguson, who was en-
tirely town-bred, smells more of the Cowgate than of the country ; and
pleasing as Ramsay's rustics are, he appears rather to have observed the
surface of rural manners, in casual excursions to Pennycuikand the Hun-
ter's Tryste, than to have expressed the rtjsults of iutiuiate knowledge anc
sympathy. His dialect was a somewhat incongruous mixture of the Uppei
Ward of Lanarkshire and the Luckcnbooths ; and he could neithc» write
English verses, nor engraft English phraseology on his Scotch, without be-
traying a lamentable want of skill in the use oi" his instruments. It was re-
D
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
served for Burns to interpret the inmost soul of the S>_^)ttish peasant in all
its moods, and in verse exquisitely and intensely Scottish, without degrad-
ing either his sentiments or his language with one touch of vulgarity. Such is
the delicacy of native taste, and the power of a truly masculine genius. This
is the more remarkable, when we consider that the dialect of Burns's na-
tive district is, in all mouths but his own, a peculiarly offensive one. The
"ew poeis * whom the west of Scotland had produced in the old time, were
all men of high condition ; and who, of course, used the language, not of
their own villages, buc of Holyrood. Their productions, moreover, in o
far as they have been produced, had nothing to do witii the peculiar cha-
lacter and feelings of the men of the west. As Burns himself has said, —
" It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Renfrew, Ayr, &c. there is
scarcel}' an old song cr tune, which, from the title, <S:c. can be guessed to
belong to, or be the production of, those counties."
']'he history of Scottish literature, from the union of the crowns to that
of the kingdoms, h.as not yet been made the subject of any separate work
at all worthy of its importance ; nay, however much we are indebted to the
learned labours of Pinkerton, Irving, and others, enough of the general ob-
scurity of which Warton complained still continues, to the no small discre-
dit of so accomplished a nation. But how miserably the literature of the
country was affected by the loss of the court under whose immediate pa-
tronage it had, in almost all preceding times, found a measure of protec-
tion that will ever do honour to the memory of the unfortunate house of
Stuart, appears to be indicated with sufficient plainness in the single fact,
that no man can point out any Scottish author of the first rank in all the
long period which intervened between Buchanan and Hume. The re-
moval of the chief nobility and gentry, consequent on the Legislative Union,
appeared to destroy our last hopes as a separate nation, possessing a se-
parate literature of our own ; nay, for a time, to have all but extinguished
the flame of intellectual exertion and ambition. Long torn and harassed
by religious and political feuds, this people had at last heard, as many be-
lieved, the sentence of irremediable degradation pronounced by the lips of
their own prince and parliament. The universal spirit of Scotland was
humbled; the unhappy insurrections of 1715 and 1743 revealed the full
extent of her internal disunion ; and England took, in some respects, mer-
ciless advantage of the fallen.
Time, however, passed on ; and Scotland, recovering at last from the
blow which had stunned her energies, began to vindicate her pretensions,
in the only departments which had been left open to her, with a zeal and
a success v.-hich will ever distinguish one of the brightest pages of her his-
tor)\ Deprived of every national honour and distinction which it was pos-
sible to remove — all the high branches of external ambition lopped off, —
sunk at last, as men thought, effectually into a province, willing to take
law v.'ilh passive submission, in letters as well as ])olity, from her poweriul
sister — th.e old kingdom revived suddenly fi-om her stupor, and once more
asserted her name in reclamations which England was compelled not only
to hear, but to applaud, and " v.-herewith all Europe rung from side to
side," at the moment when a national poet came forward to profit by the
reflux of a thousand half-forgotten sympathies — amidst the full joy of a na-
tional pride revived and re-established beyond the dream of hope.
• Such as Kennedy, Sinw, JMontgomery, and, more lately, Ilamilton of Vilbertfield.
LIFE OF ROBERT BURN\S. li
It will always reflect honour on the galaxy of e.iilncnt men of letter-,
5i-ho, in th(Mr various departments, shed lustre at that period on the name
of Scotland, that they suffered no pedantic prejudices to interfere with
their "eception of Burns. Had he not appeared personally among them,
it may be reasonably doubted whether this would have been so. They
were men, generally speakins;, of very social habits; living together in a
small capital ; nay, almost al'i </f '.lie n , "ir, .» ■ .''Lout one street, maintaining
friendly inlcrcouise contiiiuall)' ; nui a {"vw of them considerably addicted
to the pleasures which have been called, by way of excellence, I presume,
convivial. I'urns's poetry might have procured him access to these circles :
but it was the extraordinary resources he displayed in conversation, the
strong vigorous sagacity of his observations on life and manners, the sj)len-
dour nf his wit, and the glowing energy of his eloquence when his feelings
H'ere stirred, that made him the object of serious admiration among these
practised masters of the arts of ta//{. There were several of them who
probably adopted in their hearts the opinion of Newton, that " poetry is
ingenious nonsense." Adam Smith, for one, could have had no very ready
respect at the service of such an unproductive labourer as a maker of Scot-
tish ballads ; but the stateliest of these philosophers had enough to do to
maintain the attitude of equality, when brought into personal contact with
i'nu'ns's /^igantic understanding; and every one of them whose impressions
on the subject have been recorded, agrees in pronouncing his conversation
to have been the most remarkable thing about him. And yet it is amus-
ing enough to trace the lingering reluctance of some of these polish.ed scho-
lars, about admitting, even to themselves, in his absence, what it is cer-
tain they all felt sufficiently when they were actually in his presence. It
is difficult, for example, to read without a smile that letter of Mr. Dugald
Stewart, in which he describes himself and Mr. Alison as being surprised
to discover that Burns, after reading the latter author's elegant Essajj on
Tdste, had really been able to form some shrewd enough notion of the
general principles of the association of ideas.
Burns would probably have been more satisfied with himself in these
learned societies, had he been less addicted to giving free utterance in con-
versation to the very feelings whicii formed the noblest inspirations of his
poetry. His sensibility was a? tremblingly excjuisite, as his sense was
masculine and solid ; and he seems to have ere long suspected that the pro-
fessional metaphysicians who applauded his rapturous bursts, surveyed them
in reality with something of the same feeling which may be suj)])Osed to
attend a skilful surgeon's inspection of a curious sjiecimen of morbid ana-
tomy. Why should he lay his inmost heart thus open to dissectors, who
took special care to keep the knife from their own breasts ? The secret
nluih that overspread his haughty countenance when such suggestions oc-
cured to him in his solitary hours, may be traced in the opening lines of a
diary which he began to keep ere he had been long in Edinburgh. " April
9, 1787. — As I have seen a good deal of human life in Edinburgh, a
great many characters which are new to one bred up in the shades of lif(;,
as I have been, I anj determined to take down my remarks on the spoU
Gray observes, in a letter to Mr. Palgrave, that, ' half a word fixed, upon,
or near the spot, is worth a cart-load of recollection.' I don't know how
it is with the world in general, but witli me, making my remarks is by no
means a solitary pleasure. I want some one to laugh with me, some one
to be grave with me, some one to please me and help my discrimination.
Hi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
with his or her own remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire my acute-
ncss and penetration. The world are so busied with selfish pursuits, am-
bition, vanity, interest, or pleasure, that very few think it worth their while
to make any observation on what passes around them, except where thai
observation is a sucker, or branch, of the darling plant they are rearing in
their fancy. Nor am I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental flights of
novel-writers, and the sage philosophy of moralists, whether we are cap-
able of so intimate and cordial a coalition of friendship, as that one man may
pour out his bosom, his every thought and floating fancy, his very inmost
soul, with unreserved confidence, to another, without hazard of losing part
jf that respect which man deserves from man ; or, from the unavoidable
imperfections attending human nature, of one day repenting his confidence.
For these reasons I am determined to make these pages my confidant.
I will sketch every character that any way strikes me, to the best of my
power, with unshrinking justice. I will insert anecdotes, and take down
remarks, in the old law jihrase, loithout feud or favour. — Where I hit on
any thing clever, my own applause will, in some measure, feast my vanity
and. begging Patroclus' and Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key a se-
curity, at least equal to the bosom of any friend whatever." And the same
lurking thorn of suspicion peeps out elsewhere in this complaint : " 1 know
not how it is ; I find I can win liking — but not respect."
" Burns (says a great living poet, in commenting on the free style of Dr.
Currie) was a man of extraordinary genius, whose birth, education, and em-
ployments had placed and kept him in a situation for below that in which the
writers and readers of expensive volumes are usually found. Critics upon
works of fiction have laid it down as a rule that remoteness of place, in
fixing the choice of a subject, and in prescribing the mode of treating it, is
equal in eiTect to distance of time ; — restraints may be thrown off accord-
ingly. Judge tlien of the delusions which artificial distinctions impose,
when to a man like Dr. Currie, writing with views so honourable, the so-
cial condition t.f the individual of whom he was treating, could seem to
place him at such a distance from the exalted reader, that ceremony might
be discarded with him, and his memory sacrificed, as it were, almost with-
out compunction. This is indeed to be crushed beneath the furrow's
weight."-^ It would be idle to suppose that the feelings here ascribed, and
justly, no question, to the amiable and benevolent Currie, did not often
find their way into the bosoms of those persons of superior condition and
attainments, with whom Burns associated at the period when he first e-
merged into the blaze of reputation ; and what found its way into men's
bosoms was not likely to avoid betraying itself to the perspicacious glance
of the proud peasant. How perpetually he was alive to the dread of being
looked down upon as a man, even by those who most zealously applauded
the works of his genius, might perhaps be traced through the whole se-
■juence of his letters. When writing to men of high station, at least, he
preserves, in every instance, the attitude of self-defence. But it is only
in his own secret tables that we have the fibres of his heart laid bare ; and
the cancer of this jealousy is seen distinctly at its painful Mork : hahoniis
renin et. cnvfilenlew. " There are 'i<i\s of the sore evils under the sun give
me more uneasiness and chagrin tlian the comparison how a man of genius,
nay, of avowed worth, is received everywhere, with the reception which a
• Mr. Wocdswonh's letter to a friend of Burns, p. 12.
LIFE OF UOnERT BURNS. \\v.
mere ordinary cliaractcr, decorated with the traj)pin^s and futile distinc-
tions of fortune, meets. I imagine a man of abilities, his breast glowing
wiili ho^le^t pride, conscious that men are born equal, still giving honour
to wliouj honour is due ; he meets, at a great man's table, a Squire some-
thing, or a Sir somebody ; he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the
bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, any
one at table ; yet how wiil it mortify him to see a fellow, whose abili-
ties would scarcely have made an eiglitpenny tailor, and whose heart is not
worth three farthings, meet with attention and notice, that are withheld
from the son of genius and poverty? The noble (jlencaim has wounded
me to the soul here, because I dearly esteem, respect, and love him. He
showed so much attention — engrossing attention, one day, to the only
blockhead at table, (the whole company consisted of his lordship, dunder-
pate, and n)ysclfi', that I was within half a point of throwing down my gage
of contemptuous defiance ; but he shook my hand, and looked so benevo-
lently good at parting — God bless him ! though I should never see him
more. I shall love him until my dying day ! I am pleased to think I am so
capable of the throes of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in some other
virtues. With Dr Ijlair I am moreat my ease I never respect him with
humble veneration ; but uhen he kindly interests himself in my welfare, or
still more, when he descends from his pinnacle, and meets me on equal
ground in conversation, my heart overflows with what is called liking.
\Nhen he neglects me for the mere carcass of greatness, or when his eye
measures the difference of our points of elevation, I say to myself, with
scarcely any emotion, what do 1 care for him, or his pomp either?" " It
is n( t easy (says Burns) forming an exact judgment of any one; but, in
my opinion. Dr. Blair is merely an astonishing proof of what industry and
application can do. Natural parts like his are frequently to be met with ;
liis vanity is proverbially known among his own acquaintances ; but he is
justly at the head of what may be called fine writing, and a critic of the
first, the very first rank in prose ; even in poetry a bard of natures mak-
ing can only take the pass of him. He has a heart, not of the very finest
v/ater, but far from being an ordinary one. In short, he is a truly worthy
and most respectable character."
A nice speculator on the ' follies of the wise,' D'Israeli, * says — ■' Once
we were nearly receiving from the hand of genius the most curious sketches
of the temper, the irascible humours, the delicacy of soul, even to its
shadowiness, from the vrarm shozzhs of Burns, when he began a diary of
his heart — a narrative of characters and events, and a chronology of his
emotions. It was natural for such a creature of sensation and passion to
project such a regular task, but quite impossible to get through it." This
most curious document, it is to be observed, has not yet been printed en-
tire. Another generation will, no doubt, see the whole of the confession ;
however, what has already been given, it may be surmised, indicates suf-
ficiently the complexion of liurns's prevailing moods during his moments
of retirement at this interesting period of his history. It was in such a
mood (they recurred often enough) that he thus .-eproached " Nature, par-
tial nature :" —
" Thou pivest the ass his Iiiile, the snail his shell ;
The inveiiom'd wasp victoiious guards his cell:
• D'Israeli on the Literary Charaifter, vol. i. p. 136.
liv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS
Bu(, on ! thou bitter stepmotlieT, and hard.
To thy poor fenceless naked child, the bard. .
In naked feeling and in aching pride,
He bears the unbroken blast from every side.'
No bla?t picrcrd this haughty soul so sharply as the contumely of conde
Ecension,
One of the poet's remarks, when he first came to Edinbu'gh, has been
handed down to us by Cromek — It was, " that between the men of rustic
life and the polite world he obser'ed little difference — that in the former,
though unpolished by fashion aud imenlightened by science, he had found
much observation, and much intelligence — but a refined and accomplished
woman was a thing almost new to hini, and of which he had formed but a
very inadequate idea." To be pleased, is the old and the best receipt how
to please ; and there is abundant evidence that Burns's success, among the
high-born ladies of Edinburgh, was much greater than among the " stately
patricians," as he calls them, of his own sex. The vivid expression of one
of them has almost become proverbial — that she never met with a man^
" Vv'hose conversation so completely carried her off her feet," as Burns's.
The late Duchess of Gordon, who was remarkable for her own conversa-
tional talent, as well as for her beauty and address, is supposed to be here
referred to. But even here, he was destined to feel ere long something of
the fickleness of fashion. He confessed to one of his old friends, ere tlie
season v.as over, that some who had caressed him the most zealously, no
longer seemed to knov,- him, when he bowed in passing their carriages,
and many more acknowledged his salute but coldly.
It is but too true, that ere this season was over. Burns had formed con-
nexions in Edinburgh which could not have been regarded with much ap
probation by the eminent literati, in whose society his dehiit had made so
powerful an impression. But how much of the blame, if serious blame,
indeed, there was in the matter, ought to attach to his own fastidious jea-
lousy— how much to the mere caprice of human favour, we have scanty
means of ascertaining : No doubt, both had their share; and it is also suf-
ficiently apparent that there were many points in Burns's conversational
habits which men, accustomed to the delicate o'oservances of refined so-
ciety, might be more v.-illing to tolerate under the first excitement of per-
sonal curiosity, than from any very deliberate estimate of the claims of such
a genius, under such circumstances developed He by no means restricted
his sarcastic observations on those whom he encountered in the world to
the confidence of his note-book ; but startled polite ears with the utterance
of audacious epigrams, far too witty not to obtain general circulation in so
small a society as that of the northern capital, far too bitter not to produce
deep resentment, far too numerous not to spread fear almost as widely as
admiration. Even when nothing was farther from his thoughts than to in-
flict pain, his ardour often carried him headlong into sad scrapes ; witness,
for example, the anecdote given by Professor Walker, of his entering into
a long discussion of the merits of the popular preachers of the day. at tlie
table of Dr. lilair, and enthusiastically avowing his low opinion of all the
rest ir comparison with Dr. Blair's own colleague * and most formidable
rival — a man, certainly, endowed with extraordinary graces of voice and
manner, a generous and amiable strain of feeling, and a copious fiow o^
lanjjuage ; but having no pretensions either to the general accomplishment;
• Dr. Koben Walker.
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 1-
/or ivliicli Blair was lionoured in a most accomplislicd society, or to the
p;iliA!ie(l elegance u'liich lie first iMtroduccd into the elcxjuence of the Scot-
tisli [)al})it. Mr. Walker well describes the unpleasing eU'ects of such an
earn pad e ; the conversation during the rest of the evening, •' hibouring un-
der that conijHilsory elfort winch was unavoidable, while the thougiits ol
all were full of the only subject on which it was improper to speak." Burns
Jiowed his good sense by making no effort to repair this bhmder ; but years
afterwards, lie confessed that ha could never recall it without ex(]uisite
pain. !Mr. Walker properly says, it did honour to Dr. Blair that his kind-
ness remained totally unaltered by this occurrence ; but the I'rofessor
would have found nothing to admire in that circumstance, had he not been
well aware of tlie rarity of such good-nature among \[\q gains inilabih ol
authors, orators, and wits.
A specimen (which some will think worse, some better) is thus recorded
by Cromek : — " At a private breakfast, in a literary circle of Edinljurgh,
the conversation turned on the poetical merit and pathos of Gray ft Eh(/i/
a poem of which lie was enthusiastically fond. A clergyman present, re-
markable for his love of paradox and for his eccentric notions upon every
subject, distinguished himself by an injudicious and ill-timed attack on tliis
excjuisite poem, which Burns, with generous warmth for the reputation or
(Jray, manfully defended. As the gentleman's remarks were rather gene-
ral than specific, Burns urged him to bring forward the passages which he
thought exceptionable. He made several attempts to quote the jioem, but
always in a blundering, inaccurate manner. Burns bore all this for a good
while \\ith his usual good-natured forbearance, till at length, goaded by
the fastidious criticisms and wretched quibblings of his opponent, he roused
himself and with an eye flashing contempt and indignation, and with great
vehemence of gesticulation, he thus addressed the cold critic : — ' Sir, 1 now
perceive a man may be an excellent judge of poetry by square and rule,
and after all be a d d blockhead.' " — Another of the instances may be
mentioned, which shew the poet's bluntness of manner, and hov/ true the
remark afterwards made by Mr. Kamsay is, that in the game of society l>e
did not know when to play on or off. Wliile the second edition of his Poems
was passing through tlie press, Burns was favoured with many critical sug-
gestions and amendments ; to one of which only he attended. Blair, read-
ing over with him, or hearirtg him recite (which he delighted at all times
in doing) his IIulj Fair, stopped him at the stanza —
Now ;i' tlie cotifjrej-Mtion o'er
I> silent exjHciatioii,
For Uussel specls tlie holy door
\l i' tidings o' Salvation —
Nay, said the Doctor, read damnation. Burns improved the wit of this
verse, undoubtedly, by adopting the emendation ; but he gave another
strange specimen of wantof t'art, when he insisted that Dr. Blair, one of
the most scrupulous observers of clerical propriety, should permit him to
acknowledge the obligation in a note.
But to pass from tliese trifles, it needs no effort of imagination to con
ceive what the sensations of an isolated set of scholars (almost all either
clergymen or professors must ha^e been in the presence of this big boned,
black-browed, brawny stranger, with his great flashing eyes, who, ha\ing
Q3tc,t>d ids way among tlieitf from the plough-tail at a single stride, niao'
.vi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
fested, in the whole strain of his bearing and conversation, a most thorougti
conviction, that, in the society of the most eminent men of his nation, he
was exactly where he was entitled to be ; hardly deigned to flatter them
by exhibiting even an occasional symptom of being flattered by their no-
tice; by turns calmly measured himself against the most cultivated under-
standiiig.-; of his time in discussion ; overpowered the bo7i vmts of the mcst
celebrated convivialists by broad floods of merriment, impregnated with all
the burning life of genius ; astounded bosoms habitually enveloped in the
thrice-piled folds of social reserve, by compelling them to tremble — ray to
tremble visibly — beneath the fearless touch of natural pathos; and all this
M'ithout indii ating the smallest willingness to be ranked among those pro-
fessional ministers of excitement, who are content to be paid 'n money and
smiles for doing what the spectators and auditors would be ashamed 'if do-
ing in their own persons, even if they had the power of doing it : and, —
last and probably worst of all, — v.ho was known to be in the habit of en-
livening societies which they would have scorned to approach, still more
frequently than their own, with eloquence no less magnificent ; with wit in
all likelihood still more daring ; often enough, as the superiors whom he
fronted without alarm might have guessed from the beginning, and had,
ere long, no occasion to guess, with wit pointed at themselves.
The lawyers of Edinburgh, in v/hose wider circles Burns figured at his
outset, with at least as much success as among the professional literati,
were a very different race of men from these ; they would neither, 1 take
it, have pardoned rudeness, nor been alarmed by wit. But being, in those
days, with scarcely an exception, members of the landed aristocracy of the
country, and forming by far the most influential body (as indeed they still
do) in the society of Scotland, they were, perhaps, as proud a set of men
as ever enjoyed the tranquil pleasures of unquestioned superiority. What
their haughtiness, as a body, was. may be guessed, when we know that in-
ferior birth was reckoned a fair and legitimate ground for excluding any
man from the bar. In one remarkable insta-nce, about this very time, a
man of very extraordinar3' talents and accomplishments was chiefly opposed
in a long and painful struggle tor admission, and, in reality, for no reasons
but those I have been alluding to. by gentlemen who in the sequel stood
at the very head of the Whig party in Kdinburgh ; * and the same aristo-
cratical prejudice has, within the memory of the present generation, kept
more persons of eminent qualihcations in the background, for a season,
than any English reader would easily believe. To this body belonged
nineteen out of twenty of those "patricians," whose stateliness Burns so
lou!^ remembered and so b tterly resented. It might, perhaj)s, have been
well for liim had stateliness been the worst fault of their manners. Wine-
bibbing appears to be in most regions a favourite indulgence with those
whose branis and lungs are subjected to the severe exercises q? legal study
and forensic practice. To this day, more traces of these old habits linger
about the inns of court than in any other section of London. In Dublin
and Edinburgh, the barristers are even now eminently convival bodies of
men ; but among the Scotch lawyers of the time of Burns, the principle of
jollity was indeed in its " high and palmy state." He partook largciy in
tho.se tavern scenes of audacious hilarity, which then soothed, as a n)atter
* .Mr. .'olri \\'ilil, son of a Tobacconist in ilic Flijrli Street, lyilinbur},'h. lie came to be
Professor uf Civil law in tliat L'n er&ity ; but, in ill.: end, was also an inbtanct of unhapiiv
genius
I
li
X.IFE OF ROBERT BURNS 1\ h
of course, the arid labours of tlie northern vobhssc de la riihc. T]ie tavern-
life is iio\v-a-(lays nearly extinct everywhere; but it was then in full
vigour in Ixlinhurgh, and there can be no doubc tliat Burns rapidly fami-
liarized himself with it during his residence. He had, after aH, tasted but
rarely of such excesses while in Ayrshire. So little are we to consider
his Svntrh Drink, and other jovial strains of the eariy period, as conveying
any thing like a fair notion of his actual course of life, that " Auld Nanse
Tinn-xk," or " Poosie Nancie," the Mauchline landlady, is known to have
expressed, amusfingly enough, her surprise at the style in which she found
her name celebrated in tlie Kilmarnock edition, saying, " that Robert
Burns might be a very clever lad, but he certainly was rrf/arrl/css, as, to the
best of her belief, he had never taken three half-mutchkins in her house in
all his life." And in addition to (Gilbert's testimony to the same purpose,
we have on record that of Mr. Archibald Bruce, a gentleman of great
worth and discernment, that he had observed Burns closely during that
period of his life, and seen him " steadily resist such solicitations and al-
lurements to excessive convivial enjoyment, as hardly any other person could
have withstood." — The unfortunate Heron knew Burns wel. , and himself
mingled largely in some of the scenes to which he adverts in tlie following
strong language : " The enticements of pleasure too often unman our vir-
tuous resolution, even while we wear the air of rejecting them with a stern
brow. We resist, and resist, and resist ; but, at last, suddenly turn, and
passionately embrace the enchantress. The biic/is of Edinburgh accom-
plished, in regard to Burns, that in which the boors of Ayrshire had failed.
After residing some months in Edinburgh, he began to estrange himself,
not altogether, but in some measure, from graver friends. Too many of
his hours were now spent at the tables of persons who delighted to urge
conviviality to drunkenness — in the tavern — and in the brothel." It would
be idle ?inw to attempt passing over these things in silence ; but it could
serve no good purpose to dwell on them. During this u-i>tler. Burns con-
tinued to lodge with John Kichmond, indeed, to share liis bed; and we
have the authority of this, one of the earliest and kindest friends of the
poet, for the statement, that while he did so. " he kept good liours." lie
removed afterwards to the house of Mr. William Nicoll, one of the teachers
of the High School of Edinburgh. Nicoll was a man of quick parts and
considerable learning — who had risen from a rank as humble as Burns"s
from the beginning an enthusiastic admirer, and, ere long, a constant associ
ate o'i the poet, and a most dangerous associate ; for, with a warm heart,
the man united an irascible temper, a contempt of the religious institutions
of his country, and an occasional propensity for the bottle. Of Nicoil's
letters to Burns, and about him, I have seen many that have never been,
and probably that never will be, printed — cumbrous and pedantic elfusions,
exhibiting nothing that one can imagine to have been pK asing to the poet,
except a rapturous admiration of his genius. This man, nevertheless, was,
I susipect, very far from being an unflivourable specimen of the society to
which Heron thus alludes: — " He (the poet) snfftred himself to be sur-
rouniled by a race of miserable beings, who were proud to tell that they
had been in company with Bukns, and had seen Ijurns as loose and as
f:o!ish as themselves. He was not yet irrecoverably lost to temperance
and moderation ; but he was already almost too mucli captivated with theii
wanton revels, to be ever more won back to a faithful attachment to then
more sober charms " Heron adds — " He now also began to contract some-
Da
IviJi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
thing of new arrogance in conversation. Accustomed lo be, among hi?
favoLirite associates, what is vulgarly, but expressively called, the cock ol
the company, lie could scarcely refrain from indulging in similar freedom
and dictatorial decision of talk, even in the presence of persons who could
less patiently endure his presumption ;" * an account ex facie probable, and
vyhich sufficiently tallies with some hints in Mr. Dugald Stevrart's descrip-
tion of the poet's manners, as he first observed him at Catrine, and with
one or two anecdotes already cited from Walker and Cromek.
Of these failings, and indeed of all Burns's failings, it may be safely as-
serted, that there was more in his history to account and apologize for
them, than can be alleged in regard to almost any other great man's imper-
fections. We have seen, how, even in his earliest days, the strong thirst
of distinction glowed within him — how in his first and rude«t rhymes he
sung,
" to be great is charming ;"
and we have also seen, that the display of talent in conversation was the
first means of distinction that occurred to him. It was by that talent that
he first attracted notice among his fellow peasants, and after he mingled
with the first Scotsmen of his time, this talent was still that which appear-
ed the most astonishing of all he possessed. What wonder that he should
delight in exerting it where he could exert it the most freely — where there
was no check upon a tongue that had been accustomed to revel in tlie li-
cense of village-mastery ? where every sally, however bold, was sure to be
received with triumphant applause — where there were no claims to rival
his — no proud brows to convey rebuke, above all, perhaps, no grave eyes
to convey regret i"
But these, assuredly, were not the only feelings that influenced Burns :
In his own letters, written during his stay in Edinburgh, v.-e have the best
evidence to the contrary. He shrewdly suspected, from the very begin-
ning, that the personal notice of the great and the illustrious was not to be
as lasting as it was eager : he foresaw, that sooner or later he was destined
to revert to societies less elevated above the pretensions of his birth ; and,
though his jealous pride might induce him to record his suspicions in lan-
guage rather too strong than too weak, it is quite impossible to read what
he wrote without believing that a sincere distrust lay rankling at the roots
of his heart, all the while that he appeared to be surrounded u ith an at-
mosphere of joy and hope. On the i.Hh of January 1787, we find him
thus addressing his kind patroness, ■Mrs. Dunlop : — "You are afraid I shall
grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, i know
myself and the world too well. 1 do not mean any airs of affected modesty ;
I am willing to believe th.at my abilities deserved some notice ; but in a
most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been
the study of men of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of
polite learning, polite books, and polite company— to be dragged forth to
the full glare of learned and polite observation, with all my imperfections
of awkward rusticity, and crude unjiolished ideas, on my head, — I assure
you. Madam, I do not dissemble, when 1 tell you I tremble for the conse-
quences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, uithout any of
tliose advantagcB which arc reckoned necessarj- for that character, at leas
" Heron, 11. 2n.
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. lix
n\ (hh time of day. lias raised a partial tide of public notice, whicli lias
borne nic to a height where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, niy abilities
jre inadequate to support me ; and too surely do I see that time, when the
same tide will leave me, and recede perhaps as far below the mark of
truth. ... 1 mention this once for all, to disburden my mind, and I
do not wish to hear or say any more about it. But — ' When proud for-
tune's ebbing tide recedes,' you will bear me witness, that when my bubble
of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated with the inebriating cup
in my hand, looking forward witli rueful resolve." — And about the same
time, to Dr. ^.loore : — " The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the
greater part of those even Avho are authors of repute, an unsubstantial
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 manners shall allow me to be relished and under-
stood. I am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities ; and
as few, if any writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately acquainted
with the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may
have seen men and manners in a different phasis from what is common,
W'hich may assist originality of thought I scorn the affecta-
tion of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit, I
do not deny ; but I see, with frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty
of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have
borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities." — And lastly,
April the '23d, 1787, we have the following passage in a letter also to Dr.
IMoore: — " I leave Edinburgh in the course often days or a fortnight. I
shall return to my rural shades, in all likeliliood never more to quit them.
I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are
all of too tender a construction to bear carriaije a hundred and fifty nnles."
One v,'ord more on the subject which introduced these quotations: — .Mr.
Dugald Stewart, no doubt, hints at what was a common enough complaint
among the elegant literati of Edinburgh, when he alludes, in his letter to
Currie, to the " not very select society" in which Burns indulged himself.
But two points still remain somewhat doubtful ; namely, whether, shovr
and marvel of the season as he M-as, the " Ayrshire ploughman" really had
it in his power to live always in society which Mr. Stewart would have con-
sidered as " very select ;" and secondly, whether, in so doing, he could
have failed to chill the affection of those humble Ayrshire friends, who, hav-
-ing shared with him all that they possessed on his nrst arrival in the metro-
polis, faitlifully and fondly adhered to him, after the springtide of fashion-
able favour did, as he foresaw it would do, " recede;" and, moreover, per-
haps to provoke, among the higher circles themselves, criticisms more dis-
tasteful to his proud stomach, than any probable consequences of the course
of conduct which he actually pursued, 'ihe second edition of Burns's
poems was published early in .March, by Creech ; there were no less tlian
1500 subscribers, many of whom paid more than the shop-price of the vo-
lume. Although, therefore, the final settlement with the bookseller did not
take place till nearly a year after, Burns now found himself in possession
of a considerable sum of ready money; and the first impulse of his mind
was to visit some of the classic scenes of Scottish history and romance. He
had as yet seen but a small part of his own country, and this by no means
among the most interesting of her districts, until, indeed, his own j)0(.'try
niade it equal, on that score, to any other — " The appellat'.-.': of a Scottisif
Ix: LIFE OF ROBERT BURMS.
bard is by (ap my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it, is my most ex.
alted ambition. Scottish scenes, and Scottish story, are the themes I
could v'kh 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 tc Tiuse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured
abodes if her heroes. But these are Utopian views." *
The magnificent scenery of the capital itself had filled him with extraor.
ainary delight. In the spring mornings, he walked very often to the top ol
Arthur's Seat, and, lying prostrate on the turf, surveyed the rising of the
sun out of the sea, in silent admiration ; his chosen companion on such oc-
casions being that ardent lover of nature, and learned artist, Mr. Alexander
Nasmyth. It was to this gentleman, equally devoted to the fine arts, as to
liberal opinions, that Burns sat for the portrait engraved to Creech's edi-
tion, and which is here repeated. Indeed, it has been so often repeated, and
has become so familiar, that to omit it now would be felt as a blank equal
almost to the leaving out of one of the principal poems. The poet's dress
has also been chronicled, remarkably as he then appeared in the first hey-
day of his reputation, — blue coat and buff vest, with blue stripes, (the
Whig-livery), very tight buckskin breeches, and tight jockey boots
The Braid hills, to the south of Edinburgh, were also among his favourite
morning walks ; and it was in some of these that Mr. Dugald Stewart tells
us, " he charmed him still more by his private conversation than he had
ever done in company." " He was," adds the professor, " passionately fond
of the beauties of nature, and I recollect once he told me, when I was ad-
miring a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so
many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind which none could un-
derstand vv'ho had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth
which they contained." Burns was far too busy with society and observa-
tion to find time for poetical composition, during his first residence in
Edinburgli. Creech's edition included some pieces of great merit, which
Iiad not been previously printed; but, with the exception of the Address to
Eduiburgli, all of them appear to have been written before he left Ayrshire.
Several of them, indeed, were very early productions : The most important
additions were. Death and Doctor Ilornbuoh, The Brigs of Ayr, The Ordi'
nation, and the Address to the tinco Guid. In this edition also, \VJie)i Guild-
ford fjidd our pilot stood, made its first appearance.
The evening before l.c quitted Edinburgh, the poet addressed a let-
ter to Dr. lUair, in which, taking a most respectful farewell of him, and
expressing, in lively terms, his sense of gratitude for the kindness he had
shown him, he thus recurs to his own views of his own past and future con-
dition : " I have often felt the embarrassment of my singular situation
However the metor like novelty of my appearance in the world might at-
tract notice, 1 knew very well, that my utmost merit was far unequal tc
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 sur-
prise me in my quarters."
It ought not to be omitted, (liat our poet bestowed some of the first fruits
of Creech's edition in the erection of a decent tombstone over the hitherto
• Letter to Mrs. Dunlop Edinburgh, 22d I\Iarch 1787.
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
1x1
nei^Iccteci rcnmins of his unfortunate predecessor, Robert Ferguson, in the
C;uion<i:ati' churchj'ard. It seems also due to him here to insert his Address
to h.dinhurgh, — so graphic and compreliensive, — as tlie proper record of
the feehngs engendered in his susceptible and grateful mind by the kind-
ness shoun to him, in his long visit, and under which feelings he was now
about to quit it for a time.
ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.
EniWA ! Scoiia\<i darling scat !
All hail thy palaces and towers,
^\'here once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs •
From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers,
As on the banks of Ai/r I stray 'd,
And singing, lone, the lingermg hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.
Here wealth still swells the golden tide.
As busy trade his labours plies';
There architecture's noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour rise ;
Here justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod ;
There learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks science in her coy abode.
Thy sons, Ediha, social, kind,
\\'ith open arms the stranger hail ;
Their views enlarged, their liberal mind,
Above the narrow, rural vale ;
Attentive still to sorrow's wail.
Or modest merit's silent claim ;
And never may their sources fail !
And never envy blot their name.
Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn !
<jay as the gilded summer's sky,
Bweet as the dewy milk-white thorn.
Dear as the raptured thrill of joy I
Fail Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,
Hoftv'n's beauties on my fancy shine :
I see the sire of love on high,
A I d own his work indeed divine !
There, watching high the least alarnis,
Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar :
Like some bold vet'ran grey in arms,
And mark'd witi) many a seamy scar:
The pon'drous wall and massy bar.
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock :
Plave oft withstood assailing war.
And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.
With awe-struck thought and pitying teari
I view that noble, stately dome,
Where Scoiia''s kings of other years.
Famed heroes, had their royal home.
Alas ! how changed the times to come !
'I'heir royal name low in the dust ;
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam !
Tbo' rigid law cries out, 'twas just !
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
\Vhose ancestors in days of yore.
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
Old Scotia''s bloody lion bote :
E'en / who sing in rustic lore.
Haply mi/ siirs have left their shed,
And faced grim danger's loudest roar.
Bold following where i/our fathers led {
Eptxa ! Scnfia'g darling seat !
All haU thy palaces and tow'rs,
M'here once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs !
From marking wildly-scatter'd flowcra,
As on the banks of At/r I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the Hng'ring hourS)
I shelter in thy honour'd aliad^
CHAPTER VI
Contents. — Makes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the first if them,
after an ahsence (f six months, amonpU his friends in the " Auld Clay lii(;gin" — Finds
honour in his own country — Falls in with many kind friends during those pilgrimages, and
is familiar icith the great, but ne'er secures one effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches —
Lingers in Edinburgh amidst the fleshpts, winter 17S7-8 — Upset in a hackney coach^
U'hich produces a bruised limb, and mournful musings for six weeks — Is enrolled in the EX'
else — Another crisis, in which the Poet finds it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs.
Dnnlop not to desert hij7i — Growls over his publisher, but after settling with him Icaret
E-V'nhurgh with £bQO — Steps towards a more regular life.
" Ramsay and famous Fer^juson,
(lied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ;
Yarrow and Tweed to monie a tunc
Thro' Scotlajid rings,
"VATiile Irvine, L;ij;ar, Ayr, and Doon,
>«'aebody sings."
On the Q>U. of May, Burns left Edinburgh, in company with IMr. Robert
7\inshe, Writer to the Signet, the son of a proprietor in Berwickshire. —
Among ether changes " which fleeting time procureth," tliis amiable gen-
tleman, whose yoathtul gaiety made him a chosen associate of Burns, is now
chiefly known as the author of some Manuals of Devotion. — They had
formed the design of perambulating the picturesque scenery of the south-
ern border, and in particular of visiting the localities celebrated by the
old minstrels, of whose works Burns was a passionate admirer.
This was long before the time when those fields of Scottish romance were
to be made accessible to the curiosity of citizens by stage-coaches ; and
Burns and his friend performed tlieir tour on horseback ; the former being
mounted on a favourite mare, whom lie had named Jenny Geddes, in ho-
nour of the good woman who threw her stool at the Dean c' Edinburgh's
head on the 'Sid of July l(i37, when jjie attempt was made co introduce a
Scottish Liturgy into the service of St. Giles's. The merits of the trusty
animal have been set forth by the poet in very expressive and humorous
terms, in a letter to his friend Nicoll while on the road, and which will be
found entire in the Correspondence. He writes : — " INIy auld ga'd gleyde
o' a meere has huchyalled up hill and down brae, as teuch and birnie as a
vera tievil, wi' me. It's true she's as puir's a sangmaker, and as hard's a.
kirk, and lipper-Iaipers when she takes the gate, like a lady's gentlewoman
in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle ; but slie's a j'auld poutherin girran
for a' that. When ance her ringbanes and pavies, her cruiks and cramps,
are fairly soupled, she beets to, beets to, and a^'e the hindmost hour tlie
lightest," (Jlc. &c.
Burns passed from Edinburgh to Berrywell, the residence of Mr. Ainslie's
family, and visited successively Dunse, Coklstream, Kelso, Eleurs, and the
ruins of Uoxburgh Castle, nea*- mIucIi a holly bush still marks the spot or
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixiii
whico James II. of Scotland was killed by the bursting of a ( annon. Jedburgh
— where he admired the " charming romantic situation of the town, with gar-
dens and orchards intermingled among the houses of a once magnificent ca-
thedral (abbey);" and was struck, (as in the other towns of the same district),
with tlie appearance of " old rude grandure," and the idleness of decay ;
Melrose. " that far-famed glorious ruin," Selkirk, Ettrick, and the braes ol
Yarrow, Having spent throe weeks in this district, of which it has been
justl}'' said, " that every field has its battle, and every rivulet its icng,"
Burns passed the Border, and visited Alnwick, Warkworth, Morpeth, New-
castle, Hexliam, Wardrue, and Carlisle. He then turned northwards, and
rode by Annan and Dumfries to Dalswinton, where he examined Mr.
Milkr's proj)erty, and was so much pleased with the soil, and the terms
on wliich the landlord was willing to grant him a lease, that he resolved to
return again in the course of the summer.
The poet visited, in the course of his tour. Sir James Hall of DunglaSj
author of the well known Essat/ on Gulhic ArcJtitccture, Sec; Sir Alexander
and Lady Harriet Don, (sister to his patron. Lord Glencairn), at Newton-
Don ; IMr. Brjdone, the author of Travels in Sicily ; the amiable and
learned Dr. Somerville of Jedburgh, the historian of Queen Anne, S:c. ; and,
as usual, recorded in his journal his impressions as to their manners and
characters. His reception was everywhere most flattering. The sketch
of his tour is a very brief one. It runs thus : —
" Saturday, May 6. Left Edinburgh — Lammer-muir hills, miserably
dreary in general, but at times very picturesque.
" Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. Reach Berrywell. . .
The family-meeting with my compagnon de voyage, very charming ; parti-
cularly the sister.
" Sunday. Went to church at Dunse. Heard Dr. Bowmaker.
" Monday. Coldstream — glorious river Tweed — clear and majestic —
fine bi'idge — dine at Coldstream with Mr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman. Beat
Mr. Foreman in a dispute about ^'oltaire. Drink tea at Lenncl-House with
Mr. and Mrs. Brydone. . . . Reception extremely flattering. Sleep at
Coldstream.
" Titesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charming situation of the town — fine
Dridge over the Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on both sides oi
the river, especially on the Scotch side. . . . Visit Roxburgh Palace
— fine situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Caslle — a holly bush growing
where James the Second was accidentally killed by the bursting of a can-
non. A small old religious ruin and a fine old garden planted by the reli-
gious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hottentot, a maitre d' hoicl of the
Duke's ! — Climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburglishire, su-
perior to Ayrshire — bad roads — turnip and sheep husbandry, their great
improvements. . . . Low markets, consequently low lands — magnifi-
cence of farmers and farm houses. Come up the Teviot, and up the Jed
to Jedburgh, to lie, and so wish myself good night.
" Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. . . . Charming romantic
situation of Jedburgh, with gardens and orchards, intermingled among the
houses and the ruins of a once magnificent cathedral. All the towns here
have the appearance of old rude grandeur, but extremely idle. — Jed, a fine
romantic little river. Dined with Capt. liutherford, . . . return tc
Jedburgh. Walked up the Jed v ith some ladies to be shown Love-lane,
and Blackburn, two fairy scenes Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, and to
.xi/ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
Mr. Somerville, the clergyman of the parish, a man, and a gentleman, but
eadly addicted to punnin<^.
" Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by the Magistrates with the free-
dom of the town. Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy sen-
sations.
" Monday, May 14, Kelso. Dine with the farmer's club— all gentlemen
talking of high matters — each of them keeps a hunter from .iJBO to 150
value, and attends the fox-hunting club in the country. Go out with Mr.
Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind
and manners, Mr. Ker is astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir
— Every thing in his house elegant. He offers to accompany me in my
English tour.
" Tuesday. Dins with Sir Alexander Don ; a very wet day. . .
Sleep at Mr. Ker's again, and set out next day for Melrose — visit Dryburgh
a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. Cross the Leader, and come up the
Tweed to Melrose. Dine there, and visit that far-famed glorious ruin —
Come to Selkirk up the banks of Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts,
both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony."
He wrote no verses, as far as is known, during this tour, except a humor-
ous Epistle to his bookseller, Creech, dated Selkirk, l.Sth May. In this
he makes complimentary allusions to some of the men of letters who were
used to meet at breakfast in Creech's apartments in those days — whence
the name of Creech's Ltvce ; and touches, too, briefly on some of the sce-
nery he had visited.
" Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped.
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,
And Ettrick banks now roaring red,
^\'hile tempests blav/."
Burns returned to INIauchline on the 8th of July. It is pleasing to imagine
ihe delight with which he must have been received by the family after the
absence of six months, in which his fortunes and prospects had undergone
so wonderful a change. He left them comparatively unknown, his tender-
est feelings torn and wounded by the behaviour of the Armours, and so
miserably poor, that he had been for some weeks obliged to skulk from the
Sheriff's oificers, to avoid the payment of a paltry debt. He returned,
his poetical fame established, the whole country ringing with his praises,
from a capital in which he was known to have formed the wonder and de-
light of the polite and the learned ; if not rich, yet with more money al-
ready than any of his kindred had ever hoped to see him possess, and with
prospects of future patronage and permanent elevation in the scale of so-
ciety, which might have dazzled steadier eyes than those of maternal and
fraternal affection. The prophet had at last honour in his own country :
but the haughty spirit that had preserved its balance in Edinburgh, was
not likely to lose it at Mauchline ; and we have him writing from the auld
clay biggin on the 18th of June, in terms as strongly expressive as any
that ever came from his pen, of that jealous pride which formed tlie ground-
work of his character; that dark suspiciousness of fortune, which the sub-
sequent course of his history too well justified ; that nervous intolerance ol
condescension, and consummate scorn of meanness, which attended him
through life, and made the study of his species, for which nature had giver
him such extraordinary qualifications, the source of more pain tlian was
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ix>
ever counterbalanced by tbe exquisite capacity for enjoyment witli wliich
he was also endowed. There are few ol" liis letters in which more of the
dark traits of his spirit come to light than in the followinj^ extract: —
" I never, my friend, thought mankind capable of any thing very gene-
rous ; but the stateliness of the i)atricians of Edinburgh, and the ser\ility
of my plebeian brethren, (who, perhaps, formerly eyed me askance), since I
returned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my spe-
cies. I have bought a pocket-Milton, which I carry perpetually about me,
in order to study the sentiments, the dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid
unyielding independence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hard-
ship, in that great personage — Satan. . . . The many ties of acquaintance
and friendship I have, or think I have, in life — I have felt along the lines,
and, d — n them, they are almost all of them of such frail texture, that I
am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of
fortune."
Among those who now appeared sufficiently ready to court his society,
were the family of Jean Armour. Burns's regard for this aflectionate young
woman had outlived his resentment of her father's disavowal of him in the
preceding summer; and from the time of this reconciliation, it is probable
he looked forward to a permanent union with the mother of his children.
Burns at least fancied himself to be busy with serious plans for his fu-
ture establishment; and Avas very naturally disposed to avail himself, as far
as he could, of the opportunities of travel and observation, which an inter-
val of leisure might present. Moreover, in spite of his gloomy language, a
specimen of which has just been quoted, we are not to doubt that he de-
rived much pleasure from witnessing the extensive popularity of his writ-
ings, and from the flattering homage he was sure to receive in his own per-
son in the various districts of his native country ; nor can any one wonder
that, after the state of high excitement in which he had spent the winter
and spring, he, fond as he was of his family, and eager to make them ])ar-
takers in all his good fortune, should have, just at this time, found himself
incapable of sitting down contentedly for any considerable period together
in so humble and quiet a circle as that of Mossgiel. His appetite for wan
dering appears to have been only sharpened by his Border excursion. After
remaining a few days at home, he returned to Edinburgh, and thence pro-
ceeded on another short tour, by way of Stirling, to Invcrary, and so back
again, by Dumbarton and Glasgow, to JMauchline. Of this second excur-
sion, no journal has been discovered ; nor do the extracts from his corres-
pondence, printed by Ur. Currie, appear to be worthy of much notice. In
one, he briefly describes the West Highlands as a country " where savage
streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread with savage flocks,
which starvingly support as savage inhabitants :" and in anotner, he gives
an account of Jenny (Jeddes running a race (ifier clnmer with a Highlander's
pony — of his dancing and drinking till sunrise at a gentleman's house on
Loch Lomond ; and of other similar matters. — " I have as yet," says he,
" fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am, just
as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. However,
I shall somewhere have a farm soon."
In the course of this tour, Burns visited the mother and sisters of his
friend, Gavin Hamilton, then residing at Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire,
in the immediate neighbourhood of the magnificent scenery of Castle Camp-
bell, and the vale of Devon. Castle Cauipbell, called otherwise the Cuslle
Ixvi LIFE Oi' ROBERT BURNS
cf Glonm, is grandly situated in a gorge of the Ochills, commanding an
extensive view of the plain of Stirling. This ancient possession of the
Argyll family was, in some sort, a town-residence of those chieftains in the
days when the court was usually held at Stirling, Linlithgow, or Falkland
The castle was burnt by Montrose, and has never been repaired. The
Cauldron Linn and Rumbling Brigg of the Devon lie near Castle Camp-
bell, on the verge of the plain. He was especially delighted with one oi
the young ladies ; and, according to his usual custom, celebrated her in
a song, in which, in opposition to his general custom, there is nothing but
the respectfulness of admiration.
How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding; Devon,
^Vith green sprsading bushes, and flowers blooming fair;
But the bonniest flower on tlie banks of the Devon
AVas once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.
.Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower.
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew !
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower.
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.
O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,
AVith chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn !
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn !
I>et Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies.
And England triumphant display her proud rose ;
A fairer than eitlier adorns tlie green valleys,
AVhere Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.
At Harviestonbank, also, the poet first became acquainted with Miss
Chalmers, afterwards Mrs. Hay, to whom one of the most interesting se-
ries of his letters is addressed. Indeed, with the exception of his letters to
]Mrs. Dunlop, there is, perhaps, no part of his correspondence which may
be quoted so uniformly to his honour. It was on this expedition that,
liaving been visited with a high flow of Jacobite indignation while viewing
the neglected palace at Stirling, he was imprudent enough to write some
verses bitterly vituperative of the reigning familj^ on the window of his
inn. These verses were copied and talked of; and although the next time
Burns passed through Stirling, he himself broke the pane of glass contain-
ing them, they were remembered years afterwards to his disadvantage, and
even danger. — As these verses have never appeared in any edition of his
works hitliei to published in Britain, we present them to our reatlers as a
literary curiosity.
Here once in triumph Stuarts reign'd.
And laws for Scotia wlH ordain'd ;
I'ut now unroof 'd their palace st-.mds ;
Tlicir sceptre's sway'd by other hands.
The injured Stuart line is gone,
A race ouilandisli fills the throne ; —
An idiot race, to lionour lost.
Who know them best, despise them most
The young ladies of Harvieston were, according tc Dr. Currie, surprised
with the calm manner in which Burns contemplated their fine scenery on
Devon water and the Doctor enters into a little dissertation on the subject,
showing that a man of Burns's lively imagination might probably have form-
f-A anticipations which the realities oi" the prosjiect might rather disappoint
I I
!
I
I !
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixvii
This is possible enough ; but I suppose few will take it for gnv/.tcd that
Bums surveyed any seenes either of beauty or of grandeur without emo-
tion, merely beeause he did not choose to be ecstatic for the benefit ot a
company of young ladies. He was indeed very impatient of interruption
on such occasions : riding one dark night near Carron, liis companion teased
him with noisy exclamations of delight and wonder, whenever an opening
in tlie wood permitted them to see the magnificent glare of the furnaces ;
" Look, Burns ! Good Heaven ! look ! look ! wliat a glorious sight !"
" Sir," said Burns, clapping spurs to Jenny Geddes, " 1 would not look!
look ! at your bidding, if it were the mouth of hell !"
Burns spent the month of July at Mossgiel ; and Mr. Dugald Stewart,
in a letter to Currie, gives some recollections of him as he then appeared :
" Notwithstanding the various reports I heard daring the preceding win-
ter of Burns's predilection for convivial, and not very select society, I
should have concluded in favour of liis habits of sobriety, from all of him
that ever fell under my own observation. He told me indeed himself, that
the weakness of his stomach was such as to deprive him entirely of any
merit in his temperance. 1 was, however, somewhat alarmed about the
effect of his now comparatively sedentary and luxurious life, when he con-
fessed to me, the first night he spent in my house after his winter's cam-
paign in town, that he had been much disturbed when in bed, by a palpi-
tatio;i at h.is heart, which, he said, was a complaint to which he had of late
become subject. In the course of the same season I was led by curiosity
to attend for an hour or two a Masonic Lodge in Maucldine, where Burns
presided. He had occasion to make some short unpremeditated com-
pliments to different individuals from whom he had no reason to expect a
visit, and every thing he said was happily conceived, and forcibly as well
as fluently expressed. His manner of speaking in public had evidently the
marks of some practice in extempore elocution."
In August, Burns revisited Stirlingshire, in company with Dr. Adair, of
Harrowgate, and remained ten days at Ilarvieston. He was received with
particular kindness at Ochtertyre, on the Teith, by Air. Ramsay (a friend
of Blacklock), whose beautiful retreat he enthusiastically admired. His
host was among the last of those old Scottish La/ini.sfs who began with Bu-
chanan. Mr. Ramsay, among other eccentricities, had sprinkled the walls
of his house with Latin inscriptions, some of them highly elegant ; and
these particularly interested Burns, who asked and obtained copies and
translations of them. This amiable man (another Monkbarns) was deeply
read in Scottish antiquities, and the author of some learned essays on the
elder poetry of his country. His conversation must have delighted any
man of talents ; and Burns and he were mutually charmed with each other.
Ramsay advised him strongly to turn his attention to the romantic drama,
and proposed the GeiUle Shepherd as a model : he also urged him to write
Scnltish Georgics, observing that Thomson had by no means exliausted that
field. He appears to have relished both hints. " But," says .Mr. K. " to
have executed either plan, steadiness and abstraction from company were
wanting." — Mr. Ramsay thus writes of Burns : — " I have been in the com-
pany of many men of genius, some of them poets ; but I never witnessed
such flashes of intellectual brightness as from him. the impulse of the mo-
ment, sparks of celestial fire. I never was more delighted, therefore, than
with his company two days tete-a-tete. In a mixed company 1 should have
j»iade little of him ; for, to use a gamester's phrase, he did not always knovr
Ixviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
wlien to play off and when to play on. When I asked him whether the
Edinburgh literati had mended his poems by their criticisms — * Sir,' saio
he. ' those pjentlemen remind me of some spinsters in my country, who «pin
their thread so fine that it is neither fit for weft nor woof.' "
At Clackmannan Tower, the Poet's jacobitism procured him a hearty
welcome from the ancient lady of the place, who gloried in considering
herself a lineal descendant of Robert Bruce. She bestowed on Burns knight-
hood with the touch of the hero's sword ; and delighted him by giving ag
her toast after dinner, Hooki imcos, away strangers ! — a shepherd's cry
when strange sheep mingle in the flock. At Dunfermline the poet betray-
ed deep emotion, Dr. Adair tells us, on seeing the grave of the Bruce ; but,
passing to another mood on entering the adjoining church, he mounted the
pulpit, and addressed his companions, who had, at his desire, ascended the
cutti/stool, in a parody of the rebuke which he had himself undergone some
time before at Mauchline. From Dunfermline the poet crossed the Frith ot
Forth to Edinburgh ; and forthwith set out with his friend Nicoll on a more
extensive tour than he had as yet undertaken, or was ever again to under-
take. Some fragments of his journal have recently been discovered, and
are now in my hands ; so that I may hope to add some interesting particu-
lars to the accout of Dr. Currie. The travellers hired a post-chaise for
their expedition — the schoolmaster being, probably, no very skilful eques-
trian.
*• August '25th, 17S7 This day," says Burns, " I leave Edinburgh for
a tour, in company with my good friend, Mr. Nicoll, whose originality ot
humour promises me much entertainment. — IJnlithgoiv. —A fertile im-
proved country is West Lothian. The more elegance and luxury among
the farmers, 1 always observe, in equal proportion, the rudeness and stupi-
dity of tlie peasantry. Tliis remark 1 have made all over the Lothians,
Merse, Roxburgh, S:c. ; and for this, among other reasons, I think that a
man of romantic taste, ' a man of feeling,' will be better pleased with the
poverty, but intelligent minds of the peasantry of Ayrshire, (peasantry they
are all, below the Justice of Peace), than the opulence of a club of Merse
farmers, when he, at the same time, considers the Vandalism of their plough-
folks, kc. I carry this idea so far, that an uninclosed, unimproved coun-
try is to me actually more agreeable as a prospect, than a country culti-
vated like a garden."
It was hardly to be expected that Robert Burns should have estimated
the wealth of nations on the principles of a political economist; or that
with him the greatest possible produce, — no matter how derived, — was to
be the paramount principle. But. where the greatness and happiness of a
people are concerned, perhaps the inspirations of the poet may be as safelj
tak^a for a guide as the inductions of the political economist: —
From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,
That makes her loved at hoine, revered abroad :
Princes and lords are but tlie breath of kings,
" An honest man's the noblest work of God !"
And cotes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road,
'I'he coUdf^e leaves the pn lace far behind ;
^Vh•it is a lordling's poniji ! a cumbrous load.
Disjj'uising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined;
O Scothi .' my dear, my native soil !
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent
Li'ng may thy hardv sons of rustic oil.
Be blest wiih health, and peace, and sweet content 1
LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. Ixij
And, O I may IIe:iv'n ilieir sim))le lives prevent
From Luxury's contapon, wc.ik and vile !
Tlicn, liowe'er croivni ;u.d conmrlt be rciU,
A viit-^oiis populace may rise il>e while.
And stand a wall of tire around their much-Iovcd Islr.
Of Linlithgow the poet says, " the town carries the appearance of rude,
decayed, idle grandeur — charnnngly rural retired situation — the old Roya.
Palace a tolerably fine but melancholy ruin — sweetly situated by the brink
of a loch. Shown the room where the beautiful injured Mary Queen ot
Scots was born. A pretty good old Gothic church — the infamous stool ot
repentance, in the old Romish way, on a lofty situation. What a poor
pimping business is a Presbyterian place of worship ; dirty, narrow, and
squalid, stuck in a corner oiold Popish grandeur, such as Linlithgow, and
nmch more Melrose ! Ceremony and show, if judiciously thrown in, are ab-
solutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, both in religious and civil mat-
ters "
At Bannockburn he writes as follows : — " Here no Scot can pass unin-
terested. I fancy to myself that 1 see my gallant countrymen coming over
the hill, and down upon the plunderers of their country, the murderers or
their fathers, noble revenge and just hate glowing in every vein, striding
more and more eagerly as they approach the oppressive, insulting, blood-
thirsty foe. I see them meet in glorious triumphant congratulation on the
victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal leader, and rescued Mberty
and independence." — Here we have the germ of Burns"s famous ode on the
battle of Bannockburn.
At Taymouth, the Journal merely has — " described in rhyme." This al-
ludes to the " verses written with a pencil over the mantle-piece of the
parlour in the inn at Kenmore ;" some of which are among his best purely
Lnglish heroics —
" Poetic ardours in my ha<iom swell,
Lone wanderinjf by the hermit s mossy cell ;
The sweeping,' theatre of hanging woods ;
The incessant roar of headlong-tumbling floods ....
Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre,
And look through nature with creative fire ....
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled,
misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ;
And Disappointment, in tnese lonely bounds.
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds ;
Here heart-struck (irief might heavenward stretch her scan.
And injured Worth forget ar.d pardon man."
Of Glenlyon we have this memorandum: — •' Druids* temple, three cir.
cles of stones the outermost sunk, the second has thirteen stones remain-
mg, the innermost eight ; two large detached ones like a gate to the south-
east— sny prayers on if."
His notes on Dunkeld and Blair of Athole are as follows: — " Dunneld
— Breakfast with Dr. Stuart — Neil Gow plays; a short, stout-built, High-
land figure, with his greyish hair shed on his honest social brow — an inte-
resting face, marking strong sense, kind openheartedness mixed with
unmistrusting simplicity — visit his house — Margaret (jow. — Friday —
ride up Tummel river to IHair. lascally, a beautilul romantic nest — wild
grandeur of the pass of Killikrankie — visit the gallant Lord Dundee's stone.
• — Bfcir — sup with the Duchess — easy and happy from the manners of
tliat family — confirmed in my good opinion of my friend Walker. — Sutur*
day — Tisit tie scenes round Blair — fine, but spoilt with bad taste."
LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS
Mr. Walker, who, as we have seen, formed Burns's acquaintance in
Edinburgh tlirough Blacklock, was at this period tutor in the family ol
Athole, and from him the following particulars of Burns's reception at the
Beat of his noble patron are derived : — " On reaching Blair, he sent me no-
tice of his arrival (as I had been previously acquainted with him), and I
hastened to meet him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter
of introduction, was from home ; but the Duchess, being informed of his ar
rival, gave him an invitation to sup and sleep at Athole House. He ac-
cepted the invitation ; but, as the hour of supper was at some distance,
begged I would in the interval be his guide through the grounds. It was
already growing dark ; yet the softened, though faint and uncertain, view
of tlieir beauties, which the moonlight afforded us, seemed exactly suited
to the state of his feelings at the time. I had often, like others, experienced
the pleasures which arise from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I ne-
ver saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. When we reached a rustic
hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody precipice, from
which there is a noble water-fall, he threw himse.lf on the heathy seat,
and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm ot
imagination. It v/as v/ith much difficulty I prevailed on him to quit this
spot, and to be introduced in proper time to supper. My curiosity was
great to see how he would conduct himself in company so different from
what he had been accustomed to. His manner was unembarrassed, plain,
aiid firm. He appeared to have complete reliance on his own native good
sense for directing his behaviour. He seemed at once to perceive and to
appreciate what was due to the company and to himself, and never to for-
get a proper respect for the separate species cf dignity belonging to each.
He did not arrogate conversation, but, when led into it, he spoke with ease,
propriet3\ and manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, because he kncv/
it was ability alone gave him a title to be there. 'Jhe Duke's fine young
family attracted much of his admiration; he drank their healths as honesl
men and bnnnie lay.scs, an idea which Avas much applauded by the company,
aiid A'ith which he has very felicitously closed his poem. Next day I took
a ride with him tlirough some of the most romantic parts of that neigh-
bourhood, and was highly gratified by his conversation. As a specimen
pf his happiness of concei)tion and strength of expression. I will mention a
cmark which he made on his fellow-traveller, who was walking at the time
3 few paces before us. He was a man of a robust but clumsy person ; and
wliile Burns was expressing to me the value he entertained for him, on
account of his vigorous talents, although they were clouded at t mos by
coarseness of manners ; " in ^ihort,' he added, " his mind is like his body,
he has a confounded strong in-kneed sort of a soul."' — Much attention was
paid to Burns both before and after the Duke's return, of which he was
perfectly sensible, without being vain ; and at his departure 1 recommended
to him as the most appropriate return he could make, to write some des-
criptive verses on any of the scenes with which he had been so much de-
lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited the ]-\ills (J
Jiriiar, and in a i'ew days 1 received a letter from Inverness, with the versej
enclosed." *
At Blair, Burns first met with Mr. Graham of Fintray, a gentleman tc
whose kindness he was afterwards indebted on more tlian one important
" Extract of a letter from I\ir. ^\'alker to I\lr. Ciini.ingliam, dated Pcrtli. 24th Octobci
7t»7
LIFb OF ROBCar BURNS. Ixx
occasion ; and ?>Ir. Walker expresses great regret tliat he did not remain
p day or two more, in which case he must liave been introduced to Mr.
Dundas, the first Lord Melville, who was then Treasurer of the Navy, and
had the chief manatiement of the affairs of Scotland. This statesman was
but little addicted to literature; still, had such an introduction taken
place, he might probably have been induced to bestow that consideration
on the claims of the poet, which, in the absence of any personal acquain-
tance, Burns's works should have commanded at his hands.
I'roni Blair, Burns passed " many miles through a wild country, among
cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy savage glens, till he crossed the
Spey ; and went down the stream through Strathspey, (so famous in Scot-
tish music), Badenoch, tSrc. to Grant Castle, where he spent half a day with
Sir James Grant ; crossed the country to Fort George, but called by the
way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth, where he saw the identical
bed in which, tradition srn/s. King Duncan was murdered ; lastly, from I'ort
George to Inverness. From Inverness, he went along the Murray Frith to
Fochabers, taking Culloden Muir and Brodic House in his way T/iitrS'
flay, Came over Culloden Muir — reflections on the field of battle — break-
fast at Kilraick — old iMrs. Hose — sterling sense, warm heart, strong j)as-
sion, honest pride — all to an uncommon degree — a true chieftain's wife,
daughter of Clephane — Mrs. Rose junior, a little milder than the motlier,
perha[)s owing to her being younger — two young ladies — Miss Rose sung
two (jaelic songs — beautiful and lovely — Miss Sophy Brodie, not very
beautiful, but most agreeable and amiable — both of them the gentlest, niikl-
est, sweetest creatures on earth, and hapjjiness be with them ! Brodie
House to lie — Mr. B. truly polite, but not quite the Highland cordiality. —
Fridaj/, Cross the Findhorn to Forres — famous stone at Forres — INIr. Bro-
dic tells me the muir where Shakspeare lays Macbeth's witch meeting, is
stiil haunted — that the country folks won't pass by night. — Ehpn — vene-
rable ruins of the abbey, a grander effect at first glance than Alelrose, but
nothing near so beautiful. — Cross Spey to Fochabers — fine palace, worthy
of the noble, the polite, the generous proprietor — the Duke makes me hap-
pier than ever great man did ; noble, princely, yet mild, condescending,
and aflable — gay and kind — The Duchess charming, witty, kind, and sen-
sible— God bless them."*
Burns, who had been much noticed by this noble family when in Edin-
burgh, happened to present himself at Gordon Castle, just at the diimer
hour, and being invited to take a place at the table, did so, without for the
moment adverting to the circumstance that his travelling conrpanion had
i been left alone at the inn, in the adjacent village. On remembering this
soon after dinner, he begged to be allowed to rejoin his friend ; and the
Duke of Gordon, who now for the first time learned that he was not jour-
neying alone, immediately proposed to send an invitation to Mr Nicoll to
come to the Castle. His Grace's messenger found the haughty school-
master striding up and down before the inn door, in a state of high wrath
and indignation, at what he considered Burns's neglect, and no apologies
could solten his mood. He had already ordered horses, and the poet find-
ing that he must choose between the ducal circle and his irritable associ
ate, at once left Gordon Castle, and repaired to the inn ; whence Nicoll
ind he, in silence an(' mutual displeasure, pursued their journey along the
• Extract from JournaL
rxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
coast of the IMurra}' Frith. The abridgment of Burns's \isi.t at Gordon
Castle, " was not only," says Mr. Walker, " a mortifying disappointment,
but in all probability a serious misfortune, as a longer stay among persons
of such influence, might hav ; begot a permanent intimacy, and on theii
parts, an active concern for his future advancement." * But this touches
on a delicate subject, which we shall not at present pause to consider.
Pursuing his journey along the coast, the poet visited successively
Nairn, Forres, .Aberdeen, and Stonehive ; where one of his relations, James
Burness. writer in Montrose, met him by appointment, and conducted him
int--) the circle of his paternal kindred, among whom he spent two or three
days. When William Burness. his father, abandoned his native c'lstrict,
never to uevisit it, he, as he used to tell his children, took a sorrowful fare-
well oi' his brother on the summit of the last hill from which the roof of
their lowly home could be descried ; and the old man appears to have
ever after kept up an affectionate correspondence with his family. It fell
to the poet's lot to communicate his father's death to the Kincardineshire
kindred, and afte that he seems to liuve maintained the same sort of cor-
respondence. Ue now formed a personal acquaintance with these good
people, and in a letter to liis brother Gilbert, we find him describing therr
in terms which show the lively interest he took in ail tlieir concerns. ■
" The rest of my stages," says he, " are not worth rehearsing : warm
as I was from Ossian's country, where I had seen his very grave, what
cared I for fishing towns and fertile carses .^" lie arrived once more in
Auld lleekie, on the Kith of September, having travelled about six hun-
dred miles in two-and-twenty days — greatly extended his acquaintance
with his own countrv, and visited some of its most classical .scenery — ob-
served something of Highland manners, v\-l'iieh must have been as interest
ing as they were novel to him — and strengthened considerably among tlu
sturdy .Jacobites of the North those political opinions which he at this pe
riod avowed.
Of the i'cw poems composed during this Highland tour, we have already
mentioned two or three. While standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch
Ness, he wrote with his pencil the vigorous couplets —
" .Among the heathy liills aid rufjired \voO(l>,
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods,' &c.
When at Sir Wifiam Murray's of Ochtertyre, he celebrated Miss Murray
of Lintrose, commonly called " The Flower of Sutherland," in the Song —
" P.lvthe, lilyihe, and merry was she,
lilythe was she but aiul ben," &c.
And the verses On Scariiig some IVildfoicl on Loch Tiirit, —
" ^\'hy, ye tenant.s of the lake.
Vox me your wat'ry haunts forsake," &c.
were composed while under the same roof Th.esc last, except perhaps
liriKir Wtiter, are the best that he added to his collection during the wan-
derings of the sunnner. But in Burns's subsequent productions, we find
many traces t the delight with which he had contemplated r.ature in tliese
alpine regions
• fiencral Corre.spondenco.
LIFii OF ROBi^Iir BURNS. ixxiii
Tlic poet or.ro more visited liis family at iMossii^iel, and Mr. IMiilcr at
Dalsu'iiitoii, tTc tlie winter set in ; and on more leisurely examination of
that f^entleman's estate, we find him writing as if he had all but deeidea
to become his tenant on the farm of Elliesland. It was not. however, un-
til he liad for the tliird time visited Dumfriesshire, in March 17hS, that a
bargain was actually concluded. More than lialf of the intervening
months were spent in Edinburgh, M-here Burns found, or fancied that his
presence was necessary for the sat.sfactory completion of his affairs with
the booksellers. It seems to be clear enough tluit one great object was the
society of his jovial intimates in the capital. Nor was he without the
annisement of a little romance to fill up what vacant hours they lei't Jiim.
He lodged that winter in Bristo Street, on purpose to be near a beautiful
widow — the same to whom he addressed the song,
" Clarinda, mistress of my soul," &c.
and a series of prose epistles, which have been separately published, and
which present more instances of bad taste, bombastic language, and fulsome
sentiment, than could be produced from all his writings besides.
At this time the publication called Johnsons Museum of Scottish So7ig
was going on in Edinburgh ; and the editor appears to have early prevailed on
Burns to give him his assistance in the arrangement of his materials. Though
Green prow the nishcs is the only song, entirely his, which appears in the
first volume, published in 17H7, many of the old ballads included in that
volume bear traces of his hand ; but in the second volume, which appeared
in March I 788. we find no fewer than five songs by Burns ; two that have
been already mentioned, * and three far better than them, viz. 'Jlieniel
Mcnzies bonnij Mary ; that grand lyric,
" Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch's destiny,
JVIacpherson's time will not be long
On yonder gallows tree ;"
both of which performances bespeak the recent impressions of his Highland
visit; and, lastly. Whistle and I'll come to yoxi^ my lad. Burns had been
from his youth upwards an enthusiastic lover of the old minstrelsy and
music of his country ; but he now studied both subjects with far better op-
portunities ar.d appliances than he could have commanded previously; and
it is from this time that we must date his ambition to transmit his own
poetry to posterity, in eternal association with those exquisite airs which
had hitherto, in far too many instances, been married to verses that did
not deserve to be immortal. It is well known that from this time Burns
composed very inw pieces but songs ; and whether we ought or not to re-
gret that such was the case, must depend on the estimate we make of his
s(wigs as compared with his other poems ; a point on which critics are to this
hour divided, and on which their descendants are not very like y to agree.
Mr. Walker, who is one of those that lament Burns's comparative derelic-
tion of the species of composition which he most cultivated in the early
days of his inspiration, suggests very sensibly, that if Burns had not taken
to song-writing, he would probably have written little or nothing amidst
the various temptations to company and dissipation which now and hence-
forth surrounded him — to say nothing of the active duties of life in which
" ■' Clarinda,' and " How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devoi."
iXXlV
I.1FE OF ROBERT BURNS
he wtis at lenpjtn about to be engaged. Burr.s was present, on the 3 1 st oi
December, at a dinner to celebrate the birth-day of the unfortunate Prince
Charles Edward Stuart, and produced on the occasion an ode, part of which
Dr. Currie has preserved. The specimen will not induce any regret that
the remainder of the piece has been suppressed. It appears to be a mouth-
ing rhapsody — far, far different indeed from the Chevalier's Lament, which
the poet composed some months afterwards, with probably the tithe of
the effort, while riding alone " through a track of melancholy muirs be-
tween Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday." *
For six weeks of the time that Burns spent this year in Edinburgh, he
was confined to his room, in consequence of an overturn in a hackney coach.
«' Here I am," he writes, " under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised
limb extended on a cushion, and the tints of my mind vying with the livid
iiorrors preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was
the cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bodi-
ly constitution, hell, and myself, have formed a quadruple alliance to gua-
rantee the other. I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got
halfway through the five books of Moses, and halfway in Joshua. It ia
really a glorious book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him
to get an 8vo. Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town, and bind
it with all the elegance of his craft." f— In another letter, which opens gaily
enough, we find liini reverting to the same prevailing darkness of mood.
" I can t say I am altogether at my ease when I see anywhere in my path
that meagre, squalid, iamine-lijced spectre, Poverty, attended as he always
is by iron-fisted Oppression, and leering Contempt. But I have sturdily
withstood his buiTctings many a hard-laboured day, and still my motto is 1
DARE. My worst enemy is moi-nitme. There are just two creatures that
I would envy — a horse in his wild state traversing the forests of Asia, or
an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish
without enjoyment ; the other has neither wish nor fear." \ — One more
specimen may be sufficient, i] " These have been six horrible weeks.
Anf^uish and low spirits have made me unfit to read, write, or think. 1 have
a hundred times v.ished that one could resign life as an officer does a com-
mission ; for I would not dihe in any poor ignorant wretch by svUing out.
Lately, I was a sixpenny private, and Clod knows a miserable soldier enough :
now I march to the campaign a starving cadet, a little more cons])icuously
wretched. 1 am ashamed of all this ; for though I do not want bravery for
the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice."
it seems impossible to doubt that Burns had in fact lingered In Edin-
burgh, in the hope tliat, to use a vague but sufficiently expressive phrase,
goniething would be done for him. He visited and revisited a farm, — talked
and wrote about " having a fortune at the plough-tail," and so forth ; but
all the while murished, and assuredly it would hove been most strange if
he had not, the fond dream that the admiration of his country would ere
long present itself in some solid and tangible shape. His illness and cui -
finemcnt gave him leisure to concentrate his imagination on the darker side
of his prospects ; and the letters which we have qucted may t*ach those
(vho envy the powers and the fame of genius, to paue for a moment over
• Ocn' ral Correspondence, No. 40
■\ Hcliinie-*, p, 43.
11 Geutriil ' ;orrespo!idence. No. 43.
Ibid. p. 44.
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ux.f
the annals of literature, and think Avhat superior capabilities of miscT/ have
been, in the great majority of cases, interwoven with the possession ol
those very talents, from which all but their j)ossessors derive uimiingled
gratification. Burns's distresses, however, v.ere to be still farther aggravated.
While still under the hands of h.is surgeon, he received intelligence from
Mauchllne that his intimacy with Jean Armour had once more exj)osec'
her to the reproaches of her family. Tlie father sternly and at once turnec'
her out of doors; and IUumis, unable to walk across his room, had to writs
to his friends in iMauchlinc to ]>rocure shelter for his childi'en, and for hei
whom he considered as — all but his wife. In a letter to 3.1rs. Dunlop,
written on hearing of th.is new misfortune, he says, " ' I tvish I were cleud,
hut I'm no like to die.' 1 fear I am something like — undone ; but I hope for
the best. You must not desert me. Your Iriendship 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 recruiting drum as my forlorn hoj)e. Se-
riously, though, life at present presents me with but a melancholy path
But my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on." *
It seems to have been noio that Burns at last screwed up his courage to
solicit the active interference in his br'.ialf of the Earl of (jlcncairn. Tlie
letter is a brief one. Burns could i/1 endure this novel attitude, and he
rushed at once to his request. " 1 wish," says he, " to get into the excise.
I am told 3'our Lordship will easily procure me the grant from the com-
missioners ; and your lordship's patronage and kindness, which have already
rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask
that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie
of liome, that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters
from destruction, 'i'hcre, my lord, you have bound nie over to the highest
gratitude My heart sinks within me at the idea of applying to any
other of The Great who have honoured me with their countenance. I am
ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicita-
tion ; and tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as ot
the cold denial." f It would be hard to tliink that this letter was coldly or
negligently received; on the contrary, we know that Burns's gratitude to
Lord Glencairn lasted as long as his life. But the excise appointment
which he coveted was not procured by any exertion of his noble patron's
iniiuence. Mr. Alexander Wood, surgeon, (still afl'ectionately remenihcred
in Edinburgh as " kind old Sandy Wood,') happening to hear Lurns, ^vlule
'lis patient, mention the object of his wishes, went immediately, witliout
dropping any hint of his intention, and conm^imicated the state of the
poet's case to Mr. Graham of Fin tray, one of the conmiissioners of excise,
wljo had met Hums at the Duke of Athole's in the autumn, and who im-
mediately had the poet's name put on the roll. — " I have chosen this, my
dear friend," (thus wrote Burns to Mrs. Dunlop), " after mature delibera-
tii.in. '1 lie question is not at what door of lortune's palace shall we enter
in : but what doors does she open to us ? I was not likely to get any thing
to do. 1 wanted ini hut, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. 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 comparison of all my preceding life. Besides, the
cciomissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them my
firm friends." %
• Reliques, p. 411. -f- General Coriespondence, No. 40. J Reliques, p. 50
.XXVI LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
Our poet seems to have kept up an angry correspondence during his con
fniement with his bookseller, Mr. Creech, whom he 'l-^'i abuses very heartil}
in his letters to his friends in Ayrshire. The publisher's accounts, however,
when they were at last made up, mus*. have given the impatient author a
very agreeable surprise ;. for, in his letter above quoted, to Lord Glencairn,
we find him expressing his hopes that the gross profits of his book might
amount to " better than i 200," whereas, on the day of settling with Mr
Creech, he found himself in possession of £500, if not of i GOU. Mr. Ni
coll, the most intimate fHend Burns had, writes to Mr John Lewars, ex-
cise officer at Dumfries, immediately on hearing of the poet's death, — " He
certainly told me that he received £000 for the first Edinburgh edition, and
i'lOO afterwards for the copyright." — Dr. Currie states the gross product
of Creech's edition at i 500, and Burns himself, in one of his printed let-
ters, at £M00 only. Nicoll hints, in the letter already referred to, that
Burns had contracted debts while in Edinburgh, which he might not wish
to avow on all occasions ; and if we are to believe this — and, as is probable,
the expense of printing the subscription edition, should, moreover, be de-
ducted from the £7 00 stated by Mr. Nicoll — the apparent contradictions
in these stories may be pretty nearly reconciled. There appears to be
reason for thinking fhat Creech subsequently paid more than A 100 for the
copyright. Jf he did not, how eame Burns to realize, as Currie states it
at the end of his Memoir, " nearly 1900 in all by his poems?"
This supply came truly in the hour of need ; and it seems to have ele-
vated his spirits greatly, and given him for the time a new stock of confi-
dence ; for he now resumed immediately his purpose of taking Mr. Miller's
farm, retaining his excise commission in his pocket as a dernier resorf, to be
made use of only should some reverse of fortune come upon him. His first
act, however, was to relieve his brother from his difficulties, by advancing
£ 180 or i 200, to assist him in the management of Mossgiel. " I give my-
self no airs on this," he generously says, in a letter to Dr. IMoore, " for it
was mere selfishness on my jiart. I was conscious that the wrong scale of
the balance was pretty heavily charged, and 1 thought that the throwing a
little filial piety and fraternal affection into the scale in my favour, miglu
liel[t /) snif.oth matters at the grand reckoniny" •
• General Corrcspoad«ic«, Nq, c6.
CHAPTER VII.
li'jyTF.Nls — MuTTtes — Announcement!:, fapnlogetical), of the event — Remaiin — Eecnmes
( 788) Farmer nt Elliesland, on the Nith, in a rn/nant/c vicinity, six miles from Dumfries —
The Muse wakeful as ever, while the Poet maintains a varied and exteiLsive literary corre-
ipondence with all and sundry — liemarks upon the correspondence — Sketch of his person
and MaLits at this period by a brother poet, who shoirs cause ayninst success in farming—
The untoward cnnjunction of (iauaer to Farmer — The notice of the squirearchy, and the
calls of admiring visitors, lead too uniformly to the ultra i^-nvivial life — Ideates Ellieslana
C 1791) ij be exciseman in the town of JJumfries.
*' To make a happy fireside clime
For weans and wife —
That's the true pathos and sublime
Of human life."
Burns, as soon as his bruised limb was able for a journey, went to Moss-
piel, and went through the ceremony of a Justiceof l^eace marriage with
Jean Armour, in the writing-cb.ambers of his friend Gavin Hamilton. He
then crossed the country to Dalswinton, and concluded his bargain with
Mr. Miller as to the tarm of L-^lliesland, on terms which must undoubtedly
have been considered by both parties, as highly favourable to the poet ;
they were indeed fixed by two of Burns's own friends, who accompanied
him for that purpose from Ayrshire. The lease was for four successive
terms, of nineteen years each, — in all seventy six years; the rent for the
first three years and crops ,t'5() ; during the remainder of the period i 70
per annum. Mr. Miller bound himself to defray the expense of any plan-
tations which Burns might please to make on the banks of the river ; and,
the farm-house and offices being in a delapidated condition, the new tenant
was to receive £300 fiom the proprietor, tor the ejection of suitable build-
ings. Burns entered on possession of his farm at Whitsuntide 178S, but
the necessary rebuilding of the house prevented his removing Mrs. Burns
thither until the season was far advanced. He had, moreover, to qualify
himself for holding his excise connnission by six weeks' attendance on the
business of that profession at Ayr. From these circumstances, he led all
the summer a wandering and unsettled life, and Dr. Currie mentions this
as one of his chief misfortunes. The poet, as he says, was continually rid-
ing between Ayrshire and Dumfriesshire, and often spending a night on
the road, " sometimes fell into company, and forgot the resolutions he had
formed." What these resolutions were, the poet himself shall tell us. On
the third day of his residence at Elliesland, he thus writes to Mr. Ainslie :
— " 1 have all along hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms,
among the light-horse, the piquet guards of fancy, a kind of hussars aiul
Highlanders of the brain ; but 1 am firmly resolved to sell out of these giddy
battalions. Cost what it will, I am determined to buy in among the grave
squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps of plodding cop
ixxyjii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
trivance. . . . Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situation e^
specting a family of children, I am decidedly of opinion that the step 1 have
taken is vastly for my happiness." *
To ail his friends he expresses himself in terms of similar satisfacticn in
regard ti his marriage. '* Your surmise, Madam," he writes to Mrs. Dun-
lop, " is just. I am indeed a husband. I found a once much-loved, and
still mu. h-loved female, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the
naked elements, but as I enabled her to purchase a shelter ; and there is no
sporting with a fellovr-crcature's happiness or misery. The most placid
goodnature and sweetness of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted
with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health and spriglitly cheerfulness,
set off to the best advantage by a more than commonly handsome figure ;
these, 1 think, in a woman, may make a good wife, though she should ne-
ver have read a page but the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament,
nor danced in a brighter assembly than a penny-pay wedding
To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger; my preservative from the
first, is tne most thorough consciousness of her sentiments of honour, and
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 io eminently mistress, and during my absence in
Kithsdale, sne is regularly and constantly an apprentice to my mother and
sisters in their ctairy, and other rural business You are ri<''ht,
that a bachelor state would have ensured me more friends ; but from a
cause you will easily guess, conscious peace in the enjoyment of my own
mind, and unmistrusting confidence in approaching my God, would f^eldorw
have been of the number." f
Some montiis later he tells Miss Chalmers that his marriage " was not,
perhaps, in consequence of the attachment of romance," — (he is addressing
a young lady), — " but," he continues, " 1 have no cause to repent it. If
I have not got polite laliie, modish manners, and fashionable dress, 1 am not
sickcried and disgusted with the multiform curse of boarding-school afiec-
tatiun ; and I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the
soundest constitution, and the kindcbt heart in the country. Mrs. Burns
believes as firmly as her creed, that I am le plus hel csp/it ct k p/its lumnele
hnmnie in the universe ; although fche scarcely ever, in her life, except the
Scriptures and the Psaims of David in Metre, spent five minutes together
on cither prose or verse — I must except also a certain late publication of
Scots poems, which she Juis perused very devoutljs and all the ballads of
the country, as she has (O the partial lover, you will say), the finest
woodnote-wild I ever heard." — It was during this honeymoon, as he calls
it, while chiefly resident in a miserable hovel sX Ellit.'sland, J and only
occasionally spending a day or two in Ayrshire, Uiat he wrote the beat tiliU
song
" Of a' the airts tlie wind can blaw I dearly like the west,
For tliere the bonnie hissie lives, the lassie I lo'e best ;
There wildwoods grow, and rivers rov.', and iiioriy a hill between ;
15ut day and night my fancy's flight is ever \vi' my Jean.
O blaw, ye wcstlin winds, blaw saft amang the leafy trees,
A\'i' gentle gale, frae nuiir and dale, bring hair.c the laden bees.
And biiiig tlie lassie back to me, that's aye sac neat and clean;
Ae blink o' her wad banish care, sae lovely is my Jean."
• Reliqncs, p. CS. -I* Sec General Correspondence, No. 53 ; and Reliqucs, p- 60,
X lldiiiues, p. 75. |i Ibid. p. 273.
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
Ixxix
One of Burns's letters, written not long after this, contains a passage strong-
ly marked with his haughtiness of character. " I have escaped," savs he,
*' tlie fantastic caprice, the apish aifectation, with all the other blessed
boarding-scliool acquirements v.-hich are sometimes to be found among fe-
males of the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the
would-be gentry." *
" A discerning reader," saj^s INTr. Walker, « will perceive that the let-
ters in which he announces his marriage to some of his most respected cor-
respondents, are written in that state when the mind is pained by reflect-
ing on an ;:nwelcomc step, and finds relief to itself in seeking arguments
to justify the deed, anu essen its disadvantages in the opinion of others." f
I confess I am not able l.o discern any traces of this kind of feeling in any
of Burns's letters on this interesting and important occasion. The Rev.
Hamilton Paul takes an original view of this business : — " Much praise,"
says he, •' has been lavished on Burns for renewing his engagement with
Jean wh.en in the blaze of his fame. . . Tlie praise is misplaced. We
do not think a man entitled to credit or commendation for doing what tlie
law could compel him to perform. Burns was in reality a married man,
and it is truly ludicrous to hear him, aware as he nuist have been, of the in-
dissoluble power of the obligation, tliough every document was destroyed,
talking of himself as a bachelor.'" J There is no justice in these remarks.
It is very true, that, by a merciful fiction of the law of Scotland, the fe-
male, in Miss Armour's condition, who produces a written promise of mar-
riage, is considered as having furnished evidence of an irregular marriai^e
having taken place between her and her lover ; but in this case the female
herself had destroyed the document, and lived for many months not only
not assuming, but rejecting the character of I'urns's wife ; and had she, un-
der such circumstances, attempted to establish a marriage, with no docu-
ment in her hand, and with no parole evidence to show that any such do-
cument had ever existed, to say nothing of proving its exact tenor, but
that of her own father, it is clear that no ecclesiastical court in the v.orld
could have failed to decide against her. So far from Burns's having all
along regarded her as his wife, it is extremely doubtful wliether she had
ever for one moment considered him as actually her husband, until he de-
clared the marriage of 178B. Burns did no more than justice as v.ell as
honour demanded ; but the act was one which no human tribunal could
have compelled him to perform.
To return to our story. Burns complains sadly of his solitary condition,
when living in the only hovel that lie found extant on his farm. " I am,"
says he, (September 9th) "busy with my harvest, but for all that most
[ileasurable part of life called social intercourse, I am here at the very el-
bow 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, &c., and the value ol' tiiese they estimate as they do their plaid-
ing webs, by the ell. As for the muses, tliey have as much id(;a of a rJiino-
ceros as of a poet." And in another letter (September Kith) he says
" Tills hovel that I shelter in while occasionally here, is pervious to every
blast that blows, and every shower that falls, and I am only preserved
from being chilled to death by being suffocated by smoke. You will be
pleased to hear that I have laid aside idle eclat, and bind every day alter
• Oe;ier:!l rorresjjonilsr.ce, No. 55.
J Paul's Life of liuriis. p. 4.1.
i- Hlorrisjon, vol. i. p. Ixxxvi;.
lxx>- LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
myreajters." His .'■ouse, however, did not take much time in building,
nor had he reason to complain of want of society long. He brought his
\Tife home to Elliesland about the end of November ; and few housekeepers
start with a larger provision of young mouths to feed than this couple. Mrs.
Burns had lain in this autumn, for the second time, of twins, and I sup-
pose " sonsy, smirking, dear-bought Bess,"* accompanied her younger bro-
thers and sisters from Mossgiel. From that quarter also Burns brought a
whole establishment of servants, male and female, who, of course, as was
then the universal custom amongst the small farmers, both of the west and
of the south of Scotland, partook, at the san^e table, of the same fare with
their master and mistress.
Elliesland is beautifully situated on the banks of the Nith, about six rniles
above Dumfries, exactly opposite to the h.ouse of Dalswinton, ol" those noble
woods and gardens amidst which Burns's landlord, the ingenious Mr. Pa-
trick Miller, found relaxation from the scientific studies and researches in
which he so greatly excelled. On the Dalswinton side, the river washes
lawns and groves ; but over against these the bank rises into a long red
scaur, of considerable height, along the verge of which, where the bare
shingle of the precipice all but overhangs the stream, Burns had his favou-
rite walk, and might now be seen striding alone, early and late, especially
when the winds were loud, and the waters below him swollen and turbu-
lent. For he was one of those that enjoy nature most in the more serious
and severe of her aspects ; and throughout his poetry, for one allusion
to the liveliness of spring, or the splendour of summer, it would be eas^
to point out twenty in which he records the solemn delight with which he
contemplated the melancholy grandeur of autumn, or the savage gloom ol
winter ; and he has himself told us, that it was his custom " to take a
gloamin' shot at the muses."
The poet was accustomed to say, that the most happy period c? his life
was the first winter he spent at Elliesland, — for t'le first time under a roof
of his own — with his v/ife and children about him — and in spite of oc-
casional lapses into the melancholy which had haunted his youth, looking'
forward to a life of well-regulated, and not ill-rewarded, industry. It is
known that he welcomed his wife to her rooftree at Elliesland in the song,
" I liae a wife o' mine ain, I'll partake wi' naebody ;
I'll tak cuckold frae nane, I'll gie cuckold to naebody;
1 hae a penny to spend — there —thanks to naebody ;
1 hae naething to lend— I'll burrow frae naebody."
In commenting on this " little lively lucky song," as he well calls it, Mr. A
Cunningham says, " Burns had built his house, he had committed his
seed-corn to the ground, he was in the prime, nay the morning of life —
health, and strength, and agricultural skill were on his side — his genms
liad been acknowledged by his country, and rewarded by a subscription,
more extensive than any Scottish poet ever received before ; no wonder,
therefore, that he broke out into voluntary song, expressive of his sense ot
nnportance and independence."
Burns, in his letters of the year 1 789, maKcs many apologies for doing
but little in his poetical vocation ; his farm, without doubt, occupied nmch
of his attention, but the want of social intercourse, of which he complained
on his first arrival in Nithsdale, had by this time totally disappeared. Oe
• Poetical Ikventouy to Mr. Aiken, February 1/86.
1.1FE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxl
the contrary, his company was courted eagerly, not only by his brother-
farmers, but by the neigiibouriiig gentry of all chisses ; and now, too, for
the first time, he began to be visited continually in his own linuse by curi-
ous travellers of all sorts, who did not consider, any more than the gene-
rous poet himself, that an extensive practice of hospitality must cost more
time tlian he ought to have had, and far more money than he ever had, at
his disposal. Meantime, he was not wholly regardless of the muses ; ibr
in addition to some pieces which we have already had occasion to notice,
he contributed to this year's Muskum, The Thames jiows promUtj (o thQ
Sea ; Tlic lazy mist hangs, S)-c. ; The day rctuins, my bosom hnnis ; Tarn
Glen, (one of the best of his humorous songs) ; the splendid lyric, Go
fetch lame a pint of wine, and My heart's in the Hielands, (in both of which,
however, he adopted some lines of ancient songs to the same tunes); Jofm
Anderson, in part also a rifacciamento ; the best of all his Ijacchanalian
pieces, IViliie hrewed a peck a' maut, written in celebration of a festive meet-
ing at the country residence, in Dumfriesshire, of his friend Mr. Nicoll of
the High School ; and lastly, that noblest of all his ballads, To Mary in
Heaven. This celebrated poem was, it is on all hands admitted, composed
by Burns in September 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he
heard cf the death of his early love, Mary Campbell ; but Mr. Croniek
lias thought fit to dress up the story with circumstances which did not oc-
cur. Mrs. Burns, the only person who could appeal to personal recollec-
tion on this occasion, and whose recollections o^ all circumstances con-
nected with the history of her husband's poems, are represented as being
remarkably distinct and vivid, gives what may at first appear a more pro-
saic edition of the histcrj-. * According to her. Burns spent that day,
though labouring under cold, in the usual work of his harvest, and appa-
rently in excellent spirits. But as the twilight deepened, he appeared to
grow " very sad about something," and at length wandered out into the
barn-yard, to which his wife, in her anxiety for his health, followed him,
entreating him in vain to observe that frost had set in, and to return
to the fireside. On being again and again requested to do so, he always
promised compliance — but still remained where he %vas, s,triding up and
down slowly, and contemplating the sky, which was singularly clear and
starry. At last IMrs. Burns found him stretched on a mass of strav/, with
his eyes fixed on a beautiful planet " that shone like another moon ;" and
prevailed on him to come in. Pie immediately on catering the iiouse, called
for his desk, and wrote exactly as they now stand, with al' lie case of one
copying from memory, the sublime and pathetic verses--
" Thou lingering star with lessening ray,
Tliat lovest to greet ilie early mom,
Again thou usher'st in the day
i\!y Mary from my soul was torn.
O i\lary, ilear dejiarted shade.
Where is thy place of btisst'ul rest ;
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid,
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?" &<;-
Tlie Mo.liefs Lament for her Son, and Inscription in an Hermitage in
Nilhsdale, were also written this year. From the time when Burns settled
Iiimself in Dumfriesshire, he appears to have conducted with much care
tlie extensive correspondence in which his celebrity had engagetl liiin. The
• I 0W9 these particulars to ^!r. Jl'Diarmid, the ahle editor of ;he Dumfries Courier, and
brother of tlie lamented author of " Lives of liriiish Statesmen. "
xxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
ettcrs that passed between him and his brother Gilbert, are among iJie
most precious of the collection. That the brothers had entire knoviledgc
of and confidence in each other, no one can doubt ; and the plain manly
affectionate language in which they both write, is truly honourable to them,
and ir '■he parents that reared them. " Dear Brother," writes Gilbert,
January l^t, 1789, " I have just finished my new-year's-day breakfast in
the usual form, which naturally makes me call to mind the days of former
years, and the society in which we used to begin them ; and when I look
at our family vicissitudes, ' through the dark postern of time long elapsed,'
I cannot help remarking to you, my dear brother, how good the God of
seasons is to us ; and that, however some clouds may seem to lour over
the portion of time before us, we have great reason to hope that all will
turn out well."
It was on the same new-year's-day that Burns himself addressed to Mrs.
Dunlop a letter, part of which is here transcribed. It is dated Elliesland,
New-year-day morning, 1789, and certainly cannot be read too often : —
" This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I
came under the apostle James's description! — the prayer of a righteous tnan
availeth much. In that case, madam, you should welcome in a year full of
blessings ; everything that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoy-
ment, should be removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity can taste,
should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that 1 approve of
set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking
in on that habituated routine of life and thought, 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 machinery. This day, — the first
Sunday of May, — a breezy, blue-skyed moon sometime about the begin-
ning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about the end of autumn ;
these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind of holiday.
" I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, ' The
Vision of IMirza ;' a piece that struck my young fancy before 1 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 holi/, after
having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended
the high hill of Dagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation
and prayer.' We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or
structure of our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in
them, that one should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck
with that, which, on minds of a different cast, makes no extraordinary im-
pression. 1 have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the
mountain-daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, the bud-
ding-birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with par-
ticular delight. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle of tlie curlew in a
summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey plover, in an
autumnal mornii)<r, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm
of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be ow
ing ? Arc we a piece of machinery, which, like the TEolian harp, passive,
takes the impression of the passing accident ? Or do these workings argue
something within us above the trodden clod? I own myself partial to such
proofs of those awful and important realities— a God that made all things
—man's innnaterial and immortal nature — and a world of weal or woe b*^
vond death and the y.rave."
LIl'E OF ROBEllT BURXS. .xxxia
Few, u Is to be hoped, can read sucli tliiniis as tlicsc without delight ;
none surely, that taste the elevated pleasure they are calculated to in-
spire can turn from them to the well-known issue of Burn>.'s history, with-
out being afflicted. The " golden days" of Elliesland. as Dr. Currie justly
calls them, were not destined to be many. Burns's farming s{)eculations
once more failed ; and he himself seems to have been aware that such was
likely to be the case ere he had given the business many months' trial ; for,
ere the autumn of 1788 was over, he applied to his patron, Mr. (irahani of
Fintray, for actual emjiloyment as an exciseman, and was accordingly aj)-
pointed to do duty, in that capacity, in the district where his lands were
situated. His income, as a revenue officer, was at first only XSo ; it by
nnd by rose to iaO ; and sometimes was 170. These pounds were hardly
earned, since the duties of his new calling necessarily withdrew him very
often from the farm, whicli needed his utmost attention, and exposed him,
which Avas still worse, to innumerable temptations of the kind he was least
hkely to resist.
I have now the satisfaction of presenting the reader with some particu-
lars of this part of Burns's history, derived from a source which every
lover of Scotland and Scottish ])octry must be prepared to hear mentioned
] with respect. It happened that at the time when our poet went to Niths'
• dale, th.e father of Mr. Allan Cunniuijham was steward on the estate of
> Dalswinton : he was, as all m-1io have read the writings of his sons will
I readily believe, a man of remarkable talents and attainments: he was a
j wise and good man ; a devout admirer of Burns's genius ; and one of those
! sober neighbours who in vain strove, by advice and warning, to arrest the
j poet in the downhill path, tov.-ards. which a thousand seductions were per-
I petually drawing him. Mr. Allan Cunningham was, of course, almost a
I child when he first saw Burns ; but, in what he has to say on tliis subject,
we may be sure we are hearing the substance of his benevolent and saga-
cious father's observations and reflections. His own boyish recollections
of the poet's personal appearance and demeanour v,i!l, however, be read
} M'ith interest. " 1 was very young," says Allan Cunningham, " when I
first saw Burns. He came to see my father; and their conversation turned
partly on farming, partly on poetry, in both of which my father had taste
j and skill. Burns had just come to Kithsdale ; and I think he appeared a
shade more swarth}' than he does in Nasmytifs ]iicture, and at least ten years
j older tlian he really v>as at the lime. His liice v.as deeply marked by
I thought, nnd the habitual expression intensely melancholy. His frame was
j very muscular and well proj)ortioned, though he had a short neck, and
5on!ething of a ploughman's stoop : he v. as strong, and proud of his strength
I saw him one evening match himself with a number of masons ; and out
of five-and- twenty practised hands, the most vigorous j'oung men in the
[)arish, tliere was only one that could lift the same weight as Burns He
luid a very manly face, and a very melancholy look ; but on the coming of
those he esteemed, his looks brightened up, and his whole face beamed
with affection and genius. His voice was very musical. I once heard
him read 7\nii o SItindcr. I think I hear him now. His fine manly voice
followed all the undulations of the sense, and expressed as well as his ge-
nius had done, the patlios and humour, the horrible and the awful, of that
wonderi'ul performance. Asa man feels; so will he write; and in propor-
tion as he b'.-mnathizcs with his author, so will he read him with tirace and
ftnect
!
.xxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
" I said tl'.at Burns and my father conversed about poetrj and farming
Tlie poet had newly taken possession of his farm of Elliesland, — the masons
w ere busy building his house, — the applause of the world was with him,
and a little of its ntoney in his pocket, — in short, he had found a resting-
place at last. He spoke with great delight about the excellence of his
farm, and particularly about the beauty of the situation. ' Yes,' my father
said, ' the walks on the river bank are fine, and you will see from your win-
dows some miles of the Nith ; but you will also see several farms of fine
rich holm, * any ons of which you might have had. You have made a
poet's choice, rather than a farmer's.' If Burns had much of a farmer's
skill, he hp/d little of a farmer's prudence and economy. I once inquired
of James Corrie, a sagacious old farmer, whose ground marched with Ellies-
land, the cause of the poet's failure. ' Faith,' said he, ' how could he miss
but fail, wiien his servants ate the bread as fast as it was baked ? I don't
mean figuratively, I mean literally. Consider a little. At that time close
economy was necessary to liave enabled a man to clear twent} pounds a-
year by Elliesland. Now, Burns's own handy work was out of the ques-
tion : he neither ploughed, nor sowed, nor reaped, at least like a hard-
working farmer ; and then he had a bevy of servants from Ayrshire. The
lasses did nothing but bake bread, and the lads sat by the fireside, and ate
it warm with ale. Waste of time and consumption of food would soon
reach to tv/enty pounds a-year.'
" The truth of the case," says Mr. Cunningham, in another letter with
which he has favoured me, " the truth is, tl)at if Robert Burns liked his
farm, it v/as more for the beauty of the situation than for the labours which
it demanded. He was ton waj-ward to attend to the stated duties of a
husbandman, and too impatient to wait till the ground returned in gain the
cultivation he bestowed upon it. The condition of a farmer, a Nithsdale
one, 1 mean, was then verj' humble His one-story house had a covering
of straw, and a clay floor; the furniture was from the hands of a country
carpenter ; and, between the roof and fioor, there seldom intervened a
smoother ceiling than of rough rods and grassy turf — while a huge lang-settle
of black oak for himself, and a carved arm chair for his wife, were the only
matters out of keeping with the homely looks of his residence. He took
all his meals in his own kitchen, and presided regularly among his children
and domestics. He performed family worship every evening — except dur-
ing the hurry of harvest, when that duty was perhaps limited to Saturday
night. A few religious books two or three favourite poets, the history of
his country, and his Bible, aided him in forming the minds and manners of
(he family. To domestic education, Scotland owes as much as to the care
Df her clergy, and the excellence of her parish schools.
"•' The picture out of doors was less interesting. 'I'he ground from which
the farmer sought support, was generally in a very moderate state of culti-
vation. The implements with which he tilled his land were primitive and
clumsy, and his ovt'n knowledge of the management of crops exceedingly
limited. He plodded on in the regular slothful routine of his ancestors ;
he rooted out no bushes, he dug up no stones ; lie drained not, neither did
lie enclose . and weeds obtained then iull share of the dung and the lime,
which he bestowed more like a medicine than a meal on his soil. His
plough was iJie rude old Scotch one ; his harrows had as ofcen teeth j1
• Ilohii is ff.it, rich meadow liina, intervsning between a stream and tlie general elevation
di' tlic adjoi.m flg cuuntiy.
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxv
ivood as of iron ; his carts were heavy and low-wlieclcd, or were, more
(iroperly speaking, tunibler-carts, so called to distinguish tlieni from trail
carts, both of which were in connnon use. On these rude carriages his
manure was taken to the field, and his crop brought home. The iarmer
himself corresponded in all respects with his imperfect instruments. His
poverty secured him from risking costly experiments ; and his hatred ot
innovation made him entrench himself behind a breast-work of old maxims
and rustic saws, which he interpreted as oiacles delivered against improve-
ment. With ground in such condition, with tools so uniit, and with know-
ledge so imperfect, he sometimes succeeded in wringing a ^t^w hundred
pouni s Scots from the farm he occupied. Sucli was generally the state of
agriculture when Burns came to Nithsdale. I know not how far his own
skill was equal to the task of improvement — his trial was short and unfor-
tunate. An important change soon took place, by which he was nat fated
to profit ; he had not the foresight to see its approach, nor, probabl}', the
fjrtitude to await its coming.
" in the year 1790, much of the ground in Nithsdale was leased at seven,
and ten. and fifteen shillings per acre ; and the farmer, in his person and
his house, differed little from the peasants and mechanics around him. He
would have thought his daughter a< edded in her degree, had she married a
joiner or a mason ; and at kirk or market, all men beneath the rank of a
" portioner" of the soil mingled together, equals in appearance and impor-
tance. But the war which soon commenced, gave a decided impulse to
agriculture; the army and navy consumed largely; corn rose in demand;
the price augmented ; more land was called into culiivation ; and, as leases
expired, the proprietors improved the grounds, built better houses, enlarg-
ed the rents ; and the farmer was soon borne on the wings of sudden wealth
above his original condition. His house obtained a slated roof, sash-windows,
carpeted floors, plastered walls, and even bogan to exchange the hanks of
yarn with which it was formerly hung, for paintings and pianofortes. He
laid aside his coat of home-made cloth ; he retired from his seat among his
servants ; he — I am grieved to mention it — gave up family worship as a
thing unfashionable, and became a kind of rustic r/e/iihiiu/n, v.ho rode a blood
horse, and galloped home on market nights at the peril of his own neck, and
to the terror of every modest pedestrian. \Vhen a change like this took
nlace, and a farmer could, with a dozen years' industry, be able to purchase
the land he rented — which many were, and many did — the same, or a still
more profitable change might have happened with respect to Elliesland ;
and Burns, had he stuck by his lease and his plough, avouUI, in all human
possibility, have found the independence which he sought, and sought in
vain, frara the coldness and parsimony of mankind."
r.Ir. Cunningham sums up his reminiscences of Burns at Elliesland in
these terms : — '• During the prosperity of his farm, my father often said
that Burnis conducted himself wisely, and like one anxious for his name as
H man. and his fame as a poet. He went to Dunscore Kirk on ^Sunday,
though he expressed oftener than once his dislike to the stern Calvinism of
that strict old divine, Mr. Kirkpatrick ; — he assisted in forming a reading
club ; and at weddings and house-heatings, and kirns, and other scenes of fes-
ti "'ty, he was a welcome guest, universally liked by the young and the old.
iiut the failure of his farming projects, and the limited income with which
he was compelled to support an increasing family and an eypensive station
Ui life, preyed on his spirits ; and, during these fits of despair, he was will
xxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
ing too often to become tlie companion of the thoughtless and the gross. J
am grieved to say, that besides leaving the book too much for the bowl,
and grave and wise friends for lewd and reckless companions, he was also
in the occasional practice of composing songs, in which he surpassed the
licentiousness, as well as the wit and humour, of the old Scottish muse.
These have unfortunately found their way to the press, and I am afraid
they cannot be recalled. In conclusion, I may say, that few men have had
so much of the poet about them, and fev/ poets so much of the man ; — the
man was probably less pure than he ought to have been, but the poet was
pure and bright to the last."
The reader must be sufficiently prepared to hear, that from the time
when he entered on his excise duties, the poet more and more neglected
the concerns of his farm. Occasionally, he might be seen holding the
plough, an exercise in which he excelled, and was proud of excelling, or
stalking down his furrows, with the white sheet of grain wrapt about him,
a " tenty seedsman ;" but he was more commonly occupied in far different
pursuits. •' I am now," says he, in one of his letters, " a poor rascally
ganger, condemned to gallop two hundred miles every week, to inspect
dirty ponds and yeasty barrels." Both in verse and in prose he has. recorded
the feelings with which he first followed his new vocation. His jests on
the subject are uniform!}' bitter. " I have the same consolation," he tells
Mr Ainslie, " wliich I once heard a recruiting sergeant give to his audi-
ence in the streets of Kilmarnock : ' Gentlemen, for your farther encourage ■
ment, I can assure you that ours is the most blackguard corps under the
crown, and, consequently, with us an honest fellow has th.e surest chance
of preferment.' " On one occasion, however, he takes a higher tone. " There
is a certain stigma," says he to Bishop Geddes, " in the name of Excise-
man ; but I do not intend to borrow honour from any profession :" — which
may periiaps remind the reader of (iibbon's lofty language, en finally quit-
ting the learned and polished circles of London and Paris, for his Swiss re-
tirement : " I am too modest, or too j)roud, to rate my value by that oi
my associates."
Burns, in his perpetual perambulations over the moors of Dumfriesshire,
had every temptation to encounter, which bodily fatigue, the blandishments
of hosts and hostesses, and the habitual manners of those who acted along
witli him in the duties of the excise, could present. He was, moreover,
wherever he went, exposed to perils of his own. by the reputiition which
he had earned as a poet, and by his extraordinary powers of cntc'tainment
in conversation. I'rom the castle to the cottage, every door t!ew open at
his approach ; and the old system of hospitality, then flourishing, rendered
it difficult for the most soberly inclined guest to rise from any man's board
in the same trim that he sat down to it. The farmer, if Burns was seen
passing, left his reapers, and trotted by the side of Jenny Geddes, until
he could persuade the bard that the day was hot enough to demand an
extra-iibation. If he entered an inn at midnight, after all the ii/Tiiate3
were in bed, the news of his arrival circulated from the cellar to the garret;
and ere ten minutes had elapsed, the landlord and all his guests were as-
sembled round the ingle; the largest punch-bowl was produced ; and
" He ours tliis i.iglu — wha knows what comes to-niovrow ?"
was the language of every eye in the circle that welcomed him. Tlie
stateliest L^entry of the count}', whenmei tliey had es])ecial merriment in
I I
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxvil
\\o\v, called In the wit and eloquence of Burns to enliven nieir carousals.*
The t'anious song ot' T/ic Whistle of iCDiih connneinorates a scene of this
kind, more picturesque in some of its circumstances than every day oc-
curred, yet strictly in character with the usual tenor of life amo!!g this jo-
vial squii-carchy. Three gentlemen of ancient descent, liad met to deter-
mine, by a solemn drinking match, who should {)ossess the lf7ii.sf/i\ which
a common ancestor of them all had earned ages before, in a Ijacchaiialian
contest of the same sort with a noble t()[)er from Denmark ; and the poet
was summoned to watch over and celebrate the issue of the debate
" Then up rose the bard like a prophet in ilrink,
Crai^d-irroch shall soar wlien creation sliall sink ;
But if dioii worild'st flourish inniiortal in rhyme.
Come, one bottle more, and luve at the sublime."
Nor, as has already been hinted, was he safe fronj temptations of this kind,
even when he was at home, and most disposed to enjoy in quiet the socie-
ty of hiis wife and children. Lion-gazers from all quarters beset him ; they
ate and drank at his cost, and often went awav to criticise him and his
fare, as if they had done Burns and his black howl f great honour in con-
descending to be entertained for a single evening, with such companj' and
such li(|uor.
We have on record various glimpses of him, as he appeared while he
was half-farmer, half-exciseman ; and some of these present him in atti-
tudes and aspects, on which it would be pleasing to dwell. For example,
th.e circumstances under which the verses on T/te ivciindtd Hare were
written, are mentioned generally by the poet himself. James Thomson,
son of the occupier of a farm adjoining Elliesland, told Allan Cunnijigham,
that it was he who wounded the animal. " Burns," said this person, " was
in the custom, when at home, of strolling by himself in the twilight every
evening, along the Kith, and by the nutrrh between his land and curs.
The hares often came and nibbled our wheat braird ; and once, in the
gloaming, — it was in April, — I got a shot at one. and wounded her : she ran
bleeding by Burns, \\ho was pacing up and down by himself, not far from
me. Me started, and with a bitter curse, ordered me out of his sight, or
he would throw me instantly into the Nith. And had I stayed. 111 war-
rant he would have been as good as his word — though 1 was both young
and strong."
Among other curious travellers who found their way about this time to
Elliesland, was Captain Grose, tlie celebrated antiquarian, whom Burns
briefly describes as
" A fi:ie fat fod^'d wlf^ht—
Oi stature sliort, but genius bright ;"
and who has painted his own portrait, both with pen and pencil, at full
length, in his Olio, f his gentleman's taste and pursuits are ludicrously set
fortli in the copy of verses —
• Tlicsc paiticulars are from a letter of Dayitl Macculloch, Es(^., who, being at ihis period
a very yom.g mun, a i)assi()i'.ate ;;dmirer of Uurns, and a capital singer of many of iiis serious
sor.t>, used often, in his etuhusiasm, to accompany the poet on his professional excursions.
+ r.iirns's fimous black punch-bowl, of Inverary marljle, was die nuptial gift of Mi At-
n'liur. I'i^ fat!'er-ii:-l w, who himself fashioned it. .After passing through many hands, it it
r.mv iii excellent keeping, tliat of Alexander Hastie, Esq. ot London.
xxxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
" Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots,
Frae ."Maidenkirk to John O'Groats,
A chitld's amaiig ye takin' notes," &c.
and, infer alia, his love of port is not forgotten. Grose and Burns liad too
much in common, not to become great friends. The poet's accurate know-
ledge of Scottisli phraseology and customs, was of great use to the re-
searches of the humourous antiquarian ; and, above all, it is to their ac-
quaintance that vv'e owe Tarn o Shunter. Burns told the story as he h.ad
heard it in Ayrshire, in a letter to the Captain, and v.as easily persuaded
to versify it. The poem was the work of one day ; and Mrs. Burns well rc-
nifmbers the circumstances. He spent most of the day on his favourite walk
by the river, where, in the afternoon, she joined him with some of her
children. " He was busily engaged crooning to liinissll, and .Mrs. Burns
perceiving that her presence was an interruption, loitered bcliind with her
little ones among the broom. Her attention was presently attracted by the
strange and wild gesticulatioi^s of the bard, who, now at some distance,
was agonized with an ungovernable access of joy. He was reciting very
loud, and with the tears rolling down his cheeks, those animated verses
which he had just conceived : —
" Now Tam ! O Tarn ! had they been queans,
A' plump and strappi:i' in their teens ;
Their sarks, instead of creeshie flannen,
l?een snaw-wliite seventeen. bunder *iinen, —
'J'liir breeks o' mine, my only pair.
That ance were plush o' good blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them off my liurdics.
For ae blink o' the bonnie ijurdies !" -j-
To the last Burns was of opinion that Tam a' Slianfer was the best of
all his productions ; and although it does not always happen that poet and
public come to the same conclusion on such points, I believe the decision in
question has been all but unanimously approved of. The admirable execu-
tion of the ])iece, so fin- as it goes., leaves nothing to wish for; the OY\\y cri-
ticism has been, that the catastrophe appears unworthy of the preparation.
Burns lays the scene of this remarkable performance almost on the spot
where he v.-as born ; and all the terrific circumstances by which he has
marked the progress of Tam's midnight journey, are drawn from local tra-
dition.
" By this time he was cross the ford
W'hare in llie snaw the chapnuin smoor'd,
And past the biiks and nieikle sUuie,
W'barc dnicken Charlie brak's neck-bane ;
And through the whins, and by t1ie ciirn,
A\'hare hunter's fand the murder'd bairn ;
And near the tlior;', aboon the well,
W'hare Mungo's mither hang'd hersell.''
^one of these tragic memoranda were derived from imagination. Nor was
Iain o" Slianter himself an imaginary character. ISlianter is a farm close
to Kirkoswald's, that smuggling village, in which Burns, when nineteen
years old, studied mensuration, and " first became actjuainted with scenes
of swaggering riot." 'J"he then occupier of bhanter, by name Douglas
• " The manufacturer's term for a fine linen, woven on arced of 1 7*10 divisions." — Ciomrli,
-)- The above is (|u-,)tcd from a .^IS. journal of Oomck. .Mr. M'Diarmid confirms the
statement, and a(h!s, that llie iioet, liavmg coiumitted the verses to wiiting on the top of Ilia
Kj(l.h/kr (i\er tlie water, came into tlic house, and read them inmiodiatc'y m high triumph at
he tircside.
LIFE OF HOnERT BURNS.
Ixxxix
^iriihaino, \v;is. ])y all accounts, cquully what the Tarn of the poet appears,
— a jolly, careless, rustic, who took much more hiterest in the contrat)and
trafiic of the coast, than the rotation of crops. Burns knew the man well ;
antl to his dj'ing day, lie, nothing loath, passed among his rural compeers
by the name of Tarn o' Shanter.
A few words will bring us to the close of Burns's career at Klliesland.
Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, liappening to pass througli Nithsdalc in 1790,
met 15urns riding rapidly near (Jloseburn. The i)oet was obliged to pursue
iiis professional journey, but sent on Mr. Ramsay and his fellow-traveller
to Klliesland, where lie joined tlicm as soon as liis duty ])ermitted him,
saying, as he entered, " I come, to use the words of Shakspeare, stewed
in //asfr." Mr. Ramsay was " much ]ileased with his i/.ror Sah/'mt qttalh,
^nd his modest mansion, so unlike tlie habitation of ordinary rustics."
The evening was spent delightfully. A gentleman of dry temj)erament,
who looked in accidentally, soon partook the contagion, and sat listen-
ing to Burns with the tears running over his cheeks. " Poor Burns!" say?
Mr. Ramsay, " from that time I met him no more."
The summer after, some English travellers, calling at Elliesland, Mere
told that the poet was walking by the river. They proceeded in search of
him, and presently, " on a rock that projected into the stream, they saw
a man employed in angling, of a singular appearance. He had a cap mode
of a fox's skin on his head ; a loose greai-coat, fastened round him by a
belt, from which depended an enormous Highland broadsword. It was
Burns. He received them with great cordiality, and asked them to share
nis humble dinner." These tra»'ellers also classed the evening they s},eut
at I'^lliesland with the brightest '"f their lives.
Towards the close of 1791. tlie jioet, finally despairing of his farm, ae-
lermined to give up his lease, which the kindness of his landlord rendered
easy of arrangcmeni: ; and procuring an appointment to the Dumfries divi-
sion, v/hich raised his salary from the revenue to 170 per annum, removed
his family to the county town, in which he terminated his days. His con-
duct as an excise officer had hitherto met with uniform approbation ; and
lio nouri.sIied warm hopes of being promoted, when he had thus avowedly
devoted himself altogether to the service. He left Elliesland, liowever,
with a heavy heai't. The affection of his neighbours was rekindled in all its
early fervour by the thoughts of parting with him ; and the roup of liis
farming-stock and other effects, was, in spite of Avhisky, a very melancholy
scene. The competition for his chatties was eager, each being anxious to
secure a memorandum of Burns's residence among them. It is jileasing tc
knov,-. that among other " titles manifold" to their respect and gratitude,
Burns had superintended the formation of a subscription library in the parish.
His letters to the booksellers on this subject do him much lionour : his
choice of author?, (which business was naturally left to his discretion) being
in the highest degree judicious. Such institutions are now conmion, almost
universal, indeed, in all the rural districts of southern Scotland : but it
flioiild never be forgotten that B>urns was among the first, if not the very
first, to set the example. " He was so good," says Mr Riddel, " as to
take the whole management of this concern ; he was treasurer, librarian,
and censor, to our little society, who will long have a grateful sense of his
public spirit, and exertions for their improvement. and information." Once,
and only once, did Burns quit his residence at Elliesland to revisit Edin-
burt'h. His object was to close accounts with Creech ; tiiat business ac
«ic LIFE Or KOBEliT BURNS.
complishcci, he returntvi immediatelj, and he never again saw the capital
He thus writes to Mrs. Dunlop : — " T > a man who has a home, however
humble and remote, if that liome is, hke mine, the scene of domestic com-
fort, the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sickening disgust —
" Vain pomp and glor of the world, I hate you !"
" When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rattling equipage of some gap
sng blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim,
•,vliat merits had he had, or what demerits have I had, in some state of!
pre- existence, that he is ushered into this state of being with the sceptre
of rule, and the key of riches in his puny fist, and I kicked into the world,
the sport of folly or the victim of pride .... often as I have glided with
humble stealth through the pomp of Prince's Street, it has suggested itself
to me as an improvement on the present human figure, that a man, in pro-
portion to his own conceit of his consequence in the world, could have
[lushed out the longitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out hia
iioms, or as we draw out a perspective '
CHAPTER nU.
Covfrvr<! Is more he.set In fmrn than connfry — 77/5 rnrhj I'or/raphrrs, (Dr. C'irrie not ex*
ccptixi), have coloured ton diirhly under thiit lieod — It is not correct to spenh of tlie poyt at
hnvhii] sunk into a toper, or a solitary drinker, or of /us rerels as other tlion orctisioniil, or of
tfieir huiint] irilerfeitd with the punctiiid disch(iri;e of his vfjiciul duties — He is shoirn to
have been the affectionate and beloved husband, aUhouyh passing follies imputed; and the
constant and most assid'ions instructor of his children — Impulses <f the French Iiev"liition
— Symptoms offratrri:isinp — J'hc attnitinn of his ijficicil superiors is called to them — Prac-
tically no blow is inflicted, only the bud name — Interestinij details tf this period — dives hit
whale soul to snny mahiuy — Preference in that for his native dialect, with the other attexd-
mnt facta, as to the portion (f his immortal lajj/s.
" The King's most humble ssnrant, i
Can scarcely s]),ire h. niinule?
Jvi'i. I am yours at diimer-thn-i.
Or else the devil's in iu" *
The fotir principal biograp!iers of our poet, Heron, Currie, Walker, ani
Irving, concur in tiio general statement, that his moral course from the
'jine when he settled in Dumfries, was downwards. Heron knew more ot
.lie matter personally than any of the others, and his words are these : —
'• In Dumfries his dissipation became still more deeply habitual. He was
licre exposed more than in the country, to be solicited to share the riot
of the dissolute and the idle. Foolish young men, such as writers' ap-
prentices, young surgeons, merchants" clerks, and his brother excise-
men, flocked eagerly about him, and irom time to time pressed him to
drink with them, that they might enjoy his wicked wit. The Caledonian
Club, too, and the Dumfries and Galloway Hunt, had occasional meet-
ings in Dumfries after Burns came to reside there, and the poet was of
course invited to share their hospitality, and hesitated not to accept tlie
invitation. The morals of the town were, in consequence of its becom-
ing so much the scene of public anmsemcnt, not a little corrujUcd, and
though a husband and a father. Burns did not escape suffering by the gene-
al contamination, in a manner which I forbear to describe. In the inter-
nals between his different fits of intemperance, he suffered the keenest an-
guish of remorse and horribly afflictive foresight. His .lean behaved with
a degree of maternal and conjugal tenderness and prudence, which made
liim feel more bitterly the evils of his misconduct, though they could not
reclaim him." — This picture, dark as it is, wants seme distressing shades
that mingle in the parallel one by Dr. Currie ; it wants nothing, however,
of which truth demands the insertion. That Burns, dissipated, ere he went
to Dumfries, became still more dissipated in a tov^n, tluin lie b.ad be^n in
the country, is certain. It may also be true, that his wife liad her owu
' "■ The al;Ove answer to an Liivitation was written extenipore on a leaf torn from his i'.j'
eise-book Crumek's MSS
jccii LIFE OF ROBF.UT niJKXS.
panic Jir causes, sometimes, for dissatisfliction. But tliat Burns ever sunk
into a toper — that he ever was addicted to solitary drinking — that his bot-
tle ever interfered with his discharj^e of his duties as an exciseman — or
that, in spite of some transitory follies, he ever ceased to be a most affec-
tionate husband — all these charges have been insinuated — and they are all
false. His intemperance was, as Heron says, xwjits; his aberrations of all
kinds were occasional, not systematic ; they were all to himself the sources
of exquisite misery in the retrospect; they were the aberrations of a man
whose moral sense was never deadened; — of one who encountered more
tem])tations from without and from within, than the immense majority ot
mankind, far from having to contend against, are even able 'o imagine ; —
of one, linally, who prayed for pardon, where alone effectual pardon could
be found ; — and who died ere he had reached that term of life up to which
the passions of many, who, their mortal career being regarded as a whole,
are honoured as among the most virtuous of mankind, have proved too
strong for the control of reason. We have already seen that the poet Mas
careful of decorum in all things during the brief space of his prosperity at
EUiesland, and that he became less so on many points, as the prospects of
his farming speculation darkened around him. It seems to be equally certain,
that he entertained high hopes of promotion in the excise at the period of
his removal to Dumfries ; and that the comparative recklessness of his
later conduct there, was consequent on a certain overclouding of these pro-
fessional expectations. The case is broadly stated so by Walker and I'aul :
and there are hints to the same effect in the narrative of Curric Th«
stiitenient h.as no doubt been exaggerated, but i^ has its foundalion in truth ;
and by the kindness of iMr. Tram, supervisor at Castle Douglas in Gailo-
way, 1 shall presently be enabled to give some details which may throw
light on this business.
Burns was much patronised when in Edinburgh by the Honourable Henry
Krskinc, Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and other leading Whigs of
the place — nmcli more so, to their honour be it said, than by any o'i the
influential adherents of the then administration. His landlord at Lllies-
land, .Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, his neighbour. Mr. Riddel of I'riars Carse,
and most of the other gentlemen who showed him special attention, belong-
ed to tiie same political party ; and, on his removal to Dumfries, it so hap-
pened, that some of his immediate superiors in the revenue service of the
d'Strict, and other persons of standing authority, into whose society he Mas
thrown, entertained sentiments of the same uescnption. Burns, Mhenever
in his letters he talks seriously of political matters, uniformly describes his
early jacabitisni as mere " matter of fancy." It may, houever, be easily
believed, that a fancy like his, long indulged in dreams of that sort, was
well prepared to pass into certain other dreams, M'hich likewise involved
feelings of dissatisfaction with " the existing order of things." Many of
the old elements of political disaffection in .Scotland, put on a new shape at
the outbreaiJngof the Irench Revolution; and Jacobites became half jaco-
bins, ere tliey were at all aware in Mhat the doctrines of jacobinism Mcie
to end. Tlie Whigs naturally regarded the first daMU of freedom in lV;ince
witli feelings of sympathy, delight, exultation. The general, the all but
universal tone of feeling was favourable to the first assailants of the Bour-
bon despotism ; and thi>re Mere fev.' mIio more ardently participated in the
general sentiment of the day than Burns. The revulsion of feehr.g that
.ook place in this country at large, when wanton atrocities began to <VMr
LIFE OF ROBEUT BURN'S. xcii
the course of the rrcnth JJcvolution, and Burke lifted his powerful voices
was grea*. Scenes more painfi.d at the time, and more so even now in the
retrospect, than had for generations afflicted Scotland, were the conse-
quences oi" the rancour into which party feelings on both sides n.»w rose and
fermented. Old and dear tics of friendship were torn in sunder ; society
was for a time sh.aken to its centre. In the most extravagant dreams oi
tiie Jacobites there had always been much to command respect, high chi.
valrous devotion, reverence for old affections, ancestral loyalty, and the
generosity of romance. In the new species of hostility, every thing seemed
mean as well as perilous ; it was scorned even more than luited. The very
name stained whatever it came near ; and men that had knov.n and loved
each other from boyhood, stood aloof, if this influence interfered, as if it
had been some loathsome pestilence.
There was a great deal of stately Toryism at this time in the town ol
Dumfries, which was the favourite winter retreat of many of the best gen-
tlemen's families of the south of Scotland, reelings that worked more
violently in Kdinburgh than in London, acquired additional energy still, in
this provincial capital. All men's eyes were upon Burns. He was the
standing marvel of the place ; his toasts, his jokes, his ej)igrams, his songs,
were the daily food of conversation and scandal ; and he, open and care-
less, and thinking he did no great harm in saying and singing what many
of his superiors had not the least objection to hear and applaud, soon be-
gan to be considered among the local admirers and disciples of King ( jeorge
the Third and his minister, as the most dangerous of all the apostles of se-
dition,— a^d to be shunned accordingly.
The records of the Excise-Office are silent concerning the suspicions
vvhich the Commissioners of the time certainly took up in regard to Burns
Is a political offender — according to the phraseology of the tempestuous
period, a democrat In that department, as then conducted, I am assured
that nothing could have been more unlike the usual course of things, than
that one syllable should have been set down in writing on such a subject,
unless the case had been one of extremities. That an inquiry was insti-
tuted, we know from Burns's own letters — but what tiie exact termination
of the inquiry was, will never, in all probability, be ascertained. Accord-
ing to the tradition of the neighbourhood, Burns, i7iter alia, gave great of-
fence by demurring in a large mixed company to the proposed toast, " the
health of William Pitt ;" and lei't the room in indignation, because the so-
ciety rejected what he w^ished to substitute, namely, " the health of a
greater and a better man, George Washington." 1 suppose tlie warmest
admirer of Mr. Pitt's talents and politics would hardly venture now-a-days
to dissent substantially from Burns's estimate of the comparative merits of
these two great men. 1 he name of Washington, at all events, when con-
temporary passions shall have finally sunk into the peace of the grave, will
unquestionably have its place in the first rank of heroic virtue, — a station
which demands the exhibition of victory pure and unstained over tempta-
tions and trials extraordinary, in kind as well as strength. But at the time
when Burns, being a servant of ?>Ir. Pitt's government, was guilty of this
indiscretion, it is obvious that a great deal " more was meant than readied
the ear." In the poet's own correspondence, we have traces of another oc-
currence of the same sort. Burns tiros writes to a gentleman at whose
table he had dined the day before : — " I was, I know, drunk last night, but
I am sober thi, morning. From the expressions Captain • made use
KCiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS.
of to me, had I liad nobody's welfare to care for but my own, we should
certainly have come, according to the manner of the world, to the neces-
sity of murdering one another about the business. The words were such
as generally, I believe, end in a brace of pistols ; but I am still pleased to
think that I did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and children in
a drunken squabble. Farther, you kno^ that the report of certain political
opinions being mine, has already once before brought me to the brink oi
destruction. I dread last night's business may be interpreted in the same
way. ^ You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for Mrs.
Burns's welfare with the task of v/aiting on every gentleman who was pre-
sent to state this to him ; and, as you please, show this letter. What, af-
ter all, was tlie obnoxious toast ? May our success in the preseTit war he equal
to the justice of our cause — a toast that the most outrageous frenzy of loyalty
cannot object to." — Burns, no question, was guilty of unpoliteness as well
as indiscretion, in offering any such toasts as these in mixed company ; but
that such toasts should have been considered as attaching any grave sus-
picion to his character as a loyal subject, is a circumstance which Ciin only
be accounted for by reference to the exaggerated state of political feelings
on all matters, and among all descriptions of men, at that melancholy p"e-
riod of disaffection, distrust, and disunion. Who, at any other period than
that lamentable time, would ever have dreamed of erecting the drinkino-.
or declining to drink, the health of a particular minister, or the approving,
or disapproving, of a particular measure of government, into the test of a
man's loyalty to his King ?
Burns, eager of temper, loud of tone, and with declamation and sarcasm
equally at command, was, we may. easily believe, the most hated of human
beings, because the most dreaded, among the provincial champions of the
administration of v.diich he thought fit to disapprove. But that he ever, in
his most ardent moods, upheld the principles of those whose applause of
the French Revolution was but the mask of revolutionary designs at home,
after these j)rinciples had been really developed by those that maintained
them, and understood by him, it may be safely denied. There is not, in
all his correspondence, one syllable to give countenance to such a charge.
His indiscretion, however, did not always confine itself to v.-ords ; and
though an incident now about to be recorded, belongs to the year 1792,
before the French war broke out, there is reason to believe that it formed
the main subject of the inquiry which the Excise Commissioners thought
themselves called upon to institute touching the politics of our poet.
At that period a great deal of contraband traffic, chiefly from the Isle of
INIan, was going on along the coasts of Galloway and Ayrshire, and the
whole of the revenue officers from Gretna to Dumfries, were placed under
the orders of a superintendent residing in Annan, who exerted himself
zealously in intercepting the descent of the smuggling vessels. On the
27 th of February, a suspicious-looking brig was discovered in the Sol way
Frith, and Burns was one of the party whom the superintendent conducted
to v/atch her motions. !?he got into shallow water the day afterwards, and
the officers were enabled to discover that her crew were numerous, armed,
and not likely to yield without a struggle. Lewavs, a brother exciseman,
an intimate friend of our poet, was accordingly sent to Dumfries for a
guard of dragoons ; the superintendent, Mr. Crawford, proceeded himself
on a similar errand to Ecclefcchan, and Burns was left with some men un-
der his orders, to watch the brig, and prevent landing or escape. Iron:
f .-
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
\c^
the private journal of one of the excisemen, (now in mj^ hantk), it appears
that Burns manifested considerable impatience wliile thus occupied, being
(oft for many hours in a wet salt-marsh, with a force which he knew to be
madequate for the purpose it was meant to fulfil. One of liis comrades
hearing him abuse his friend Lewars in particular, for being slow about Iiis
journey, the m.an answered, that he also wished the devil had him for his
pains, and that Burns, in the meantime, would do well to indite a song upon
the sluggard : Burns said nothing ; but after taking a few strides by himself
among the reeds and shingle, rejoined his party, and chanted to them ihis
wsU-known ditty : —
" The de'il cum' ficUllinj; thro' the town,
And danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ;
And ilk auld wife cry'd, ' AnU i\Ialioun,
' We wisli you luck o' the prize, man.
CiiOKUS — ' ^Ve'll mak' ourmaut, and brew our drink,
' We'll dance and sing and rejoice, man ;
' And mony thanks to the muckle black ds'il
' That danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman
' There's threesome reels, and foursome reels,
' There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ;
' liut the ae best dance e'er cam' to our Ian',
' Was the deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman.' "
Lewars arri^'ed shortly afterwards with his dragoons ; and Burns, putting
himself at their head, waded, sword in hand, to the brig, and was the first to
Doard her. The crew lost heart, and submitted, though their numbers v.cre
greater than those of the assailing force. The vessel was condemned, and,
with all her arms and stores, sold by auction next day at Dumfries : upon
which occasion Burns, whose behaviour had been highly commended,
thought fit to i)urchase four carronadcs, by way of troph}^ But his glee
went a step farther ; — he sent the guns, with a letter, to the French Con-
vention, requesting that body to accept of th.em as a mark of his admiration
and respect. The present, and its accompaniment, were intercepted at the
custom-house at Dover ; and here, there appears to be little room to do':bt,
«-as the principal circumstance that drew on Burns the notice of hi? ^^alous
superiors. We were not, it is true, at war with France ; but every one
knew and felt that v/e were to be so ere long ; and nobody can pretend
that Burns was not guilty, on this occasion, of a most sosurd a^d presump-
tuous breach of decorum. When lie learned the Impression that had been
created by his conduct, and its probable consequences, he wrote to liis pa-
tron, Mr. Graham of Fintray, the ie'bwing letter, dated December [lil^:
'• Sir, — 1 n.ave been surprised, confounded, and distracted by Mr. Mit-
nhell, the collector, telling me that he has received an order from your
board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person
disaffected to government. iS'ir, you are a husband and a father. You
Lnow what you would feel to see the much-loved wife of your bosom, and
your helpless, prattling little ones turned adrift into the world, degraded
and disgraced, from a situation in which they had been respectable and re-
pected, and left almost without the necessary support of a miserable exist-
ence. Alas ! Sir, must I think that such soon will be my lot? and from the
damned dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too ? I believe. Sir, I
, may aver it, and in the sigiit of Onnu'science, that I would not tell a deli-
iC-H
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
berate faisebood, no, not though even worse horrors, if worse can be, thas
those I have mentioned, hung over my head. And I say that ilie allega-
tion, whatever villain has made it, is a lie. To the British Constitution,
on revolution principle;, next, after my God, I am most devoutly attached
You, Sir, have been much and generously my friend. Heaven knows hzwi
warmly I have felt the obligation, and how gratefully I have thanked you
Fortune, Sir, has made you j)o\\'crful, and me impotent ; has given you pa-
tronage, and me dependence. I would not, Ibr my single self, call on 3'our
humanity : were such my insular, unconnected situation, I would disperse
the tear that now swells in my eye ; 1 couid brave mist'ortune ; I could face
ruin ; at the worst, ' death's thousand doors stand open.' 15ut, good God !
the tender concerns li .ct I have mentioned, the claims and ties tliat I see
at this moment, and feel around me, how they unnerve courage and wither
resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of some genius, you have allowed
me a claim ; and your esteem, as an honest man, I know is my due. To
these. Sir, permit me to appeal. By these may I adjure you to save me
from that misery which threatens to overwhelm me; and which, \>ith mv
latest breath, I will say I have not deserved !"
On the "^d of January, (a week or two afterwards), we find him writing to
Mrs. Dunlop in these terms : — " Mr. C. can be of little service to me at
present ; at leas-t, 1 should be shy of ajij-lying. I cannot probably be set-
tled as a supervisor for several years. 1 must wait the rotalinn of lists,
&:c. Besides, some envious malicious devil has raised a little demur on my
political principles, and I wish to let th.at matter settle before I offer my-
self too nuich m the eye of my superiors. 1 liave set henceforth a sea! en
my lips, as to these unlucky politics; but to you I must breathe my senti-
ments. In this, as in every thing else, I shall show the undisguised emo-
tions of my soul. War, I deprecate : misery and ruin to thousands are in
the blast tliat announces the destructive demon. But "
" The remainder of this letter," says Cromek, " lias been torn av.ay by
some barbarous hand." — Th.ere can be little doubt that it was torn away by
one of the kindest hands in the world, that of Mrs. Dunlop herself, and
:!i-om the most praise-worth motive.
The exact result of the Excise Board's investigation is hidden, as has
been said above, in obscurity; nor is it at all likely that the cloud will be
withdrawn hereafter. A general impression, however, aj)pears to have
gone forth, that th.e affair terminated in something which i'urns himsch
considered as tantamount to the destruction of all hope of future promo-
tion in his profession ; and it has been insinuated by almost every one 01
Ills biographers, that the crushing of these hopes operated unhappily, even
fatally, on the tone of his mind, and, in consequence, on the habits of his
life. In a word, the early death of Burns has been (by implication at least)
ascribed mainly to the circumstances in question. Even Sir Walter Scot:
has distinctly intimated his acquiescence in this prevalent notion. " The
political predilections," says l>e, " for they could hardly be termed princi-
ples, of Burns, were entirely determined by his feelings. At h;'s first ap-
pearance, he felt, or affected, a ])ropensity to Jacobitisin. Indeed, a youth
of his warm imagination in Scotland thirty yca-'s ago, could hard!}' escape
this bias. The side of Charles Edward was that, not surely of so.md sense
,ind sober reason, but of romantic gallantry and hi^b achievement. The
madecjuacy of the means by which that prince aaempted to regs'n the
■""oun furJ'cited by his lathers, the stran;^e and almost poetical adventures
r IFE OF ROBEIl r BURXS. xcvii
wliicli he uiulerw'L'nt, — the Scottisli martial cliaractcr, honoured in his vic-
tories, and dei^raded and crushed in his defeat, — the tales oi' the veterans
who had followed his adventurous standard, were all calculated to impress
upon the mind of a poet a warm interest in the cause of the House of
Stuart. Yet the impression was not of a very serious cast; for l>urns him-
self acknov.-Iedges in one of his letters, (Reliques, p. 240), tliat ' to tell
the matter of fact, except when my passions were heated by some acci-
dental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way oi' rire Id ba(/(ttelie.' The
same enthusiastic ardour of disposition swayed iJurns in his choice of [loli-
tical tenets, when the country was agitated by '•evolutionary principles,
'riiat the poet should have chosen tlie side on whicli high talents wure
most likely to procure celebrity ; that he to whom the fastidious distinc-
tions of society were always odious, should have listened with comjjla
cence to the voice of French philosopliy, which denounced them as usur-
pations on the rights of man, was precisely the thing to be expected. Vet
we cannot but think, that if his superiors in the Excise de])artment had
tried the experiment of soothing rather than irritating his feelings, they
might have spared themselves the di<gr(tcn of rendering desperate the pos-
sessor of such uncommon talents. For it is hut too ccrldin., that from the
moment his hopes of promotion were utterly blasted, his tendency to dis-
sipation hurried him precipitately into those excesses which shortened liis
hfe. We doubt not, that in that awful period of national discord, he had
done and said enough to deter, in ordinary cases, the servants of govern-
ment from countenancing an avowed partizan of faction. But this partizan
was Burns ! Surely the experiment of lenity might have been tried, and
perhaps successfully. The conduct of i\Ir. Graham of Fintray, our poet's
only shield against actual dismission and consequent ruin, reflects tlie high-
est credit on that gentleman."
In the general strain of sentiment in this passage, wlio can refuse to
concur? but I am bound to sa}', that after a careful examination of all th.e
documents, printed and MS., to which I have had access. I have great
doubts as to some of the. principal facts assumed in this eloquent state-
ment. I have before me, lor example, a letter of INIr. Findlater, formerly
Collector at Glasgow, who was, at the period in question, Burns's inmie-
diate superior in the Dumfries district, in which that very respectable per-
son distinctly says : — " I may venture to assert, that when Burns was ac
cused of a leaning to democracy, and an inquiry into his conduct took
place, he was subjected, in consequence thereof, to no more than perhaps
a verbal or private caution to be more circumspect in future. Neither (!o
J believe his promotion w^as thereby affected, as has been stated. That,
nad he lived, would, I liave every reason to think, have gone on in the
usual routine. His good and steady friend ?.Ir. (Jraham would have attended
to this. What cause, therefore, was there for depression of spirits on thi
account ? or how should he have been hurried thereby to a premature
grave ? / never saw his spirit fail till he was borne do« n by the pressure
of disease and bodily weakness ; and even then it uould occasionally revive,
and like an expiring lamp, emit bright fiashes to the last."
When the war had fairly broken out, a battalion of volunteers was form-
ed m Uumfries, and Burns was an original member of the corps. It is
very true that his accession was objected to by some of his neighbours
but these were over- ruled by the gentlemen who took the lead in the busi-
cess, and the poet soon became, as might have been expected, the gr»at
yrviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
est possible favourite with his brothers in arms. His conimanding officer
Colonel I)e Peyster, attests his zealous discharge of his duties as a mem
her of the corps ; and their attachment to him was on the increase to the
last. He was their laureate, and in that capacity did more good service tc
the government of the country, at a crisis of the darkest alarm and dan-
ger, than perhaps any one person of his rank and station, with the ex-
ception of Uibdin, had the power or the inclination to render. " Burns,"
says Allan Cunningham, " was a zealous lover of his country, and has
stamped his patriotic feelings in many a lasting verse Wis poor aim
honest Sodger laid hold at once on the public feeling, and it was every-
where sung v,-ith an enthusiasm which only began to abate when Campbell's
Exile of Erin and Wounded Hussar were published. Dumfries, which
sent so many of her sons to the wars, rung with it from port to port; and
the poet, wherever he went, heard it echoing from house and hall. I wish
this exquisite and useful song, with Scots wha hue ivi' Wallace bled,— the
Sony of Death, and Does haughty Gaul Invasion Threat,— a\\ lyrics which
enforce a love of country, and a martial enthusiasm into men's breasts, had
obtained some reward for the poet. His perishable conversation was re-
membered by the rich to his prejudice— his imperishable lyrics were re-
warded only by the admiration and tears of his fellow peasants."
Lastly, whatever the rebuke of the Excise Board amounted to — {Mr.
James Gray, at that time schoolmaster in Dumfries, and seeing much oi
Burns both" as the teacher of his children, and as a personal friend and as-
sociate of literary taste and talent, is the only person wlio gives any thing
like an exact statement : and according to him. Burns was admonished
" that it was his business to act, not to think"')— in whatever language the
censure was clothed, the Excise Board did nothing from which Burns had
any cause to suppose that Ins hopes of ultimate promotion v.ere extinguish-
ed. Nay, if he had taken up such a notion, rightly or erroneously, Mr.
I'indlater, who had him constantly under his eye, and who enjoyed all his
confidence, and who enjoyed then, as he still enjoys, the utmost confidence
of the Board, must have known the fact to be so. Such, I cannot help
thinking, is the fair view of the case : at all events, we know that Burns,
the year before he died, was permitted to oc^ as a Supervisor ; a thing not
likely to have occurred had there been any resolution against promoting
him "in his proper order to a permanent situation of that superior rank.
On V.ie whole, then, I am of opinion that the Excise Board have been
dealt with harshly, when men of eminence have talked of their conduct to
Burns as affixing"^ r//,sY/m«' to them. It appears that Burns, being guilty
unquestionably of great indiscretion and indecorum both of M'ord and deed,
was admonished in a private manner, that at such a period of national dis-
traction, it behoved a public oliiccr, gifted with talents and necessarily with
influence like his, very carefully to abstain from conduct which, now that
passions have had time to cool, no sane man will say became his situation
that Burns's subsetjuent conduct effaced the unfavourable imi)ression creat-
ed in the minds of his superiors ; and that he had begun to taste the fruits
pf their recovered approbation and confidence, ere his career was closed by
illness and death. '1 hese Commissioners of Excise were themselves sub-
ordinate ofiicers of the government, and strictly responsible for those un-
der them. That they did try the experiment of lenity to a certain extent,
appears to be made out ; that thn/ could have been justified in trying it to a
farther extent, is at the least doubtful. But with regard to the govenmient
LIFE OF ROBERT RURNS. xcix
af the country itself, I must say I think it is much more difficult to defend
tlieni. Mr. l^itt's ministry gave Dibdin a pension of X'-OO a-year for writ-
ing liis Sea Songs ; and one cannot help remembering, that when Burns did
begin to excite the ardour and patriotism of his countrymen by such songs
as Mr. Cunningham has been alluding to, there were persons wlio had
every opportunity of representing to the Premier the claims of a greater
than Dibdin. Lenity, indulgence, to whatever length carried in such
quarters as these, would have been at once safe and graceful. What the
minor politicians of the day thought of Durns's poetry I know not ; but
Mr. Pitt himself appreciated it as highly as any man. " 1 can think of
no verse," said the great Minister, when I'urns was no more — " I can think
of no verse since Shakspeare's, that has so much the appearance of com-
ing sweetly from nature." *
Mad Burns put forth some newspaper squibs upon Lcpaux or Carnot, or
a smart pamphlet " On the State of the Country," he might have been
more attended to in his lifetime. It is common to say, " what is every-
body's business is nobody's business ;" but one may be pardoned for think-
ing that in such cases as this, that v,-hich the general voice of the country
does admit to be everj-body's business, comes in fact to be the business oi
those whom the nation intrusts with national concerns.
To return to Sir Walter Scott's reviewal — it seems that he has some>
what overstated the political indiscretions of which Burns was actually-
guilty. Let us hear the counter-statement of Mr. Gray, f who, as has al-
ready been mentioned, enjoyed Burns's intimacy and confidence during his
residence in Dumfries. — No one who ever knew anything of that excellent
man, will for a moment suspect him of giving any other than what he be-
lieves to be true.
" Burns (says he) was enthusiastically fond of liberty, and a lover of the
popular part of our constitution ; but he saw and admired the just and de-
licate proportions of the political fabric, and nothing could be farther from
his aim than to level with the dust the venerable pile reared by the labours
and the wisdom of ages. That provision of the constitution, however, by
which it is made to contain a self-correcting principle, obtained no incon-
siderable share of his admiration : he was, theretbre, a zealous advocate of
constitutional reform. The necessity of this he oiten supported in conver-
sation with all the energy of an irresistible eloquence ; but there is no evi-
dence that he ever went farther. Lie was a member of no political club.
At the time when, in certain societies, the mad cry of revolution was rais-
ed from one end of the kingdom to the other, his voice was never heard in
tlieir debates, nor did he ever support their opinions in writing, or corre-
spond with them in any form whatever. Tliough limited to an income
which any other man would have considered poverty, he refused lot) a-
year ofl'ered to him for a weekly article, by the proprietors of an opposition
paper ; and two reasons, equally honourable to him, induced him to reject
this proposal, liis independent spirit spurned indignantly the idea of be-
• I am assured that Mr. Pitt used these words nt the table of tlie late Lord Liverjiool,
soon after Burns's dcLith. Ilow th;it event might come to be a natural topic of conversation
at that table, v.-ill be seen in the sequel.
+ Air. (iray removed from the scliool of Dumfnes to the High Scliix)l of Edinburgh, in
which eminent seminary he for many years laboured with distinguished success. lie tlien be-
came Professor of Latin in the Institution at Belfast ; he afterwards entered into iioly orders,
and died a few years since in the East Indies, as ofhciating chanlwin to tJie (jjniixmy in the
presidency sf 31adras.
c LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
coming the hireling of a party ; and whatever may Lave been his opinion
of the men and measures that then prevailed, he did not thmk it right to
fetter the operations of that government by which he was employed."
The satemcnt about the newspaper, refers to Mr. Perry of the Morning
Chronicle, who, at the suggestion of Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, made the
proposal referred to, and received for answer a letter which may be seen
in the General Correspondence of our poet, and the tenor of which is in
accordance with what Mr. Gray has said. Mr. Perry afterwards pressed
Burns to settle in London as a regular writer for his paper, and the poet
declined to do so, alleging that, however small, his Excise appointment
was a certainty, which, in justice to his family, he could not think of aban
doning. *
Burns, after the Excise inquiry, took care, no doubt, to avoid similar
scrapes ; but he had no reluctance to meddle largely and zealously in the
squabbles of county politics and contested elections ; and thus, by merely
espousing, on all occasions, the cause of the Whig candidates, kept up very
effectually the spleen which the Tories had originally conceived on tolera-
bly legitimate grounds. One of the most celebrated of these effusions was
written on a desperately contested election for the Dumfries district of
boroughs, between Sir James Johnstone of VVesterhall, and Mr. Miller the
younger of Dalswinton ; Burns, of course, maintaining the cause of his pa-
tron's family. There is much humour in it : —
THE FIVE CARLINES.
1. There were five carlines in the south, they fell upon a scheme,
To send a lad to Lur.nun town to bring them tidings hanie,
Nor only bring them tidings hame, but do their errands there.
And aiblins gowd and honour baith might be that laddie's share.
2. There was Maa^y by the banks o' Nith, -f a dame w' pride eneugb,
And ."Marjorj o" the Alonylochs, J a carline auld and teugh ;
And blii\kin Bess o' Annandale, § that dwelt near iSolway-side,
And wliisky Jean that took her gill in (ialloway sae wide; j|
And black Joan frae Crichton Peel, % o' gipsy kith and kin, —
Five wighter carlines war na foun' the south countrie within.
3. To send a lad to Lunnun town, they met upon a day.
And nioiiy a knight and mony a laird their errand fain wad gae,
But nae ane could their fancy please ; O ne'er a anc but tway.
4. The first he was a belted knight, •* bred o' a border clan,
And he wad gae to Lunnun town, inighi nae man him withstan'.
And he wad do theii errands weel., and m-eikle he wad say,
And ilka ane at Lunnun court would bid to him gude day.
6. The next came in a sodger youth, ■f-f and spak wi' modest grace,
And he wad gae to Lunnun town, if sae their ])leasure was ;
He wadna hccht them courtly gifts, nor meiklc speech pretend,
Lut he wad hecht an honest heart, wad ne'er desert a friend.
6. Now, wham to choose and wham refuse, at strife thir carlines fell,
For some had gentle folks to please, and some wad please themsei..
7- Then out spak mim-mou'd 3Ieg o' Nith, and she spak up wi' pride,
• And she wad send the sodger youtli, whatever might betide ;
For the auld guidman o' Lunnun JJ court slie didna care a pin ;
But she wad send the sodger youth to greet his eldest son. §§
" This is stated on the au'hority of Major Jliller.
•|- Dumfries. * Latlnnaljen. § Annan. |[ Kirkcudbright
^Sanquhar. "• Sir J. Johnstone. '-f-f Major MUler.
tJ George HI. *\!^ The Prince of Wales.
^_- .il.JI J.M
r.IFE OF ROBERT BURN'S. ci
R. Then up sprang Bess o' Annaijdale, and a deadly ;iitli slie's tacn.
That slie wad vnte the border kni^^hl, thouj^li slie >houkl vote her lane;
For far-aff fowls liae tcuhers fair, and fools o' clianf,'c arc fain ;
But 1 liae tried the border knight, and I'll try him yet again.
9. Says black .Joan frae Cricluon Peel, a carline stoor and grim,
Tiie auld guidman, and the young guidnian, for nie may sink or swim;
For fools will Treat o' right or wrang, while knaves laugh them to scorn;
But the sodger's friends hae blawn the best, so he shall bear the horn.
10. Then whisky Jean spak ower her drink. Ye weel ken. kimmers a%
The auld guidman o' Lunnun court, he's back's lieen at the wa' ;
And niony a fiiend that kiss't his cup, is now a freniit wight.
But it's nt'er bt said o' whisky Jean — I'll send the border knight.
11. Then slow raise .Marjory o' the Lochs, and wrinkled was her brow,
Her ancient weed was ru«set gray, her auld Scots bluid was true;
There's some great folks set light by me I set as light by them ;
But I will sen' to Lunnun toun wliam I like best at name.
12. Sae how this weighty plea may end, rae mortal wight can tell,
(Jod grant the King and ilka man may look weel to himsell.
T!ic above is far the best humoured of these productions. The e.ection
to which it refers was carried in Major Miller's favour, but after a severe
contest, and at a very heavy expense.
These political conflicts were not to be mingled in with impunity by the
chosen laureate, wit, and orator of the district. He himself, in an unpub-
lished piece, speaks of the terror excited by
Burns's venom, when
He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen,
And pours his vengeance in the burning line;"
find represents his victims, on one of these electioneering occasions, as
leading a choral shout that
He for his heresies in church and state,
Jliglu richly merit iMuir's and Pahiier's fate."
But what rendered him more and more the object of aversion to one set of
people, was sure to connect liim more strongly with the passions, and, un-
fortunately for himself and for us, with the pleasures of the other ; and we
have, among many confessions to the same purpose, the following, which I
quote as the shortest, in one of the poet's letters from Dumfries to Mrs,
Dunlop. " I am better, but not quite free of my complaint (he refers to
the palpitation of heart.) You must not think, as you seem to insinuate,
that in my way of life 1 want exercise. Of that I have enough ; but occa-
sional hard drinking is the devil to me." He knew well what he was doing
whenever he mingled in such debaucheries : he had, long ere this, describ-
ed himself as parting " with a slice of his constitution" every time he was
guilty of such excess.
This brings us back to a subject on which it can give no one pleasure to
expatiate.
" Dr. Currie," says Gilbert Burns, " knowing the events of the latter
years of my brother's life, only from the reports which had been propagat-
ed, and thinking it necessary, lest the candour of his work should be called
in question, to state the substance of these reports, has given a very exag-
gerated view of the failings of my brother's lite at that period, which is cer-
tainly to be regretted.'" — " I love Dr. Currie," says the IJev. James Gray.,
already more than once referred to, but 1 love the picmory of Burns more
en LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
and no consideration shall deter me from a bold declaration of the truth
The poet of The Cottars Saturday Night, who felt all the charms of the
humble piety and virtue which he sung, is charged, (in Dr Curries Nar-
rative), with vices which would reduce him to a level with the most degrad-
ed of his species. As 1 knew him duruig that period of his life emphati-
cally called his evil days, I am enabled to speak from my oum observation.
It is not my intention to extenuate his errors, because they were combined
with genius ; on that account, they were only the more dangerous, be-
cause the more seductive, and deserve the more severe reprehension ; but
I shall likewise claim that nothing may be said in malice even against him
It came under my own view professionally, that he superin-
tended the education of his children with a degree of care that I have ne-
ver seen surpassed by any parent in any rank of life whatever. In the bo-
som of his family he spent many a delightfid hour in directing the studies
of his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talents. I have frequently found him
explaining to this youth, then not more than nine years of age, the Eng-
lish poets, from Shakspeare to Gray, or storing his mind with examples of
heroic virtue, as they live in the pages of our most celebrated English his-
torians I would ask any person of common candour, if employments like
these are consistent with habitual drunheiiness ?
'• It is not denied that he sometimes mingled with society unworthy of lu'm.
He was of a social and convivial nature. Me was courted by all classes ot
men for the fascinating powers of his conversation, but over his social scene
uncontrolled passion never presided. Over the social bowl, his wit flashed
for hours together, penetrating whatever it struck, like the fire from hea-
ven ; but even in t!ie liour of thoughtless gaity and merriment, I never
knew it tainted by indecency. It v/as playful or caustic by turns, follow-
ing an allusion through all its windings ; astonishing by its rapidity, or
amusing by its wild originality, and grotesque, yet natural combinations,
but never, within my observation, disgusting by its grossncss. In his
morning hours, I never saw him like one suffering from the effects of last
night's mtempcrance. He appeared then clear and unclouded. He was
the eloquent advocate of humanity, justice, and political freedom. From
his paintings, virtue appeared more lovely, and piety assumed a more ce-
lestial mien. \\ hile his keen eye was pregnant with fancy and feeling,
and his voice attuned to the very passion which he wished to communicate.
If would hardly have been possible to conceive any being more interesting
and delightful. I may likewise add, that to the very end of his life, reading
was his favourite amusement. I have never known any man so intimately
acquainted with the elegant English authors. He seemed to have the
poets by heart 'Hie prose authors he could quote either in their own
A'ords, or clothe their ideas in language more beautiful than their own.
Nor was there ever any decay in any of the powers of his mind. To the
last day of his life, his judgment, his memoiy, his imagination, were fresh
and vigorous, as when he composed The Cottar s Saturday Night. The
truth is, that Burns was seldom into.iicalcd. The drunkard soon becomc'S
besotted, and is shunned even Dy the convivial. Had lie been so, he could
not long have continued the idol of every party. It will be freely confes-
sed, that tiie hour of enjoyment was often prolonged beyond ti'ie limit
marked by prudence: but what man will venture to affirm that in siiua-
tions where he was conscious of giving so much pleasure, he could at al!
imes liave listened to her voice .''
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ciil
"■ The men with whom he generall)' associated, v/crt not cf the lowest
ordor He numoered among his intimate friends, many of the most respco
table inhabitants of Dumfries and the vieinity. Several of those were at
tached to him by tics that the hand of ealunniy, busy as it was. could ne
ver snap asunder. They admired the |)oct for his genius, and loved the
man for the candour, generosity, and kindness of his nature. His earlj
friends clung to him through good and bad report, with a zeal and fidelity
that prove their disbelief of the malicious stories circulated to his disad-
vantage. Among them were some of the most distinguished characters in
this country, and not a "iiiw females, eminent for delicacy, taste, and genius.
They were proud of his friendship, and cherished him to the last moment
of his existence. He was endeared to them even by his misibrtunes, and
they still retain for his memory that affectionate veneration which virtue
alone inspires."
I'art of Mr. Gray's letter is omitted, only because it touches on sitbjects,
as to which Mr. Tindlater's statement must be considered as of not merely
sulFicient, but the very highest authority.
" .My connexion with Itobert Burns," says that most respectable man,
" commenced immediately after his admission into the Excise, and con-
tinued to the hour of his death. * In all that time, the superintendence of
his behaviour, as an officer of the revenue, was a branch, of my especial pro
vince, and it may be supposed that I would not be an inattentive observer
of the general conduct of a man and a poet, so celebrated by his country
men. In the former capacity, h.e was exemplary in his attention ; and
was even jealous of the least imputation on his vigilance : as a proof of
•.vhich, it may not be foreign to the subject to quote a part of a letter from
him to myself, in a case of only .•^ffw/wr/ inattention. — ' I know, ^ir, and re-
gret deeply, that this business glances with a malign aspect on my charac-
ter as an officer ; but, as I am really innocent in the affair, and as the gentle-
man is known to be an illicit dealer, and particularly as this is the s'lngle in-
stance of the least shadow of carelessnes or imprcjiriety in my conduct as
an officer, I shall be peculiarly unfortunate if my character sliaU fall a sa-
crifice to the dark manoeuvres of a smuggler." — This of itself affords more
than a presumption of his attention to business, as it cannot be supposed he
would have written in such a style tn me., but from the impulse of a consci-
ous rectitude in this department of his duty, indeed, it was not till near
the latter end of his days that there was any falling off in this respect ; and
this was amply accounted for in the pressure of disease and accumulating
infirmities. 1 will further avow, that i never saw him, «hich was very li-e-
quently while he lived at Elliesland, and still more so, almost every day,
after he removed to Dumfries, but in liours of business he wa -juite liini-
self, and capable of discharging the dities of liis office; nor ivas he ever
known to drink by himself, or seen to indulge in the use of liquor in a fore-
noon. ... 1 have seen Burns in all his various phases, in hisconviviaJ
moments, in his sober moods, and in the bosom of his family ; indeed, I
believe 1 saw more of him than any other individual kad occasion to see,
after he became an Excise officer, and 1 never beheld any thing like the
gross enormities with which he is now charged: That when set down in
an e^ening with a lew friends whom he liked, he was apt to prolong tlie
social hour beyond the bounds which prudence v.ould dictate, is unques
' Mr. Findlater watched by Burr.s the i.ii;lit before he died.
civ LIFE OF nOBERT BURXS.
tiorvable ; but in his family, I will venture to say, he was never seen other
wise than attentive and affectionate to a high degree."
These statements are entitled to every consideration : they come from
men altogether incapable, for any purpose, of wilfully stating that which
they know to be untrue.
To whatever Burns's excesses amounted, the}' were, it is obvious, and
that frequently, the subject of rebuke and remonstrance even from his own
dearest friends. That such reprimands should have been received at times
with a strange mixture of remorse and indignation, none that have consi-
dered the nervous susce])tibi]ity and haughtiness of Burns's character can
hear with surprise. But this was only when the good advice was oral. No
one knev/ better than he how to answer the written homilies of such per-
sons as were most likely to take the ireedom of admonishing him un points
of such delicacy ; nor is there any thing in all his correspondence more
amusing than his reply to a certain solemn lecture of William Nicolk . .
" O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full moon
of discretion, and chief of many counsellors ! how infinitely is thy puddle-
headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted to thy
supereminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own right-lined
rectitude thou lookest benignly down on an erring wietch, of whom the
zigzag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the simple co-
pulation of units, up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May one feeble
rav of tl.at light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, straiirht as the
arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of uispiration, may it be my
portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and favour of that fa»
ther of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipod of folly, and magnet
among the sages, the wise and witty Willy Nicoll ! Amen ! amen ! Yea,
so be it !
" For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing !"' &c. &c. &c.
To how many that have moralized over the life and death of Burns,
might not such a Tii quoc/ue be addressed !
ihe strongest argument in favour of those mIio denounce the statements
of Heron. C'urrie, and their fellow biographers, concerning the habits of the
poet, during tiie laUer years of his career, as culj^ably and egregiously ex-
ai;gerated, still remains to be considered. On the whole, Lurns gave sa-
tisfaction by his manner of executing the duties of his station in the reve-
nue service ; he, nioreover, as Mr. Gra}' tells us, (and upon this ground
Mr. Cray could not possibly be mistaken), took a lively interest in the edu-
cation of his children, and spent more hours in their private tuition than
fathers who have more leisure than his cxcisenianship left liim. are oiten
in the custom of so bestowing. — " Me was a kind and attentive father, and
took great delight in spending his evenings in the cultivation of the minds
of his children. Their education was the grand object of his life, and he
did not. like most parents, think it sufficient to send them to public schoois ;
he was their private instructor, and even at that early age, bestowed great
pains in training their minds to liabits of thought and reflection, and in
keiping tlicm pure from every form of vice. This he considered as a sa-
cred duty, and never, to the period of his last illness, relaxed in his dili-
gence. W ith his eldest son, a boy of not more than nine years of age, he
iiad read many of the favourite poets, and some of the best historians in
Dur language ; and what is more remarkable, gave him considerable aid in
Uie study of Latin. This bov at ended the (jrammar School of Dumfries
LIFE OF ROBEUT BURNS. <;v
and soon attracted my notice by the sl.-ength of Iiis talent, and the n, ilour
ot'his ambition. Before he had been a year at school, I thous^ht it rigiit
to advance him a form, and he bc\L^an to read Cicsar, and gave mc transla-
tions of t!iat author of such beauty as I confess surprised me. On inquiry,
I found that his father made him turn over his dictionary, till he was able
to translate to him the passage in such a way that he could gather the au-
thor's meaning, and that it was to him he owed thai polished and forcible
English with which I was so greatly struck. I have mentioned this inci-
dent merely to show what minute attention lie paid to tins imp .tant
branch of parental -luty." * Lastly, although to all men's regret he wrote,
after his removal t :> Dumfriesshire, only one poetical piece of considerable
length, ( 'J'ai/t o S)uinter\ his epistolary correspondence, and his songs to
Johnson's Museum, and to the collection of Mr. (ieorge Thomson, furnish
undeniable proof that, in whatever /VV.v of dissipation he unhappily indulg-
ed, he never could possibly have sunk into any thing like that habitual
grossness of manners and sottish degradation of mind, which the writers in
.question have not hesitated to hold up to the conmiiseration of mankind.
01" his letters written at Klliesland and Dumfries, nearly three octavo
volumes have been already printed by Currie and Cromek ; and it would
be easy to swell the collection to double this extent. Enough, however,
has been published to enable ever}' reader to judge for himself of the cha-
racter of IJurns's style of epistolary composition. The severest criticism
bestowed on it has been, that it is too elaborate — that, however natural
the feelings, the expression is frequently more studied and artificial than
belong-; to that species of composition. Be this remark altogether just in
point of taste, or otherwise, the fact on which it is founded, furnishes
strength to our present position. The poet produced in these years a great
body of elaborate prose-writing.
We have already had occasion to notice some of his contributions to
Johnsons Museum. He continued to the last month of his life to take a
lively interest in that work : and besides writing for it some dozens of ex-
cellent original songs, his diligence in collecting ancient pieces hitherro
unpubHshed. and his taste and skill in eking out fragments, were largely,
anrl most happily exerted, all along, for its benefit. Wix. Cromek saw
among .h)hnson's papers, no fewer than 184 of the pieces which enter into
the coUet-tion, in Burns's handwriting.
His connexion with the more important work of Mr. Thomson commenc-
ed in September 1792; and .Mr. (iray justly says, that whoever considers
Iiis correspondence with the editor, and the collection itself must be satis-
fied, that from that time till the connuenccment of his last illness, not
many days ever passed over his head without the production of some new
stanzas for its pages. Besides old materials, for the niost part embellished
with lines, if not verses of his own, and a whole body of hints, suggestions,
and criticisms, iiurns gave Mr. Thomson about sixty original songs. The
songs in this collection are by many eminent critics placed decidedly at
the head of all our poet's performances: it is by none disputed that very
many of them are worthy of his most felicitous inspiration. He bestowed
nuieli more care on them than on his contributions to the Museum ; and
K\w. taste and feeling of the editor secured the work against any intrusions
of that ovei-\iarm element which was too apt to mingle in his amatory ef-
• Letter from the Hev. James Gray to I\lr. Gilbert Burns. See liis KsliuoJi, vol. I A^
pendix. No. v.
cvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
fusions. Burns knew that he was now engaged on a work destined for tlic
eye and ear of refinement ; he kiboured throughout, under the salutary feel-
ing, " virginibus puerisque canto ;" and the consequences have been hap-
py indeed for his own fame — for the Hterary taste, and the national music,
of Scotland ; and, what is of far liigher importance, the moi'al and national
feelings of his countrymen.
in almost all these productions — certainly in all that deserve to be placed
in the first rank of his compositions — Burns made use of his native dialect.
He did so, too, in opposition to the advice of almost all the lettered cor-
respondents he had — more especially of Dr. Moore, who, in his own novels
never ventured on more than a few casual specimens of Scottish colloquy
— following therein the example of his illustrious predecessor Smollett ;
and not foreseeing that a triumph over English prejudice, which Smollett
might have achieved, had he pleased to make the effort, was destined to be
the prize of Burns's perseverance in obeying the dictates of native taste
and judgment. Our poet received such suggestions, for the most part, in
silence — not choosing to argue with others on a matter which concerned
only his own feelings ; but in writing to .Mr. Thomson, he had no occasion
either to conceal or disguise his sentiments. " These English songs,"
says he, " gravel me to death. 1 have not that command of the language
that I have of my native tongue ;"* and again, " so much for naniby-
pambj'. I may, after all, try my hand at it in Scots verse. There 1 am al-
ways most at home." f — He, besides, would have considered it as a sort of
national crime to do any thing that must tend to divorce the music of his
native land from her peculiar idiom, 'i he " genius ioci" v.as never v>"or-
shipped more fervently than by Burns. " I am such an enthusiast," says
he, " 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, Lnclutber and the Braes of Balloiclcii excepted. So far as the locality,
either from the title of the air or the tenor of the song, could be ascer-
tained, I have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scottish
Muse." With such feelings, he was not likely to touch Avith an irreverent
hand the old fabric of our national song, or to meditate a lyrical revolution
for the pleasure of strangers. " '1 here is," says he, \ " a naivete, a pas-
toral simplicity in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology,
which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and 1 will add, to every ge-
nuine Caledonian taste), with the simple pathos or rustic sprightliness of
our native music, than any English verses whatever. One hint more let
me give you : — Whatever Mr. Meyel does, let him not alter one iota of
the original airs ; 1 mean in the song department ; but let our Scottish na-
tional music preserve its native features. 'Ihey are, 1 own, frequently
wild and irreducible to the more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri-
city, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect." §
()(' the delight with which Burns laboured for Mr. Thomson's Collection,
his letters contain some lively descriptions. " You cannot imagine," say?
he, 'ith April \l'^^, "how nmch this business has added to my enjoy-
ments. \\ hat with my early attachment to ballads, your book and baliad-
• Correspondence with ."Mr. 'J'liomson, p. 111. -f- Ibid. p. fiO. J Ibid. p. ','A\.
^ It iii.'iy aiiiUNC tlic rc'iidur to lu;ir, tliut iji spite of all liiiri.s's success in tlie use of liis native
dialect, even un eminently s])iriucl bookseller to whom the iii;.nuscri|'t cf W averlty was m;1).
mitted, hesitated for some ti;ne abnut publisJiiiiK H, o" accouiit of tlie Scots dialoi;ue Literwo-
ven in ilie novcL
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cvii
■T.r.kiiig are now as completely my hobbyhorse as ever fcrtification was
Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my
race, (God tyrant I may take the right side of the winning-post), and then,
cheerfully looking back on the honest Iblks with whom 1 have been hap-
py, I shall say or sing, ' Sae merry as we a' hae been,' and raising my last
looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila shall
be ' (lood niglit, and joy be wi' you, a'.' " *
" Until I am comj)lete master of a tune in my own singing, such as it is,
I can never," says Burns, " compose for it. My way is this : I consider
the poetic sentiit.ent correspondent to my idea of the musical expression,
— then clioose my theme, — compose one stanza. When that is composed,
which is generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit
down now and then, — look out for objects in nature round me that are in
unison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my
bosom, — hunnning every now and then the air, with the verses 1 have fram-
ed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary tire-
side of my study, aiul there commit my effusions to paper; swinging at in-
tervals on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own
critical strictures, as my pen goes. Seriously, this, at home, is almost in-
variably my way. — What cursed egotism !" f
In this correspondence with Mr. Thon;son, and in Cromck's later pul)li-
cation, the reader will find a world of interesting details about the particu-
lar circumstances under which these immortal songs were severally writ-
ten, fhey are all, or almost all, in fact, part and parcel of the poet's per-
sonal history. No man ever made his muse more completely the compa-
nion of his own individual life. A new l^ood of light has just been poured
on the same subject, in Mr. Allan Cunningham's " Collection of Scottish
Songs ;" unless, therefore, I were to transcribe volumes, and all popular
volumes too. it is impossible to go into the details of this part of the poet's
history. The reader must be contented with a few general memoranda ;
" Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could in-
spire a man with life, and love, and joy, — could fire him v.ith enthusiasm,
or melt him with pathos equal to the genius of your book? No, no. When-
ever I want to be more than ordinary in song — to be in some degree equal
to your divine airs — do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial ema-
nation ? Tout au contrail e. I have a glorious recipe, the very one that for
his own use was invented by the Divinity of healing and poetry, when erst
he pi])ed to the flocks of Admetus, — I put myself on a regimen of admir-
ing a fine woman." \
" I can assure you I was never more in earnest. — Conjugal love is a pas-
sion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, somehow, it does not
make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion,
" Wliere love is liberty, and nature law."
Musically speaking, the first is an Instrument, of which the gamut is scanty
and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the last has powers
etiual to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still 1 am a
very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. Th^ welfare and hap])iness oj
,he beloved ol)ject is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervader> m)
• Correspondence witli I\lr. 'I'iiouison, p. 57- + Ibid- P- USl-
cvii: LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
soal ; and — ^vhatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever raptures they
might give me — yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having
these pleasures at a dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and generosity
disdains the purchase." *
Of all Burns's love songs, the best, in his own opinion, was that which
begins,
" Yestreen I had a pint o' wine,
A place where bouy saw na'."
Mr. Cunningham says, " if the poet thought so, I am sorry for it ;" while
the Reverend Hamilton Paul fully concurs in the author's own estimate oi
the performance.
There is in the same collection a love song, which unites the suffrages,
and ever will do so, of all men. It has furnished Byron with a motto,
and Sco** has said that that motto is " worth a thousand romances."
" Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met — or never parted,
"We had ne'er been broken-hearted."
There are traditions which connect Burns with the heroines of these be-
witching songs.
I envy no one the task of inquiring minutely in how far these traditions
rest on the foundation of truth. They refer at worst to occasional errors.
" Many insinuations," says Mr. Gray, " have been made against the poet'f
character as a husband, but without the slightest proof; and I might pass
from the charge with that neglect which it merits ; but I am happy to say
that I have in exculpation the direct evidence of Mrs. Burns herself, who,
among many amiable and respectable qualities, ranks a veneration for the
memory of lier departed husband, whom she never names but in terms of
the profoundest respect and the deepest regret, to lament his misfortunes,
or to extol his kindnesses to herself, not as the momentary overflowings of
the heart in a season of penitence for offences generously forgiven, but an
habitual tenderness, which ended only with his life. I place this evidence,
which I am proud to bring forward on her own authority, against a thou-
sand anonymous calumnies." f
Among the effusions, not amatory, which our poet contributed to Mr.
Thomson's Collection, the famous song of Bannockburn holds the first place.
V^'e have already seen in how lively a manner Burns's feelings were kindled
when he visited that glorious field. According to tradition, the tune play-
ed when Bruce led his troops to the charge, was " Hey tuttie tattie ;"
and it was humming this old air as he rode by himself through Glenken, a
wild district in Galloway, during a terrific storm of wind and rain, that the
puet composed his immortal lyric in its first and noblest form. This is one
more instance of his delight in the sterner aspects of nature.
- Come, winter, wiih thine angry howl,
And raging Lend the naked tree — "
" There is liardly," says he in one of his letters, " there is scarcely any
earthly ol^ject gives me mere — I do not know if I should call it pleasure
• Correspondence with ]Mr. Thomson, p. 101.
+ Letter in Gilbert liurns's Edition, vol. I. Appendix, p. 437.
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ci«
^but something which exalts me, something which enraptures me — than
to walk in the sheltered side ■/ a wood 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, to use the pompous language of the Hebrew Bard, ' M-alks on
the wings of the wind.' " — To the lust, his best poetry was ^:iKVaced anaidal
scenes of Roiema desolation.
CHAPTER IX.
Co**lNTS. — The poets morfal period approaches — Tits jeculiar temperament — Symptoms of
prenuiture old (uie — These not diminished ht/ narrow circumstances, by cliagrin from ncfflcct,
and by the death of a Dauohter — The poet misses public patronage : and even the fair fruits
of Id's on I genius — the apjinpriation of ichich is debated for the casuists who yielled to hint
merely the shell — His magnanimity iclien death is at hand; his interviews, conversations,
and addresses as a dying man — Dies, 2\st July 1796 — Public funeral, at which many at-
tend, and amongst the rest the future Preniier of England, who had steadily refused to ac-
hnowledge the poet, living — His family munificently provided fur by the public — Analysis of
character — His integrity, religious state, and genius — Strictures upon him and his writings
iy Scott, Campbell, liyrun, and others.
" I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe,
AVith all a poet's, husband's, father's fear.**
We are drawing near tlie close of this great poet's mortal career ; and 1
would fain hope the details of the last chapter may have prepared the hu-
mane reader to contemplate it with sentiments of sorrow, pure and unde-
based with any considerable intermixture of less genial feelings.
For some years before Burns was lost to his country, it is sufficiently
plain that he had been, on political grounds, an object of suspicion and dis-
trust to a large portion of the population that had most opportunity of ob-
serving him. The mean subalterns of party had, it is very easy to suppose,
delighted in decrying him on pretexts, good, bad, and indifferent, equally —
to their superiors ; and hence, who will not willingly believe it? the tem-
porary and local prevalence of those extravagantly injurious reports, the
essence of which Dr. Currie, no doubt, thouglit it his duty, as a biographer,
to extract and circulate.
A gentleman of that county, whose name I have already more than once
had occasion to refer to, has often told me, that he was seldom more grie-
ved, than when riding into Dumfries one fine summer's evening, about tliis
time, to attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking alone, on the shady
side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay
with successive groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn together lor the
festivities of the night, not one of whom appeared willing to recognize him.
The horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who, on his proposing to him
to cross the street, said, " Nay, nay, my young friend, — tliat's all over
nov.';" and quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizzel Baiilie's
pathetic ballad, —
" His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow,
liisauld ane look'il Ijcttcr thun iiiony ane's new;
But now h',' lets't wear on y way it will hinj;,
And ca^ts hiniscll dowie ui)oii ihe corn-bini:.
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxi
' O were we yn\inp, as we anre hae been,
W'c sud liae hven Kallopiii;,' doun on yon green,
And linking it ower the lilywliite lea, —
And zvcrcita my heart light I wad die.'*
Tt was little in Burns's character to let his feelings on certain subjects, es-
cape in this fashion. He, immediately after citing these verses, assumed
the spriglitliness of his most pleasing manner ; and taking his young friend
homo Avith him, entertained him very agreeably until the hour of the ball
arrived, with a bowl of his usual potation, and Bonnie Jean's singing of
some verses which he had recently composed.
The untimely death of one who, had he lived to any thing like the usual
term of human existence, might have done so much to increase his fame
as a poet, and to purity and dignify his character as a man, was, it is too
probable, hastened by his own intemperances and imprudences : but it
seems to be extremely improbable, that, even if his manhood bed been a
course of saintlike virtue in all respects, the irritable and nervous bodily
constitution which he inherited from his father, shaken as it was by the
toils and miseries of his ill-starred youth, could have sustained, to any
thing like the psalmist's " allotted span," the exhausting excitements of an
intensely poetical temperament. Since the first pages of this narrative were
sent to the press, I have heard from an old acquaintance of the bard, who
ol'ten shared his bed with him at Mossgiel, that even at that early period,
when intemperance assuredly had had nothing to do with the matter, those
ominous symptoms of radical disorder in the digestive system, the " palpi-
tation and suffocation" of which (iilbert speaks, were so regularly his noc-
turnal visitants, that it was his custom to have a great tub of cold water
by his bedside, into which he usually plunged more than once in the course
of the night, thereby procuring instant, though but shortlived relief. On
a frame thus originally constructed, and thus early tried with most se-
vere afflictions, external and internal, what must not have been, under any
subsequent course of circumstances, the effect of that exquisite sensibi-
lity of mind, but for which the world would never have heard any thing
either of the sins, or the sorrows, or the poetry of Burns !
" The fates and characters of the rhyming tribe," * (thus writes the
poet himself), " often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be me-
lancholy. There is not, among all the martyrologies that ever were pen-
ned, 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 thev are formed to bear. Take a bcinjr of our kind, aive him a stronger
imagination and a more delicate sensibility, v.hich between them will ever
engender 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, tracing the grasshopper t(.
his haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks of the little minnows
in the sunny pool, or hunting after the intrigues of butterflies — in short
send him adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from
the paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man
iving for the pleasures that lucre can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure
of his Moes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of his own dignity, and
you have created a wight nearly as miserable as a poet."
" Letter to ^Miss Chalmers in 1793.
CIXll
LIFE OF IlOBERr BURNS.
In these few short sentences, as it appears to me, Buri.s has traced his owh
character far better than any one else has done it since. — But with this lot
what pleasures were not mingled ? — " To you. Madam," he proceeds, " I
need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse besto.vs to counterbalance
this catalogue of evils. Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman ; she
has in all ages been accused of misleading mankind from the counsels oi
wisdom and the paths of prudence, involving them in difliculties, baiting
them with poverty, branding them with infamy, and plunging them in the
whirling vortex of ruin ; yet, where is the man but must own that all our
happiness on earth is not worthy the name — that even the holy hermit's
solitary prospect of pardisiacal bliss is but the glitter of a northern sun, ris-
ing over a frozen region, compared with the many pleasures, the nameless
raptures, that we owe to the lovely Queen of the heart of man !"
It is common to say of those who over-indulge tliemselves in material
stimulants, that they Uvcfist ; what wonder that the career of the poet's
tliick-coming fancies should, in the immense majority of cases, be rapid
too?
That Burns lived fast, in both senses of the phrase, we have abundant
evidence from himself; and that the more earthly motion was somewhat ac-
celerated as it approached the close, we may believe, without finding it at all
necessary to mingle anger with our sorrow. " Even in his earliest poems,"
as Mr. \v'ordswort!i says, in a beautiful passage of his letter to Mr. Gray,
" through the veil of assumed habits and pretended qualities, enough of
the real man appears to show, that he was conscious of sufficient cause to
dread his own passions, and to bewail his errors ! We have rejected as I'aisc
sometimes in the latter, and of necessity as false in the spirit, many of the
testimonies that others have borne against him : — but, by hlf own hand —
in words the import of wliich cannot be mistaken — it has been recorded
that the order of his life but faintly corresponded with the clearness of his
views. It is probable that he would have proved a still greater poet if, by
strength of reason, he could have controlled the propensities which his sen-
sibility engendered ; but he would have been a poet of a different class :
and certain it is, had that desirable restraint been early established, many
peculiar beauties which enrich his verses could never have existed, and
many accessary iniluences, which contribute greatly to their effect, would
have been wanting. For instance, the momentous truth of the passage —
" One pouit must still be f^eatly dark,
The nionng why they do it :
And just as lamely can ye mark,
How far perhaps they rue iu
Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentlier sister woman —
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang;
To step aside is hun:an,"
touid not possibly have been conveyed with such pathetic torce by any
poet that ever lived, speaking in his own voice ; unless it m ere felt that,
like Burns, he was a man who preached from the text of his own errors •
and whose wisdom, beautiful as a flower that might have risen from seed
sown fro'n above, was in fact a scion from the root of personal suilering.'
In how far the " thoughtless follies" of the poet did actually hasten his
end, it is needless to conjecture, 'i licy liad their share, uncjuestionably,
along with otlier influences which it would be inhuman to tluiracterise ab
LIFE OF ROBEIIT BWRXS. c.xii
mere follies — such, for cxanii)!e. as tliat Lrt^neral depression of s])!r!ts wliii-h
liaiii ted him from his youth, and, in all likelihood, sat more heavily or
such, a being as JJurns than a man of plain common sense might guess, — or
oven a casual nxp; t'ssion of discouraging tendency from the persons on
whose gooa-will ail hopes of substantial advancement in the scale of world-
ly promotion depended, — or that pmital exclusion from the s]iecies of so-
ciety our poet had been accustomed to adorn and delight, which, from
liowever inadequate causes, certainly did occur during s( me of the latter
years of his life. — All such sorrows as these must have acted with twofold
tyranny upon Burns ; harassing, in the first place, one of the most sensitive
minds that ever filled a human bosom, and, alas ! by consequence, tenq)ting
to additional excesses. How he struggled against the tide of his misery, let
the following letter speak. — It was written February 25, 17'J-i, and addres-
sed to Mr. Alexander Cunningham, an eccentric being, but generous and
faithful in his friendship to Burns, and, when Burns was no more, to his
fa:nily " Canst thou minister," says the poet, " to a mind diseased ?
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without
one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may
overwhelm her? Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive as tlie tor-
tures of suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the
blast ' If thou canst not do the least of these, why would'st thou disturb
me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me ? For these two mo;:tiis I
have not been able to lift a pen. My constitution and franse were ab ori-
giiie, blasted with a deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my
existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary
share in the ruin of these »**** times — los'res which, though trilling, were
yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at times
could only be envied hy a rep'obate spirit listening to the sentence that
dooms it to perdition. Are you deep in the language of consolation ? I
have exhausted in reflection every topic of comlbrt. A heart at ease wo\dd
liave been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings; but as to myself, I
was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould
the hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility.
Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of misfor-
tune and misery. The one is composed of the different modifications of a
certain noble, stubborn something in man. known by the names of courage,
fortitude, magnanimity. The otjikk is made up of those feelings and sen-
timents, which, however the sceptic may deny, or the enthusiast disfigure
them, are yet, 1 am convinced, original and component parts of the human
soul; \\\o?,c sv uses of t lie mind, \i' V m?iy he 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 pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which
time can never cure.
" I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked
on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as tlie trick
o'^the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning many; or at most as an uncer-
tilin obscurity, which mankind can never know any thing of, and with v/hich
tl ey are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel
with a man for his irreligion, any more than 1 would for his want of a nm-
sical ear. 1 would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to
cxiv LIFE 01' ROBERT BURNS.
others, wQtc such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this poii t ot view
and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind of every child oi
mine with religion. If my son should happen to be a man of feeling, sen-
timent, and taste, I shall thus add la'*gely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter
myself that this sweet little fellow who is just now running about my desk,
will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de-
lighted v/ith the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him,
wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balm}^ gales, and enjoy the
growing luxuriance of the spring ; himself the while in the blooming youth
of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature's
God. His soul, by swift, delighted degrees, is rapt above this sublunary
s})here, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious
pnthusiasm of Thomson,
' These, as they chanj^e, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God. — The rolling year
Is full of Thee ;'
and so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that 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 conscious virtue stamps them for her
own ; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the jiresence of a witness-
ing, judging, and approving God."
They who have been told that Burns was ever a degraded being — who
have ])ermitt.ed themselves to believe that his only consolations were those
of " the opiate guilt applies to grief," will do well to pause over this noble
letter and judge for themselves. The enemy under wliich he was destined
to sink, had already beaten in the outworks of his constitution when these
lines were penned. The reader has already had occasion to observe, that
Burns had in those closing years of his life to struggle almost continually
v/ith pecuniary difficulties, than which nothing could have been more like-
ly to pour bitterness intolerable into the cup of his existence. His lively
imagination exaggerated to itself every real evil ; and this among, and per-
haps above, all the rest ; at least, in many of his letters we find him alluding
to the probability of his being arrested for debts, which we now know to
have been of very trivial amount at tiie worst, which we also know he him-
self lived to discharge to the utmost farthing, and in regard to which it is
impossible to doubt that his personal friends in Dumfries would have at all
times been ready to prevent the law taking its ultimate course. This last
consideration, howev^jr, was one which would have given slender relief to
Burns. How he shmk with horror and loathing from the sense of pecu-
niary obligation, no matter to whom, we have had abundant indications al-
ready.
The following extract, from one of his letters to Mr. Macmurdo, dated
December 179.'i, will speak for itself: — " i-ir, it is said that we take the
greatest liberties with our greatest friends, and i pay myself a very high
coinj>liment in the manner in which I am going to apply the remark. 1
have owed you money longer than ever I owed it to any num. — Here is
Ker's account, and here are six guineas; and now, I don't owe a shilling
to man, or woman either. But for these danmed dirty, dog"s-t?ared little
pages, (bank-notes), I had done myself the honour to have waited on
von long ago. Independent of the obligations yoiir hospita'ity has laic
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxv
me under, the consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man ap 1
j2^cntlenian of itself was fully as uiucli as I could ever make head against
but to oue you money too, was more than I could face.
Tlie question naturally arises : Burns was all this while pouring out his
beautiful songs for the Museum of Johnson and the greater work of Thom-
son ; how did he happen to derive no pecuniary advantages from this con-
tinual exertion of his genius in a form of composition so eminently ealcu-
hited for i)opu]arity ? Nor, indeed, is it an easy matter to answer this very
obvious question. The poet himself in a letter to Mr. ("arfrae, dated
1789, speaks thus : — " The profits of the labours of a man of genius are, I
hope, as honourable as any profits whatever ; and Mr. Mylne"s relations
are most justly entitled to that honest harvest which fate has denied him-
self to reap." And yet, so far from looking to Mr. .Johnson for any pecu-
niary remuneration for the very laborious part he took in his work, it ap-
pears from a passage in Cromek'j lleliques, that the })oet asked a single
copy of the Museum to give to a fair friend, by way of a great favour to
himself — and that that copy and his own were really all he ever received
at the hands of the publisher. Of the secret history of Johnson and his
book I know nothing ; but the Correspondence of Curns with Mr. Thomson
contains curious cnouirh details concernintr his connexion with that eentie-
man's more important undertaking. At the outset, »Sej)tembcr i'i'J"J, we
find Mr. Thomson saying, " W'e will esteem your poetical assistance a
particular flivcur, besides paying any reasonable ])riee 30U shall please to
demand for it. Profit is quite a secondary consideration with us, and we
are resolved to save neither pains oor expense on the publication." To
v.hich Burns replies immediately, " 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 enthusiasm with which I embark in your un-
dertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, iS.c. would be downright pros-
titution of soul. 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, G'ude spcca
the icark" The next time we meet with any hint as to money matters in
the Correspondence is in a letter of Mr. Thomson, Ist July 1 HJ3, where
he says, " I cannot express how much I am obliged to you for the exqui-
site new songs you are sending me ; but thanks, my friend, are a ]^oor re-
turn 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 3'ou do, our correspondence is at an end." To wliich letter (it inclosed
i6) Burns thus replies : — " I assure j'ou my dear ^^ir, that you truly hurt
me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. How-
ever, to return it would savour of affectation ; but as to any more traffic of
that debtor and creditor kind, I swear by that lionour which crowns the
upriglit statue of liobert Burns's integritj- — on tl'.e least motion of it, I
will indignantl}' spurn the by-past transaction, ar.d from th.at moment com-
mence entire stranger to you. Burns's character for generosity of senti-
ment and inde[)endence of mind will, I trust, loi'.g outlive any of his wants
wliich the cold unfeeling ore can sui)ply : at least, 1 will take care that
Buch a character he shall deserve." — In November 17y4', we find Mr. Thom-
son writing to Burns, " Do not, I beseech you, return any books." — In .May
179.3, " You really make me blush when you tell me you have not merited
the drawing from me ;" (this was a drawing of Tht Coiturs ^alurdui/ S'ic/lit
CXVI
LIFE OF ROBRRT BURN'S.
b}'' Allan) ; " I do not tliink I can ever repay you, or sufficiently esteem
and respect yor., for the liberal and kind manner ;n which you have enter
ed into the spirit of my undertaking, which could not have been perfectei,
without you. So 1 beg you would not make a fool of me again by speak
ing of obligation." In February 179(3, we have Burns acknowledging a
" handsome elegant present to Mrs. B ," which was a worsted shawl.
Lastly, on the l'2th July of the same year, (that is, little more than a week
before Burns died), he writes to Mr. Thomson in these terms : — " After
all my boasted independence, cursed necessity compels me to implore you
for five pounds. A cruel of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an ac-
count, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process,
and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that
sura, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness ; but the hor-
rors of a jail have put me half distrnacted. — I do not ask this gratuitously,
for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you
w^ith five pounds worth of the neatest song genius you have seen." To
which Mr. Thomson replies — " F^ver since 1 received your melancholy let-
ter by Mrs. Ilyslop, 1 have been ruminating in what manner I could en-
deavour to alleviate your sufferings. Again and again 1 thought of a pe-
cuniary offer ; but the recollection of one of your letters on this subject,
and the fear of offending your independent spirit, checked my resolution.
1 thank you heartily, therefore, for the frankness of your letter of the l:^th,
and with great pleasure enclose a draft for the very sum I proposed send-
ing. Would I were Chancellor of the Exchequer but one day for your
sake ! Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you to muster a volume
of poetry ? Do not shun this method of obtaining the value of
your labour ; remember Pope published the lUud by subscri{)tion. Think
of this, my dear Burns, and do not think me intrusive with my advice."
Such are the details of this matter, as recorded in tlie correspondence
of the two individuals concerned. Some time after Burns's death, Mr.
Thomson was attacked on account of his behaviour to the poet, in a novel
called JS/ubilia. In Professor Walker's Memoirs of Burns, which appeared
in 18 !G, Mr. Thomson took the opportunity of defending himself thus : —
" I have been attacked with much bitterness, and accused of not endea-
vouring to remunerate Burns for the songs which he wrote for my collec-
tion ; althougli there is the clearest evidence of the contrary, both in the
printed correspondence between the poet and me, and in the public testi-
mony of Dr. Currie. My assailant, too, without knowing any thing of the
maticr, states, that I had enriched myself by the labours of Burns ; and,
of course, that my want of generosity was inexcusable. Now, the fact is,
that notwithstanding the united labours of all the men of genius who have
enriched my collection, I am not even yet compensated for the precious
time consumed by n)e in poring over musty volumes, and in corresponding
with every amateur and poet by whose means I expected to make any %a-
luable additions to our national music and song ; — lor the exertion and mo-
ney it cost me to obtain accompaniments from the greatest masters of har-
mony in Vienna; — and for the sums paid to engravers, printers, and others.
On this subject, the testimony of Mr. Preston in London, a man of un-
questionable and well-known character, who has printed the music lor
every copy of my work, may be more satisfactory than any thing I can
say : In August IHDi), he wrote me as follows : ' I am concerned at the
very unvo rantable attack which has been made upon you by the autho.'
LIFE OF RODERT BURN'S. cxi'ii
m( X/fJii/ia ; nntliiiic: could be nioro unjust tlian to say you liA(l cnrlclied
VoursL'If by Burns's hibours ; Tor tlie whole; coucltu, thou^Ii it inc-Iudcs tho
iiiboiirs of Maydn, has scarcely afforded a compensation for the various ex-
penses, and for the time employed on the work. When a work obtains
any celebrity, publishers are generally supposed to derive a profit ten times
beyond the reality; the sale is greatly magni(ied, and the expenses are not
in the least taken into consideration. It is truly vexatious to be so grossly
and scandalously abused for conduct, the very reverse of which has been
manifest through the whole transaction.' — Were I the sordid man that the
anonymous author calls nie, I had a most inviting opportunity to profit
much more than I did by the lyrics of our great bard. He had written
ab;)ve fifty songs expressly for my work ; they were in my possession un-
pubfushed at his death ; I had the riglit and tl)e power of retaining them
till 1 should be ready to publish them : but when I was informed that an
edition of the poet's works was projected for the benefit of his family, I put
them in immediate possession of the whole of his songs, as well as letters,
and thus enabled Dr. Currie to complete the four volumes which were sold
for the family's behoof to Messrs. C'adell and Davies. And I liave the sa-
tisfaction of knowing, that the most zealous friends of the family, Mr. Cun-
ningliame, Mr. Syme, and Dr. Currie, and the poet's own brother, consi-
dered my sacriiice of tlie prior right of publishing the songs, as no ungrate-
ful return for the disinterested and liberal conduct of the poet. Accord-
ingly, Mr. Gilbert Burns, in a letter to me, which alone might suffice for
an answer to all the novelist's abuse, thus expresses himself : — ' if ever
I come to Edinburgh, I will certainly call on a person whoso handsome con-
duct to my brother's family has secured my esteem, and confirmed me in
the opinion, that musical taste and talents have a close connexion with the
harmony o\' the moral feelings.' Nothing is farther from my thoughts
tlian to claim any merit for what I did. I never would have said a word
on the subject, but for the har;-h and groundless accusation which has been
lirought forward, either by ignorance or animosity, and which 1 have long
sulFered to remain unnoticed, from my great dislike to any public ap-
pearance."
'1 his statement of Mr. Thomson supersedes tl:e necessity of an}' addi-
tional remarks, (writes I'rofessor Walker). When the public is satisfied;
when the relations of Burns are grateful ; and. above all, when the delicate
mind of Mr. Thomson is at peace with itself in contemplating his conduct,
there can be no necessity for a nameless novelist to contradict them.
So far, i\Ir. NN'alker : — W by Burns, who v.as of opinion, wh.en he wrole
his letter to Mr Carfrae, that " no profits are more honourable than those
nf the labours of a man of genius," and whose own notions of independence
had sustained no shock in th.e receipt of hundreds of pounds from Creech,
sliould have spurned the suggestion of pecuniary recomjiense from '1 hom-
son, it is no easy matter to ex])lain : nor do 1 profess to understand why Mr.
'I'homson took so little pains to argue the matter in Unnne. with the poet,
and convince him, that the time wl.ieh he himself considered as fairly en-
titled to be paid for by a common bookseller, ought of right to be valued
and acknowledged on similar terms by the editor and proprietor of a book
containing both songs and music. '1 hey order tliese tliings differently
aow : a living lyric poet whom none will place in a higher rank than Burns,
has long, it is understood, been in the habit of receiving about as much
nu)!n.y '-immaliy for an aimnal handful of songs, as was ever naid to our
">afd tur the whole body of his writint:s.
CXVIII
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
Of the increasing irritability ofour poet's temperament, amidst those trnii
bles, external and internal, that preceded his last illness, his letters furnish
proofs, to dwell on which could only inflict unnecessary pain. Let one ex
ample suffice. — " Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business,,
and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine em
ployment for a poet's pen ! Here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d
melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse me
to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor ; my soul flouncing and
fluttering I'ound her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors
of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it
was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold — ' And behold,
on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper !' Pray that
wisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of R. B."
Towards the close cf 179j Burns was. as has been previously mention-
ed, employed as an accing Supervisor of Excise. This was apparently a
step to a permanent situation of that higher and more lucrative class ; and
from thence, there was every reason to believe, the kind patronage of Mr.
Graham might elevate him yet farther. I'hese hopes, however, were mingl-
ed and darkened with sorrow. For four months of that year his youngest
child lingered through an illness of v.hich every v/cck promised to be the
lar-t ; and she was hnally cut off when the poet, who had watched her with
anxious tenderness, was from home on professional business. 'J his was a
severe blow, and his own nerves, tliough as yet he had not taken any seri-
ous alarm about his ailments, were ill fitted to withstand it.
" 'I'here had need," lie writes to Mrs. Dunlop, 15th December, " there
had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husi',and and
father, for God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe
to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. 1 see a
train of helpless little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ; and on
what a brittle thread does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt off at the
conmiand of i'nte, even in all the vigour of manhood as 1 am, such things
(ijppen every day — gracious God ! what would become of my little flock !
'Tis here that J envy j'our j)eople of fortune — A fiuher on his death-bed,
taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough ; but
the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency
and friends ; v/liile 1 — but 1 shall run distracted if 1 think any longer on
the subject."
To the same lady, on the 29th of the month, he, after mentioning his
supervisorshij). and saying that at last liis political sins seemed to be for-
given him — iToes on in this ominous tone — "■ \\ hat a transient business is
lile ! Very lately I Mas a boy ; but t'other day a young man ; and 1 already
begin to feel the rigid l.bre and stiifening joints of old age coming fast over
my frame." We may trace the melanciioly sequel in the few follo^ving
extracts.
" Slst Jdimary ITOii. — I have lately drunk deep of the cup of afllie-
tion. '1 he autunm robbed me of my only dauiihter and darling c!;ild, and
Ihat at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of i)y power to pay
the last duties to her. 1 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 doubtl'ul ; until, ai'ter many weeks of a sick bed, it seems
to have turned up life, and 1 am beginnnig to crawl across n)y room, av:
oucc indeed have been belbre my own d:>r in the street.
LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. . cxix
•' \Vhen pleasure fascinates the mental sight.
Affliction purifies the visii;il ray,
Ro^iijion li:iils the drear, the untried night,
Tliat shuts, Ibr ever shuts ! life's doubtful day."
But a few (!a\r after this. Burns was so excceclingly inipr'idciit as to join
B festive circle at a tavern dinner, where he remained till about three in tiie
morning. The weatlier was se\ere, and he, being mueh intoxieatetl, took
no precaution in thus exposing his debilitated frame to its influence. It
Iia;-; been said, that he fell asleep upon the snow on his way home. It
is certairi, that next morning he was sensible of an icy numbness through
all his joints — that his rheumatism returned with tenfold force upon him —
and that from that unhappy hour, his mind brooded ominously on the fatal
issue. The course of medicine to which he submitted v.as violent ; con-
fmement, accustomed as he had been to much bodily exercise, preyed
miserably on all his powers ; he drooped visibly, and all the hopes of his
friends, that health would return with sunmicr, v/cre destined to disap-
pointment.
" Atli June 1796.* — I am in such miserable liealth as to be utterly inca-
pable of showing my lo3alty in any way. Rackt as I am with rheuma-
tisms, I meet every ^ace with a greeting like tliat of Balak and Balaam, —
Come curse me .Jacob ; and come defy me Israel.' "
" 77// JkI;/ — I fear the voice of the Bard will soon be heard among you
no more. — lor tliese eight or ten months I have been ailing, sonietimcs
bed-fast and sometimes not ; but these last three months I have been tor-
tured with an excruciating rheumatism which has reduced me to nearly the
last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me — pale, emaci-
ated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my cliair. — My spirits
fled ! tied ! But I can no more on the subject."
This last letter was addressed to Mr. Cunningham of Edinburgh, from
the small village of Brow on the Solway Frith, about ten miles from Dum-
fries, to which the poet removed about the end of June; " the medical
folks," as he says, " having told him that his last and only chance was
bath.ing, country quarters, and riding." In separating himself by tlieir ad-
vice from his family for these purposes, he carried with him a heavy bur-
den of care. " The duce of the matter," lie writes, '' is this; when an ex-
ciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced. What way, in the name of thrift,
shall I maintain myself and keep a liorse in country quarters on 4.3.')?'
He im])lorcd his friends in Kdinburgh, to make interest with the Board to
grant him his full salary ; if they do not, I must lay my account with an
exit truly en pvvlc — if I die not of disease, 1 must perish with hunger."
Mrs. lUddell of (ilenriddel, a beautiful and very acccmp!i>hed woman,
to wh.om many of Burns's most interesting letters, in the latter years of his
life, were addressed, happened to be in the neighbourhood of Brow ^hen
Burns reached his batk.ing quarters, and exerted herself to make him as
comfortable as circumstances permitted. Having sent her carriage for his
conveyance, the poet visited her on the .Tth July; and she has, hi a letter
published by Dr. (. urrie, thus described his appearance and conversation
on that occasion : —
" 1 was struc k with his appearance on entering the room. The stamp
of death was impressed on liis features. He seemed already touching tlie
brink of eternity. His first salutation was, ' Well, IMadam, have you any
• The birth-dav of George III.
JXX
LIFE OF ROBERT RUKNS.
commands for tlie other world ?' I re])Iied tliat it seemed a doubtrul case
wliicli of us should he there soonest, and that I hoped he uould yet li\e tc
write my epitaph. (I was then in a poor state of health.) Me looked in my
face witli an air of great kindness, and expressed his concern at seeing me
look so ill, with his accustomed sensibility. At table he ate little or no-
t!)ing, and he complained of having entirely lost the tone of his stomach.
We had a long and serious conversation about his present situation, and
the approaching termination of all his earthly prospects. lie spoke of his
'leatli without any of the ostentation of philosophy, but witli firmness as
well as feelir.g — as an event likely to happen very soon, and which gave
him concern chiefly from leaving his four children so young and unprotect-
ed, and his wife in so interesting a situation — in the hourly expectation of
lying-in of a fifth. He mentioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction,
the promising genius of his eldest son, and the Hattering marks of appro-
bation he had received from his teachers, and dwelt particularly on hi?
hopes of that boy's future conduct and merit. His anxiety tor his family
seemed to hang heavy upon liim, and the more perhaps from the retlectioo
that he had not done them all the justice he was so well qualified to do.
Passing from this subject, he showed great concern about the care of his lite-
rary fame, and particularly the publication of his posthumous works. He
said he was v/cil aware that his death would occasion some noise, and that
ever}' scrap of iiis writings would be revived against him to the injury of his
future reputation : that letters and verses v/ritten with unguarded and im-
proper freedom, and which he earnestly wislied to have buried in oblivion,
would be handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, when no dread of his
resentment would restrain them, or prevent the censures of shrill-tongued
malice, or th.e insidious sarcasms of envy, from pouring forth all their ve-
nom to blast his fame. He lamented th.at he had written many epigrams
on persons against whom he entertained no enmity, and whose characters
he should be sorry to wound ; and many indifferent poetical pieces, wiiich
he feared would now, with all tlieir imperfections on their head, be thrust
upon the world. On this account he deeply regretted having deferred to
put his papers into a state of arrangement, as lie was now quite incapable ot
the exertion. — The conversation was kept up with great evenness and ani-
mation on his side. I have seldom seen his mind greater or more collected.
'Ihere was frecjuently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies, and
they would probably have had a greater share, had not the concern and
dijeetion I could not disguise, damped the spirit of ])leasantry he seemed
not unwilling to indulge. — We parted about sun-set on the evening of that
day (the .'^th of July l?9t)) ; the next day 1 saw him again, and we parted
to meet no more !"
1 do not know the exact date of tlie following letter to Mrs Burns: —
'' Brow, Thursday. — My dearest Love, I delayed writing until I could
tell you what effect sea-bathing was likel}' to produce. !t would be injus-
tice to deny that it h.as easeil my |)alns, and I think lias strengthened me
put my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow .
porridge and milk are the only things I can taste. I am very luip|)y to
hear, by .Miss .less Lewars, that you are all well. My very best and kind-
eiet c(/!iipliments to her and 1o all the children. 1 uill see you on ISundai
Your affectionate husband, li. 15."
There is a very affecting letter to (lilbert, dated the 7th, in which the
Doe^ .sajs, •' 1 am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. — (Jod keep
LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. cxxi
m> wife anil clnldrcn." On the I'ith, he wrote the letter to Mr. George
Thomson, above (juotcd, recjuesting L'.> ; and, on tlie same day, he pei.ned
also the following — the hist letter that ue ever wrote — to his friend Mrs
Dunlop.
" Madam, I liave written you so often, without receiving any answer,
that I would not trouble you again, but ibr the circumstanees in which '
nm. An illness v.-hich has long lunig about me, in all probability will speed-
ily send me beyond that hoiirnc irhencc nn tnivdltr rLtiuns. Vour li'iend-
ship, witii which for many years you honoured nie, was a iriendship
dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence,
were at once highly entertaining and instructive. W ith what pleasure did
I use to break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to
my poor pali)itating heart. Farewell ! ! !"
1 give the following anecdote in the words of Mr. M'Diarmid :* —
" Rousseau, we all know, when dying, wished to be carried into the open
lir. that he might obtain a parting look of the glorious orb of day. A night
or two before I5urns left Brow, he drank tea with Mrs. Craig, widow of the
minister of Ruthwell. His altered appciyance excited much silent sympa-
thy ; and the evening being beautiful, and the sun shinmg brigiitly through
the casement, Miss Craig (now .Mrs. Henry Duncan), was afraid the light
mi:i:!it be too much for him, and rose with the view of lettinir down the win-
'li w blinds Burns immediately guessed what she meant ; and, regarding
the young lady with a look of great benignity, said, ' '1 hank you, my dear,
for your kind attention ; but, oh, let him shine ; lie will not shine long for
uie.
(Jn tlie iSth, despairing of any benefit from the sea, our poet came baca
to Dumirics. Mr. Allan Cunningham, who saw him arrive '' visibly cluuig-
ed in his looks, being with dililculty able to stand upright, and reach his
own door," has given a striking picture, in one of his essays, of the state of
po]'«ular feeling in the town during the short space which interveneil between
his return and his death. — '♦ Dunilries was like a besieged place. It was
known he was dying, and the anxiety, not of the rich and learned only, but
of the mechanics and peasants, exceeded all belief. Wherever two or
three people stood together, their talk was of Burns, and of him alone.
They spoke of his history — of his person — of his work? — of his f.mily — of
his fan>e — and of his untimely and approaching fate, with a warmth and an
eiuhusiasm which will ever endear Dumfries to mv remembrance. All that
he-said or was saying — the opinions of the physicians, (and .Maxwell was a
kind and a skilful one), were eagerly caught u}) and reported from street to
street, and Iiom house to house."
" His good humour," Cunningham adds, " was unrufHed, and his wit ne-
ver forsook him. He looked to one ol' his fellow volunteers with a smiie,
as he stood by the bed-side with his eyes wet, and said, ' .John, don't let
the awkward squad fire over me.' He repressed with a smile the hopes of
his friends, and told them he had lived long enough. As his lite drew near
a close, the eager yet decorous solicitude of his fellow townsmen increased.
It is the practice of the young men of Dumfries to meet in the streets
dining the hours of remission from labour, and by these means 1 had an
opportunity of witnessing the general solicitude of all ranks and of all ages,
his diuerences with them on some important points were forgotten and for-
• I take the opportunity of or.ce more acknowkd^nj: n-.y great olli^atior.s vt this gentle.
<Ean who ia I umlerbtauci, coni.ecicd by his nitirriaj^e witli liie faiiiily ol die j-oet
cxxu
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
given : they thought only of his genius — of tlie deh'glit his composition!
had diffused — and they talked of him with the same awe as of some depart*
ing spirit, whose voice v/as to gladden them no more." *
•' A tremour nov/ pervaded his frame," says Dr. Currie, on the auiliority
of the j)hysician who attended him ; " !iis tongue was parched-, and his mind
sunk into delirium, when not roused hy conversation. On the second and
third day the fever increased, and his strength diminished." On the fourth,
July '^Ist 1796, Robert Burns died.
'• I went to see him laid out for the grave," says Mr. Allan Cunning-
ham ; " several elder people were with me. He lay in a plain unadorned
cofiin, with a linen sheet drawn over his face ; and on the bed, and around
the body, herbs and flowers were thickly strev/n, according to the usage oJ
the country. He was wasted somewhat by long illness ; but death liad not
increased the swarthy hue of his face, v/hich was uncommonly dark and
deeply marked — his broad and open brow was pale and serene, and around
it his sable hair lay in masses, slightly touched with grey. The room
where lie lay was plain and neat, and the simplicity of the poet's humble
dwelling pressed the presence of death more closely en the heart than i{
his bier had been embellished by vanity, and covered with the blazonry of
high ancestry and rank. We stood and gazed on him in silence for the
space of several minutes — Vv-e went, and others succeeded us — not a whis-
per was heard. This was several days after his death."
On the '-^oth of July, the remains of the poet were removed to the Trades
Hall, where they lay in state until the next morning. The volunteers of
Dumfriiis were determined to inter their illustrious comrade (as indeed he
had a)iticipated) Avith military honours. The chief persons of the tosvn and
neighbourhood resolved to make part of the procession ; and not a i'cw tra-
velled from great distances to witness the solenmity. 'I'he streets v/ere
lined by the Fen ^ble Infantry of Angusshire, and the Cavalry of the Cinque
Ports, then quartcdat Dumfries, whose commander, Lord iiawksbury, (af-
terwards Earl of Liverpool), although he had always declined a personal
introduction to the poet, f ofhciat-^d as one of the chief mourners. " The
multitude who accompanied Burns to the grave, went step by step," says
Cunningham, " witJi the chief mourners. They might amount to ten or
twelve thousand. Not a word was heard .... It was an impressive and
mournful sight to see men of all ranks and persuasions and opinions niing-
ling as brothers, and stepping side by side down the streets of L'umfi-ics,
with the remains of him who had sung of their loves and joys and domes-
tic endearments, with a truth and a tenderness which none perlurps have
since equalled. I could, indeed, have wished the military part of the pro-
cession away. The scarlet and gold — the banners disjjlayed — the mea-
sured step, and the military array — with the sounds of martial instruments
of music, had no share in increasing the solemnity of the burial scene; and
had no connexion with the poet. 1 looked on it then, and 1 consider it
now, as an idle ostentation, a piece of suj)crfiuous state which migiit have
been sj>ared, more especially as his neglected, and traduced, and insulted
spirit bad experienced no kindness in the body from those lofty people who
ore now jiroud of being numbered as his coevals and countrymen
I found myself at the brink of the poet's grave, into wliich he was about to
dc'St:end for ever. There was a pause among the mourners, as if loath tc
■ In the Ixwdon IMngarine, l!!2-l. .\rtide, " Robe Uurns ax^" Lord liyron."
^ tSo Air. byiuelus informed .Mi- JM'L>i;\-;ud
LIFE OF ROBERT BURN'S. cxxiji
part witli his remains : and wlicn he was at last lowered, and tlie first shn-
veliul of earth sounded on his coffin Hd, I looked iij) and saw tears on ntanv
cheeks where tears were not usuaL 'Ihe volunteers justified the fears oi
ihcir comrade, by three ragged and straggling volleys. The earth was
hca]>cd up, the green sod laid over him, aiul the Miultitude stood gaz-
ing on the grave for some minutes' space, and then melted silently away.
The day was a fine one. the sun was almost without a cloud, and not a
drop of rain fell iVom dawn to twilight. I notice this, not from any con-
currence in the common superstition, that ' happy i-^, the corpse wh.ich the
rain rains on,' but to confute the pious fraud of a religious Magazine,
which made Heaven express its wrath, at the interment of a profane poet,
in thunder, in lightning, and in rain."
During the funeral solemnity, Mrs. Burns was seized with the pains of
labour, and gave birth to a posthumous son, who quickly followed his fa-
ther to the grave. Mr. Cunningham describes the appearance of the ih-
niily, when they at last emerged from their home of sorrow : — " A weep-
ing widow and four helpless sons ; they came into the streets in their mourn-
ings, and public sympathy was awakened afresh. 1 shall never forget the
looks of his boys, and the compassion which they excited. Ihe poet's life
had nst been without errors, and such errors, too, as a wife is slow in for-
giving ; but he was honoured then, and is honoured now, by the unaliena-
ble affection of his wife, and the world rej)ays her prudence and her love
by its regard and esteem."
Immediately after the poet's death., a subscription was opened for the
benefit of his family; Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syme,
Mr. Cunningham, and Mr. M'.Murdo, becoming trustees for the application
of the money. Many names from other parts of Scotland appeared in the
lists, and not a few from Kngland, especially London and Liverpool, ^even
hundred pounds were in this way collected ; an additional sum was for-
warded from India ; and the profits of Dr. Currie's Life and Edition of
Burns were also considerable. The result has been, that the sons of the
poet received an excellent education, and that Mrs. Burns has continued
to reside, enjoying a decent independence, in the house where the jioet
died, situated in what is now, by the authority of the Magistrates of Dum-
fries, called l>urns' Street.
" Of the ;four surviving) sons of the poet," says their uncle Gilbert in
1^20, " Robert, the eldest, is placed as a clerk in the Stamp Ofiice, Lon-
don, (Mr. Burns still remains in that estublisimient), Francis W alluce. ihe
second, died in l^U;^ ; \\ illiam Nicoll, the third, went to Madras m IS I! ;
and , lames (ilencairn, the youngest, to Lengal in 181 v?, both as cadets Ln
the Honourable Company's service." These young gentlemen have all, it
is believed, conducted themselves through life in a manner highly honour-
able to themselves, and to the name uiiich they bear, (hie of them
(.Iames\ as soon as his circumstances permitted, settled a liberal annuity
on his estimable mother, which she still survives to enjoy.
'ihe great poet himself, whose name is enough to ennoble his children's
children, was, to the eternal disgrace of his country, suH'ered to live ar.d
die in penury, and, as far as such a creature could be degraded by ajiy ex-
ternal circumstances, in degradation. \\ lu) can open the page of Burns,
and remember without a bhis'i. tliat tiie autlu;r of !>ueh verses, the hiimiu:
being whose breasl glowed with sucli feelings, was doomed to earn niert"
bread lor his child' en by casting up the stock of publicans' cellars, and rid
cxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
ing over moors and mosses in quest of smuggling stills '' The subscription
for his poems was, for the time, large and liberal, and perhaps absolves the
gentry of Scotland as individuals ; but that some strong movement cf in-
dignation ^id not spread over the whole kingdom, when it was known that
Robert Barns, after being caressed and flattered by the noblest and most
learned of his countrymen, was about to be established as a common ganger
among the wilds of Nithslale — and that, after he was so established, na
interference from a highei quarter arrested that unwortliy career : — these
are circumstances which must continue to bear heavily on the memory ot
that generation of Scotsmen, and especially of those who tlw^n adminis-
tered the public patronage of Scotland.
In defence, or at least in palliation, of this national crime, two false ar
guments. the one resting on facts grossly exaggerated, the other h.aving no
foundation whatever either on knowledge or on wisdom, have been rashly
set \i\), and arrogantly as v/eil as ignorantly maintained. To the one,
namely, that public patronage would have been wrongfully bestowed on the
Poet, because the Lxciseman was a political partizan, it is hoped the de-
tails embodied in this narrative have supplied a sufficient answer : had the
matter been as bad as the boldest critics have ever ventured to insinuate,
Sir Walter Scott's answer would still have remained — " this partizan was
BL-rtN-h.'" The other argument is a still more heartless, as well as absurd
one ; to wit, that from the moral character and habits of the man, no pa-
tronage, hov.-ever liberal, could have influenced and controlled his conduct,
eo as to work lasting and effective improvement, and lengthen his life by
raising it more nearly to the elevation of his genius This is indeed a can-
did and a generous method of judging ! Are imprudence and intemperance,
then, found to increase usually in pro]wrtion as the worldly circun, stances
of men are easy ? Is not the very opposite of this doctiine acknowledged
by almost all that have ever tried the reverses of Fortune's wheel them-
gelves — by all that have contemplated, from an elevation not too high for
sympathy, the u^ual course of manners, when their fellow creatures either
encounter or live in constant apprehension of
"• The thniisand ills tliat ri^e where money fails.
Debts, Uueats, and duns, bills, bailiffs, writs, ar.d jails ?"
To such mean miseries the latter years of Burns's life were exposed, no
less than his early youth, and after what natin-al buoyancy of animal spirits
he ever possessed, had sunk under the influence of time, which, surely
hriiigir.g experience, fails seldom to bring care also and sorrow, to spirits
more mercurial than his ; and in what bitterness of heart he submittc' to
his fate, let his own burning words once more tell us. " Take," says ne.
writing to one who never ceased to be his friend — " take these two guineas,
and piace them over against that *»••** account of yours, which has gag-
ged my mouth these five or six months ! i can as little write good things
as aj)ologies to the man I oive money to. C), the supreme curse of nsak-
ing three guineas do the business of five ! Poverty! tliou halfs:ster of
death, thou cousingerman of hell ! Oppressed by thee, the man of senti-
ment, whose heart glows with independence, and melts with sensibility
in'y pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul, under the
contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of
genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the iiishion-
Hble a'ld polite, must see, in suli'ering s.lence, his remark neglected, an«^
I.IFK 01- ROBERT BURNS. cxxv
nis person despised, while s1ki1U)\v greatness, in liis idiot attempts at wit,
sliall meet with countenanee and applause. Nor is it only the ianiily of
worth that liave reason to comjjlain of thee ; the children of folly and vice,
though, in common with thee, the oUspring of evil, smart e<jiially under
thy rod.. The man of unfortunate dis})osition 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 neces-
sities drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and
perishes by the justice of his country. 1/Ut far otherwise is the lot of the
man of family and fortune. His early follies and extravagance, are spirit
and fire ; his consequent wants, are tlie embarrassments of an honest
fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commis-
sion to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns,
perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and
respected, and dies a *»**«** and a lord ! — Nay, worst of all, alas for
helpless woman ! the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the corner oJ
the street, waiting to earn the wages of casual prostitution, is left neglect-
ed and insulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of the coroneted iup,
hurrying on to th.e guilty assignation ; she, who, without the same neces-
sities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty trade. — Well : divines may
say of it what they please, but execretion is to the mind, what phlebotomy
is to the body ; the vital sluices of both are wonderfully relieved by their
respective evacuations." *
In such evacuations of indignant spleen the proud heart of many an un-
fortunate genius, besides this, has found or sou[^^,ht relief: and to other
more dangerous indulgences, the affliction of such sensitive spirits had of-
ten, ere his time, condescended. The list is a long and a painful one ; and
it includes some i>nmes that can claim but a scanty share in the apology ot
P.urns. Addison himself, the elegant, the philosophical, the religious Ad-
dison, must be numbered with these offenders : — Jonson, Cotton, I'rior,
Parnell, Otway, Savage, all sinned in the same sort, and the transgressions
of them all have been leniently dealt with, in comparison with those of one
whose genius was probably greater than any of theirs ; his appetites more
fervid, his temptations more abundant, his repentance more severe. 'Ihc
beautiful genius of Collins sunk under similar contaminations ; and those
who have from dullness of head, or sourness of heart, joined in the too ge-
neral clamour against Burns, may learn a lesson of candour, of mercy, and
of justice, from the language in which one of the best of men, and loftiest
of moralists, has commented on frailties that hurried a kindred spirit to a
like untimely grave.
" In a long continuance of poverty, and long habits of dissipation," savs
Johnson, " it cannot be expected that any character should be exactly uni-
form. That this man, wise and virtuous as he was, passed always unen-
tangled through the snares of life, it would be prejudice and temerity tc
affirm : but it may be said that he at least preserved the source of action
unpolluted, that his principles were never shaken, that his distinctions of
right and wrong were never confounded, and that his faults had nothing oi
malignity or design, but proceeded from some unexpected pressure or ca<
sudl temptation. Such was the fate of Collins, with whom 1 once de
lighted to converse, and whom 1 yet remember with tenderness."
" Letter to Mr. Peter II iH, bookseller, Edinburgh. General Correspondence, p. 328-
cxxvi LIFE OFTvOBERT BURXS.
Burns was an honest man : after all his struggles, he owed no man a
shilling when he died. Mis heart was ahvaj'S warm and his hand open.
" His charities," says Mr. Gray, " were great heyond his means ;" and 1
have to thank Mr. Allan Cunningham for the following anecdote, fur which
I am sure every reader will thank him too. Mr. Maxwell of Teraughty,
an old, austere, sarcastic gentleman, who cared nothing about poetry, used
to say when the Excise-books of tlie district were produced at the meet-
inf^.s ot tlie Justices, — " Bring me Burns's journal : it always does me good
to see it, for it shows that an honest officer may carry a kind heart about
with him."
Of his religious principles, we are bound to judge by what he has told
himself in his more serious moments. He sometimes doubted with the
sorrow, what in the main, and above all, in the end, he believed with the
fervour of a poet. " It occasionally haunts me," says he in one of his let-
ters,— " the dark suspicion, that immortality may be only too good news to
be true ;" and here, as on many points besides, how much did his method ot
thinking, (I fear I must add of acting), resemble that of a noble poet more
recently lost to us. " I am no bigot to infidelity," said Lord Byron, " and
did not expect that because I doubted the immortality of man, 1 should be
charged with denying the existence of a God. It was the comparative in-
significance of ourselves and our world, v/hen placed in comparison with
the mighty whole, of which it is an atom, that first led me to imagine that
our pretensions to immortality might be overrated." I dare not pretend
to quote the sequel from memory, but the effect was, that Byron, like
Burns, complained of " the early discipline of Scotch Calvinism," and
the natural gloom of a melancholy heart, as having between them engen-
dered " a hypochondriacal disease" which occasionally visited and dc[)res-
sed him through life. In the opposite scale, we are, in justice to Burns,
to place many j)ages v/hich breathe the ardour, nay the exultation of faith,
ami the humble sincerity of Christian hope ; and, as the poet himself has
warned us, it well befits us
" At the balance to be mute."
Let us avoid, in the name of Ileligion herself, the fatal error of those who
would rashly sv/cll the catalogue of the enemies of religion. " A sally ot
levity," says once more Dr. Johnson, " an indecent jest, an unreasonable
objection, are sufHcicnt, in the opinion of some men, to efliice a name
from the lists of Christianity, to exclude a soul from everlasting life. Such
men are so watchful to censure, that they have seldom much care to look
for ilivourable interpretations of ambiguities, or to know how soon any
step of inadvertency has been expiated by sorrow and retractation, hul let
fly their fulminations without mercy or prudence against slight offences or
casual temerities, against crimes never committed, or immediately repent-
ed. The zealot should recollect, that he is labouring, by this frequency
of excommunication, against his own cause, and voluntarily adding strength
to the enemies of trulli. It must always be the condition of a great part
of mankind, to reject and embrace tenets upon the authority of those wb.om
they think wiser than themselves, and therefore the addition of every name
to infidelity, in some degree invalidates that argument ujion which the re-
ligi.m oi" multitudes is necessarily foundeil." * In conclusion, let me adop<
• LLfc of Sir Thomas Brownft.
LIFE OF ROBERT BURN'S. cxxvii
tlie beautiful sentiment of that illustrious morai poet of our own time,
whose i^enerous defence of Burns will be remembered while the lan-
^uaije lasts ; —
" liCt no menn hope your souls enslave—
Be independent, },'eneious, brave ;
Your" i'oKT " such exum|.le gave,
And such revere.
But be admoni^hcd by liis pr-ive,
And tliink and fear." •
It is possible, perhaps for some it may be easy, to imagine a character
of a much higher cast than that of Burns, developed, too, under circum-
stances in many respects not unlike those of his history — the character of a
man of lowly birth, and powerful genius, elevated by that philosophy which
is alone pure and divine, iar above all those annoyances of terrestrial spleen
and passion, which mixed from the beginning with the workings of his in-
spiration, and in the end were able to eat deep into the great heart which
they had long tormented. Such a being would have received, no ques-
tion, a species of devout reverence, 1 mean when the grave had closed on
him, to which the warmest admirers of our poet can advance no preten-
sions for their unfortunate favourite ; but could such a being have delight-
ed liis species — could he even have instructed them like Burns ? Ought
we not to be thankful for every new variety of form and circumstance, in
and under which the ennobling energies of true and lofty genius are found
addressing themselves to the common brethren of the race ? Would we
have none but Miltons and Cowpers in poetry — but Browncs and .Soulh-
eys in prose r" Alas ! if it were so, to how large a portion of the species
would all the gifts of all the muses remain for ever a fountain shut up and
a book sealed ! Were the doctrine of intellectual excommunication to be
thus expounded and enforced, how small the library that would remain to
kindle the fancy, to draw out and refine the feelings, to enlighten the head
by expanding the heart of man ! From Aristophanes to Ijyron, how broad
the sweep, how woeful the desolation !
In the absence of that vehement sympathy with humanity as it is, its
sorrows and its joys as they are, we might have had a great man, perhaps
a great poet, but we could have had no Burns. It is very noble to despise
the accidents of fortune ; but what moral homily concerning these, could
have equalled that which Burns's poetry, considered alongside of Burns's
history, and the history of his fame, presents ! It is very noble to be above
the allurements of pleasure ; but who preaches so effectually against them,
as he who sets forth in immortal verse his own intense sympathy with those
that yield, and in verse and in prose, in action and in passion, in life and
in death, the dangers and the miseries of yielding?
It requires a graver audacity of hypocrisy than falls to the share of most
men, to declaim against Burns's scnsibiHty to the tangible cares and toils
of his earthly condition ; there are more who venture on broad denuncia-
tions of his sympathy with the joys of sense and passion. To these, the
great moral poet already quoted sj)caks in the following noble passage —
and must he speak in vain ? " Permit me," says he, " to remind you, that it
is the privilege of poetic genius to catch, under certain restrictions of which
perhaps' at the time of its beinj} exerted it is but dimly conscious, a
• A\'ordswnr til's address tc the sons of Burns, on visiting his prr.ve in ICO.'i.
cxxvilf LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
spirit of pleasure wherever it can be found, — in the walks )f nature, ant?
in the business of men. — The poet, trusting to primary instil. cts, luxuriates
anionrr the felicities of love and wine, and is enraptured while he describes
the fairer aspects of war ; nor does he shrink from the company of the pas
sinn of love thouj^h immoderate — from convivial pleasure thou?^h intenipe-
'ate — nor from the presence of war though savage, and recognised as the
liand-maid of desolation. Frequently and admirably has Burns given way
to these impulses of nature ; both with reference to himself, and in describ-
ing the condition of others. Who, but some impenetrable dunce or narrcw-
niinded puritant in works of art, ever read without delight the picture
u'liich he has drawn of the convivial exaltation of the rustic adventurer,
Tarn o' Shanter ? The poet fears not to tell the reader in the outset, that
liis hero was a desperate and sottish drunkard, M'hose excesses were fi'e-
quent as his opportunities. This reprobate sits down to his cups, while
the storm is roaring, and heaven and earth are in confusion ; — the night is
driven on by song and tumultuous noise — laughter and jest thicken as the
beverage improves upon the palate — conjugal fidelity archly bends to the
service of general benevolence — selfishness is not absent, but wearing the
mask of social cordiality — and, while these various elements of humanity
are blended into one proud and happy composition of elated spirits, the
anger of the tempest without doors only heightens and sets off the enjoy
ment within. — I pity him who cannot perceive that, in all this, though
there was no moral purpose, there is a moral effect.
" Kings may be Ilest, but Tarn was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' lite victorious."
*' What a lesson do these words convey of charitable indulgence for the
vicious habits of the principal actor in this scene, and of those who resem-
ble him ! — Men who to the rigidly virtuous are objects almost of loath-
ing, and whom therefore they cannot serve ! The poet, penetrating the
unsightly and disgusting surfaces of things, has unveiled with exquisite
skill the finer ties of imagination and feeling, that often bind these beings
to practices productive of much unhaj^piness to themselves, and to those
whom it is their duty to cherish ; — and, as far as he puts the reader into
possession of this intelligent sympathy, he qualifies him for exercising a
salutary influence over the minds of those who are thus deplorably de-
ceived." *
That some men in every age will comfort themselves in the practice of
certain vices, by reference to particular passages both in the history and
in tiie poetry of Burns, there is all reason to fear ; but surely the general
influence of both is calculated, and has been found, to produce flir different
effects. The universal popularity which his Avritings have all along enjoy-
ed among one of the most virtuous of nations, is of itself, as it would seem,
a decisive circumstance. Search Scotland over, from the Pentland to the
Solway, and there is not a cottage hut so poor r,nd wretched as to be with-
out its Bible ; and hardly one that, on the same shelf, and next to it, does
not possess a Burns. Have the people degenerated since their adoption
of this new manual ? Has their attachment to the Book of Boc ks declined ?
Are their hearts less firmly bound, than were their fathers', to the old faith
and the old virtues ? I believe, he that knows the most oi' the country wii"
• \\'ordsworth's Letter to Gray, p. 24.
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxix
be the readiest to answer all these questions, as every lover of genius ana
virtue woulil desire to hear them answered.
On one point there can be no controversy ; tlie poetry of Burns has had
most powerful influence in reviving; and strengtliening the national feelings,
of his couivtrymen. Amidst penury and labour, his youth fed on the old
minstrelsy and traditional glories of his nation, and his genius divined,
that what he felt so deeply must belong to a spirit that nn'ght lie smothered
around him, but could not be extinguished. The political circumstances
of Scotland were, and iiad been, sucli as to starve the tlame of patriotism ;
the popular literature had striven, and not in vain, to make itself English ;
and, above all, a new and a cold system of speculative philosophy had be
gun to spread widely among us. A peasant appeared, and set himself to
check the creeping pestilence of this indifference. Whatever genius has
since then been devoted to the illustration of the national manners, and
sustaining thereby of the national feelings of the people, there can be no
doubt that Burns will ever be remembered as the ibunder, and, alas ! in
his own person as the martjr, of this reformation.
That what is now-a-days called, by solitary eminence, the wealth of the
nation, had been on the increase ever since our incorporation with a greater
and wealthier state — nay, that the laws had been improving, and, above all,
the administration of the laws, it would be mere bigotry to dispute. It
may also be conceded easily, that the national mind had been rapidly clear-
ing itself of many injurious prejudices — that the people, as a people, had
been gradually and surely advancing in knowledge and wisdom, as well as
in wealth and security. But all this good had not been accomplished with-
out rude work. If the improvement were valuable, it had been purchased
dearly. " The spring fire," Allan LViiningham says beautifully somewhere,
" which destroys the furze, makes an end also of the nests of a thousand
songbirds; and he who goes a-trouting with lime leaves little of life in the
stream." We were getting fast ashamed of many precious and beautilul
things, only for that they were old and our own.
It has already been remarked, how even Smollett, who began with a
national tragedy, and one of the noblest of national lyrics, never dared to
make use of the dialect of his own country ; and how Moore, another most
enthusiastic Scotsman, followed in this respect, as in others, the example
of Smollett, and over and over again counselled Burns to do the like. But
a still more striking sign of the times is to be found in the style adopted
by both of these novelists, especially the great master of the art, in their
representations of the manners and characters of their own countrymen.
In Humphry Clinker, the last and best of Smollett's tales, there are some
traits of abetter kind — but, taking his works as a whole, the impression it
conveys is certainlj' a painful, a disgusting one. The Scotsmen of these
authors, are the Jockeys and Archies of farce —
Time out of mind ihe Southrons' mirthmakers —
the best of them grotesque combinations of simplicity and hypocrisy, pride
and meanness. When such men, high-spirited Scottish gentlemen, posses-
sed of learning and talents, and, one of them at least, of splendid genius,
felt, or fancied, the necessity of making such submissions to the prejudices of
the dominant nation, and did so without exciting a murmur among their own
countrymen, we may form some notion of the boldness of Burns's experi-
ment; and on contrasting the state of things then with what is before us
cxxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
now, it will cost no efFort to appreciate the nature and consequences of tht
victory in which our poet led the way, by achievements never in their kind
to be surf assed. " Burns," says Mr. Campbell, " has given the elixir vitas
to his dialect ;" — he gave it to more than his dialect. " He was," savs a
writer, in whose language a brother poet will be recognised — '• he was m
many respects born at a happy time ; happy for a man of genius like him,
but fatal and hopeless to the more common mind. A whole world of life
lay before Burns, whose inmost recesses, and darkest nooks, and sunniest
eminences, he had famil arly trodden from his childhood. All that world
he felt could be made his own. No conqueror had overrun its fertile pro-
vinces, and it was for him to be crowned supreme over all the
' Lyric singers of that high-soul'd land.'
The crown that he has won can never be removed from his head. Much
is yet left for other poets, even among that life where his spirit delighted
to work ; but he has built monuments on all the high places, and they who
follow can only hope to leave behind them some far humbler memorials." *
Dr. Currie says, that " M fiction be the soul of poetry, as some assert.
Burns can have small pretensions to the name of poet." The success of
Burns, the influence of his verse, would alone be enough to overturn all
the systems of a thousand definers ; but the Doctor has obviously taken
fiction in far too limited a sense. There are indeed but i<i\y of Burns's
pieces in which he is found creating beings and circumstances, both alike
alien from his own person and experience, and then by the power of inva-
gination, divining and expressing what forms life and passion would assume
with, and under these. — But there are some ; there is quite enough to sa-
tisfy every reader of Halloween, the Jolly Beggars, and Turn o' S/tan/er,
(to say nothing of various particular songs, such as Bruce's Address, Mac-
jjliersois Lament, tic), that Burns, if he pleased, might have been as large-
ly and as successfully an inventor in this way, as he is in another walk,
perhaps not so inferior to this as many people may have accustomed them-
selves to believe ; in the art, namely, of recombining and new-combining,
varying, embellishing, and fixing and transmitting the elements of a most
picturesque experience, and most vivid feelings.
Lord Byron, in his letter on Pope, treats with high and just contempt
the laborious trifling which has been expended on distinguishing by air-
drawn lines and technical slang-words, the elements and materials of poe-
tical exertion ; and, among other things, expresses his scorn of the attemj)ts
that have been made to class Burns among minor poets, merely because he
has put forth few large pieces, and still fewer of what is called the purely
imaginative charact'jr. light who will about words and forms, " Burns's
rank," says he, " is in the first class of his art ;" and, I believe, the world
at large are now-a-days well prepared to prefer a line from such a pen as
Byron's on any such subject as this, to the most luculent dissertation that
ever jverplexed the brains of writer and of reader. Sentio, ergo sum, says
the metaphysician ; the critic may safely parody the saying, and assert
that that is poetry of th.e highest order, which exerts influence of the most
powerful order on the hearts and minds of mankind.
Ijurns has been appreciated dul}', and he has had the fortune to be prais*
ed eloquently, by almost every poet who has come after hin. To accu-
Blackwood's ^Liga'.Lne, February 1817.
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNb. cxxm
mulale all that has been said of him, even by men like himself, of the first
oriler, would fill a volume — and a noble monument, no question, that vo-
lume would be — the noblest, except what he has left us in his own im-
mortal verses, which — were some dross removed, and the rest arranged in
a chronological order — would I believe form, to the intelligent, a more per-
fect and vivid history of his life than will ever be composed out of all the
materials in the world besides.
" The impression of his genius," says Campbell, " is deep and univer-
sal ; and viewing him merely as a poet, there is scarcely another regret
connected with his name, than that his productions, with all their merit,
fall short of the talents which he possessed. That he never attempted any
great work of fiction, may be partly traced to the cast of his genius, and
partly to his circumstances, and defective education. His poetical tempe-
rament was that of fitful transports, rather than steady inspiration. What-
ever he might have written, was likely to have been fraught with passion.
There is always enough of iiiferest in life to cherish the f:.'elings of genius ;
but it requires knowledge to enlarge and enrich the imagination. Of that
knowledge which unrolls the diversities of human manners, adventures
and characters, to a poet's study, he could have no great share ; although
he stamped the little treasure which he possessed in the mintage of sove-
reign genius." *
" Notwithstanding," says Sir Walter Scott, " the spirit of many of his
lyrics, and the exquisite sweetness and simplicity of others, we cannot but
deeply regret that so much of his time and talents was frittered away in
compiling and composing for musical collections. There is s jfficient evi-
dence, that even the genius of Burns could not support him in the monoton-
ous tarsk of writing love verses, on heaving bosoms and sparkling eyes, and
twisting them into such rhythmical forms as might suit the capricious evo-
lutions of Scotch reels and strathspeys. Besides, this constant waste of
his power and fancy in small and insignificant compositions, must neces-
sarily have had no little effect in deterring him from undertaking any grave
or important task. Let no one suppose that we under\alue the songs of
Burns. When his soul was intent on suiting a favourite air to words hu-
morous or tender, as the subject demanded, no poet of our tongue ever
displayed higher skill in marrying melody to immortal verse. But the
writing of a series of songs for large musical collections, degenerated into
a slavish labour which no talents could support, led to negligence, and,
above all, diverted the poet from his grand plan of dramatic composition.
To produce a work of this kind, neither, perhaps, a regular tragedy nor
comedy, but something partaking of the nature of both, seems to have been
long the cherished wish of Burns. He had even fixed on the subject,
which was an adventure in low life, said to have happened to Robert Bruce,
while wandering in danger and disguise, after being defeated by the English.
The Scottish dialect would have rendered such a [)icce totaljy unfit for the
stage ; but those who recollect the masculine and lofty tone of martial spirit
which glows in the poem of Bannockburn, will sigh to think what the cha-
racter of tlie gallant Bruce might have proved under the hand of IJurns. It
would undoubtedly have wanted that tinge of chivalrous feeling which the
manners of the age, no less than the disposition of the monarch, demanded ,
but this deficiency would have been more than supplied by a bard who
could have drawn from his own perceptions, the unbending energy of a
" Soecimens. vol. vii. 211.
cxxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
hero sustaining the desertion of friends, the persecution of enemies, and
the utmost mahce of disastrous fortune. The scene, too, being partly laid
in humble life, admitted that display of broad humour and exquisite patnos,
with v/hich he could, interchangeably and at pleasure, adorn his cottage
views. Nor was the assemblage of familiar sentiments incompatible in
Burns, with those of the most exalted dignity. In the inimitable tale oi
Tarn o Shavfer, he has left us sufficient evidence of his abilities to com-
oine the ludicrous with the awful, and even the horrible. No poet, with
•;he exception of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the most
varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions. His humour-
ous description of death in the poem on Dr. Hornbook borders on the ter-
rific, and the witches' dance in the kirk of Alloa is at once ludicrous and
horrible. Deeply must we then regret those avocations which diverted a
fancy so varied and so vigorous, joined \\ ith language and expression suited
to all its changes, from leaving a more substantial monument to his own
fame, and to the honour of his country."
The cantata of the ./o//y Bcgrjars, which was not printed at all until some
time after the poet's death, and has not been included in the editions of hi;
works until within these few years, cannot be considered as it deserves, v,-ith-
out strongly heightening our regret that Burns never lived to execute his
meditated drama. That extraordinary sketch, coupled with his later ly-
rics in a higher vein, is enough to show that in him we had a master capa-
ble of placing the musical drama on a level with the loftiest of our classi-
cal forms. Ber/gars Bush, and Bi'f/rjors Opera, sink into tameness in the
comparison ; and indee-d, without profanity to the name of Shakspeare, it
may be said, that out of such materials, even his genius could hardly have
constructed a piece in which imagination could have more splendidly pre-
dominated over the outward shows of things — in which the sympathy-
awakening power of poetry could have been displayed more triumj)hantly
under circumstances of the greatest difficulty. — I'hat remarkable perform-
ance, by the way, was an early production' of the Mauchline period. I
knov,' nothing but the Turn o' Slianter that is calculated to convey so high
an impression of what Burns might have done.
As to Burns's want of education and knowledge, INTr. Campbell may not
have considered, but he must admit, that whatever Burns's opportunities
had been at the time when he produced his first poems, such a man as he
was not likely to be a hard reader, (which he certainly was), and a constant
observer of men and manners, in a much wider circle of society than al-
most any other great poet has ever moved in, from three- and- twenty to
eight-and thirty, without having thoroughly removed any pretext for au-
guring unfavourably on that score, of what he might have been expected
to produce in tlie more elaborate departments of his art, had his life been
spared to the usual limits of humanity. In another way, however, I can-
not help suspecting that Burns's enlarged knowledge, both of men and books,
produced an unfavourable effect, rather than otherwise, on the exertions,
such as they were, of his later years. Mis generous spirit was open to the
miprcssion of every kinil of excellence ; his lively imagination, bending its
own vigour to whatever it touched, made him admire even ^vhat other peo-
ple try to read in vain ; and after travelling, as he did, over the generaj
surface of our literature, he appears to have been somewhat startled at the
consideration of what he himself had, in comparative ignorance, adventur-
3d, and to have been more intimidated than encouraged by the retrospect
LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. cxxxiii
[n most of tlie new departments in which ho made some trial of his strength;
(such, for example, as the moral epistle in Pope's vein, the heroic satire,
&C.1, he appears to have soon lost lieart, and paused. There is indeed one
magnificent exception in Tain o Shanter — a piece which no one can under-
stand without beheving, that had Burns pursued that walk, and poured out
his stores of traditionary lore, embellished with his extraordinary powers
of description of all kinds, we might have had from his hand a series of na-
tiomi! tales, uniting the quaint simplicity, sly hurnour, and irresistible pathos
of another Chaucer, with the strong and graceful versification, and mascu-
line wit and sense of another Dryden.
This was a sort of feeling that must have in time subsided. — But let U9
not waste words in regretting what might have been, where so much is. —
Hums, short and painful as were his years, has left behind him a volume
in which there is inspiration for every fancy, and music for every mood;
which lives, and will live in strength and vigour — " to soothe," as a gene-
rous lover of genius has said — " the sorrows of how many a lover, to in-
flame the patriotism of how many a soldier, to fan the fires of how many a
genius, to disperse the gloom of solitude, appease the agonies of pain, en-
courage virtue, and show vice its ugliness;"* — a volume, in which, centuries
hence, as now, wherever a Scotsman may wander, he will find the dearest
ccnsolation of his exile — Already has
" Glory without end
Scattered the clouds away ; and en that name attend
The tears and praises of all time." -|-
The mortal remains of the poet rest in Dumfries churchyard. For nine-
teen years they were covered by the plain and humble tombstone placed
over them by his widow, bearing the inscription simply of his name. But
a splendid mausoleum Laving been erected by public subscription on the
most elevated site which the churchyard presented, the remains were so-
lemnly transferred thi'Jicr on the bth June 1815; the original tombstone
having been sunk under the bottom of the mausoleum. This shrine of the
poet is annually visited by many pilgrims. The inscription it bears is given
below. Another splendid monumental edifice has also been erected to
his memory on a commanding situation at the foot of the Carrick hills in
Ayrshire, in the immediate vicinity of the old cottage where the poet was
born ; and such is the unceasing, nay daily increasing veneration of his
admiring countrymen, that a third one, of singular beauty of design, is
now in progress, upon a striking projection of that most picturesque emi-
nence— the Calton Hill of Edinburgh — The cut annexea to ji. cxxxvi,
exhibits a view, necessarily but an imperfect one, of the nionu;iicnt la«»
mentioned.
See the Censura I.iteraria of .'^ir Egerton Rrydges, vol. ii. p. 55
iiOrd Uvron's Child liarcld, (.'anto iv. 3(i.
cxxxW LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
INSCRIPTION UPON THE POET'S RIONUMENT D!
DUMFRIES CHURCHYARD.
IN AETERNUM HONOREM
IIOBERTI BURNS
POETARUM CALEDONIAE SUI AEVI LONGE PRINCIPIS
CCJUS CAR^^NA EXIMIA PATRIO SERMONE SCRIPTA
ANIMI MAGIS ARDENTIS VIQUC INGENII
QUAM ARTE VEL CULTU CONSPICUA
FACETIIS JUCUNDMATE I.EPORE AFFLUENTIA
OMNIBUS LTTTERAUUJI CULTOIUBUS SATIS NOTA
GIVES SUI NECNO.V PI.ElilQUE OMNES
VUSARUM AMANTISSIMI MEMORIAMQUE VIRI
ARTE POeTlCA TAJI PUAECI.ARI FOVENTKS
HOC MAUSOLEUM
SUPER RELIQUIAS POETAE MOKTALE8
EXTRUENDUM CURAVERE
PRIMUJI HUJUS AEPIFICU LAPIDEM
GULIELMUS MILI-ER ARMIGER
BEIPUBLICAE ARCHITECTONICAE AFUD 6COT08
IK REGIONE AUSTRALI CURIO MAXIMUS PROVINXIALIS
GEORGIO TERTIO REGNANTE
GEORGIO WALLIARUM PRINCIPE
SUMMAM IMPERII PRO PATUE TENEXTE
JOSEPHO GASS ARMIGERO DUMFRISIAE PRAEFECTO
THOMA F. HUNT LONDINENSI ARCHITECTO
POSUIT
VONIS JUNIIS ANNO LUCIS VMDCOCXV
8A1UTIS HUMANAE MOCXXXV.
ON THE DEATH OF BURNS.
cxxxv
The many poetical effusions the Peot's death gave rise to, presents a
«vi(le field for selection. — Tlie elegiac versos by \Ir. Koscoe of Liverpool
have been preferred, as the most fitting sequel to his eventful lifo
ON
THE DEATH OF BURNS.
RzAR high thy hleak majestic hills,
Thy shelter'd valleys ))roudly spread,
And, Scotia, jKiiir thv thousand rills.
And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ;
Diit, ah ! wliat poet now shall tread
'J'hy airy heiijhts, thy woodland icign,
trainee he, the sweetest bard, is dead.
That ever breath'd the soothing strain !
As green thy towering pines may grow.
As dear thy streams may speed along,
As bri;,'ht thy summer suns may glow.
As gaily charm thy feathery throng;
But now, unheeded is the song.
And dull and lifeless all around.
For his wild harp lies all unstrung,
And cold the hand that waked its sound.
What though thy vigorous offspring rise,
In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ;
Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes.
And health in every feature dwell ?
Vet wiio sliall now tiieir praises tell,
In strains impassion'd, fond, and free,
Since he no more the so^g sh ill swell
To lov-e, and liberty, aid thee ?
With step-dame eye and frown severe
His hapless youth why didst thou view ?
For all thy jiys to him were dear,
AnA :tll his vows to thee were due;
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew,
In ojiening youth's delightful jjrime.
Than when thy favouring car he drew
To listen to his chaunted rhyme.
Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies
I o him were all with rapture fraugnt ;
lie heard wiih joy the tempest rise
Th:it wd;ed 'ni u to Miblimer thought;
And oft thy winding dells he sougiu, [fume,
W here wil'.l-H iweis pour'd their rathe per-
And w:ih sincere dev:'tion brought
Vo tlice the summei's earliest bloom.
But ii~i ! no fond maternal .imile
His un])rotecteil youth enjoy 'd,
His limbs inur'd to early toil.
His days with early hardshijjs triedj
And more to mark the gloomy void,
And bid him feel his misery.
Before his infant eyes would glide
Day-dreams of immort.ilitv.
"<st, not by cold neglect depress'd,
With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil,
i^nk with the cvenini^ sun to rest.
And met at morn his earliest smile.
Vaked by his rustic }'ipe, meanwhile
The powtrs of fancy came along.
And fuoth'd his lengtlicnti, hours of toil,
With native wit and sprightly song.
— Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled,
\Vhen vigorous health from laliinir springs
And bland contentment smooths the bed,
i\iid sleep liis ready opiate brings;
Anil hovering round on airy wings
Float the light i'orms of young desire,
That of imutterable things
The soft and shadowy hope inspire.
Now spells of mightier power prepare,
l>iil brighter jjhantoms round hmi dance ;
Let Flattery s]iread her viewless snare.
And Fame attract his \agrant glance;
Let sprightly Pleasure too advance,
IJnvtil'd her eyes, anclasp'd lier zone.
Till, lost in love's delirious trance.
He scorns the joys his youth has known.
Let Friendship pour her brightest bLize,
Expanding all the bloom of soul;
And iMirtli concentre all her rays.
And point them from the s])aikling bowi
And let the careless monienis roLl
In social pleasure uiicoi. fined.
And corfiilence that s])uri:s control
Unlock the inmost sprin^js of mind :
CXXXVl
ON THE DEATH OF BURNS.
And lead his steps those bowers among,
W'liere elegance with splendour vies,
Or Science b'Js her favour'd throng
To more refined sensations rise :
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys.
And freed from each laborious strife,
There let liini learn the bliss to prize
That waits the sons of polish 'd life.
Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high
W'nh every impulse of delight.
Dash from his lips the cup of joy.
And shroud the scene in shades of night ;
And let i)e>pair, witn wizard light,
Disclose tlie yawning gulf below.
And pour incessant on his siglit
Her spcctred ills and shapes of woe :
And show beneath a cheerless shed.
With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes,
In silent grief where droops 1 er head,
The partner of his early joys ;
And let his infants' tender ctim
His fond parental succour claim.
And bid him hear in agonies
A husband's and a father's name.
'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds;
His high reluctant spirit bends ;
In bitterness of soul he bleeds.
Nor longer with his fate contends.
An idiot lau^jh the welkin rends
As genius thus degraded lies ;
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends
That shrouds the I'oet's ardent eyes.
— Rear high thy bleak majestic hills,
Tiiy sheUer'd valleys pr )udly spread,
And, Scotia, pour tliy tliousand rills.
And wave thy heaths v.ith blossoms red ;
But never more shall poet tread
Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign.
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead.
That ever breathed the sootliiu^ strsia
CHARACTER
OF
BURNS AND IIIS WRITINGS,
BT
MRS. RIDDELL OF GLENRIDDELL*
The atcention of the public seems to be much occupied at present with
till loss it has recently sustained in the death of the Caledonian poet, Ro-
bert Burns ; a loss calculated to be severely felt throughout the literary
world, as well as lamented in the narrower sphere of private friendship. It
was not therefore probable that such an event should be long unattended
with the accustomed profusion of posthumous anecdotes and memoirs which
are usually circulated immediately after the death of every rare and cele-
brated personage : I had however conceived no intention of appropriating
to myself the privilege of criticising Burns's writings and character, or ot
anticipating on the province of a biographer.
Conscious indeed of my own inability to do justice to such a subject, I
should have continued wholly silent, had misrepresentation and calumny
been less industrious ; but a regard to truth, no less than alFection for the
memory of a friend, must now justify my offering to the public a few at
least of those observations which an intimate acquaintance with Burns, and
the frequent opportunities I have had of observing equally his happy qua-
lities and his failings for several years past, have enabled me to commu-
nicate.
It will actually be an injustice done to Burns's character, not only by
future generations and foreign countries, but even by his native Scotland,
and perliaps a number cf his contemporaries, that he is gencrallj' talked of,
and considered, with reference to his poetical talents oii/i/ : for the fact is,
even allowing his great and original genius its due tribute of admiration,
that poetry (I appeal to all who have had the advantage of being person
ally acquainted with him) was actually not his /or/<?. Many others, per-
haps, may have ascended to prouder heights in the region of Parnassus,
but none certainly ever outshone Burns in the charms — the sorcery, I
"• Mrs. Hidden knew the popt well ; slic had every opportunity for observation of what he snid and did, af
woll as of what wa, said of luni and done towards him. Her l)eautifiilly writttn Klojre, — fniiidly \et candid,
— wao well received and cener-iUy circulate*! at the time. It has bc»ni inserted by Dr. ("nrrii; in his severa'
edi'ions, as intcrestirj; from its elecanoe, and authoritative froni the writer's accurate information; we hav»
therefore most reudily given it a place here.
cxxxviii CHARACTER OF BURNS AXD MIS WRITINGS.
would almost call it, of fascinating conversation, the spontaneous elo-
quence of social argument, or the unstudied poignancy of bri.liant repar-
tee ; nor was any man, I believe, ever gifted with a larger portion of the
' vivida vis animi.' His personal endowments were perfectly correspon-
dent to the qualifications of his mind : his form was manly ; his action,
energy itself; devoid in great measure perhaps of those graces, of that
polish, acquired only in the refinement of societies where in early life he
could have no opportunities of mixing ; but where, such was the irresist-
ible power of attraction that encircled him, though his appearance and
manners were always peculiar, he never failed to delight and to excel.
His figure seemed to bear testimony to his earlier destination and employ-
ments. It seemed rather moulded by nature for the rovgh exercises of
Agriculture, than the gentler cultivation of the Belles Lettres. His fea-
tures were stamped with the hardy character of independence, and the
firmness of conscious, though not arrogant, pre-eminence ; the animated
expressions of countenance were almost peculiar to himself; the rapid
lightnings of his eye were always the harbingers of some flash of genius,
whether they darted the fiery glances of insulted and indignant superiori-
ty, or beamed with the impassioned sentiment of fervent and impetuous
affections. His voice alone could improve upon the magic of his eye : so-
norous, replete with the finest modulations, it alternately captivated the
ear with the melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of nervous reason-
ing, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic patriotism. The keenness of sa-
tire was, I am almost at a loss whether to say, his forte or his foible ; for
though nature had endowed him with a portion of the most pointed excellence
in that dangerous talent, he suffered it too often to be the vehicle of personal,
and sometimes unfounded, animosities. It was not always that sportiveness
of humour, that '• unwary pleasantry," which Sterne has depicted with touches
so conciliatory ; but the darts of ridicule were frequently directed as the ca-
price of the instant suggested, or as the altercations of parties and of persons
happened to kindle the restlessness of his spirit into interest or aversion.
This, however, was not invariably the case ; his wit, (which is no unusual mat-
ter indeed), had always the start of his judgment, and would lead him into
the indulgence of raillery uniformly acute, but often unaccompanied with
the least desire to wound. The suppression of an aich and fullj)ointed bon
mot, from a dread of offending its object, the sage of Zurich very properly
classes as a virtue o«/y to he i^ovght for in the Calendar of Saints ; if so,
Burns must not be too severely dealt with for being rather de'icient in it.
He paid tor his mischievous wit as dearly as any one could do. " "1 was no
extravagant arithmetic," to say of hirn, as was said of Vorick, th.it " for
every ten jokes he got a hundred enemies;" but much allowance will be
made by a candid mind for the splenetic warmth of a spirit whom " dis-
tress had spited with the world," and which, unbounded in its Inti'Hi'ctual
sallies and pursuits, continually experienced the curbs imposed by t'le way-
wardness of his fortune. The vivacity of his wishes and temj)cr wa* indeed
checked by almost habitual disappointments, which sat heavy on a heart
that acknowledged the ruling passion of independence, without having ever
been placed beyond the grasp of penury. His sou! was never langiud or
inactive, and his genius was extinguished only with the last spark of re-
treating life. His passions rendered him, according as they disclosed them-
selves in affection or antipathy, an object of enthusiastic attachment, or oJ
decided enmity : for lie ^^ossessed none of that negative insipidity oi rna
L
CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. cxxxix
ractcr, whose love might be regarded with indifference, or whose resent-
ment could be considered with contempt. In this, it should seem, tlie
temper of his associates took the tincture from his own ; for he acknowledge
ed in the universe but two classes of objects, those of adoration tlie most
fervent, or of aversion the most uncontrolable ; and it has been frequently
a reproach to hnn, that, unsusceptible of indifference, often hating, where
lie ought only to have despised, he alternately opened his heart and poured
forth the treasures of his understanding to such as were incapable of ap-
preciating the homage ; and elevated to the privileges of an adversary, some
who were unqualified in all respects for the honour of a contest so distin-
guished.
It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson professed to " love a good
.nater" — a temperament that would have singularly adapted him to cherish
a prepossession in favour of our bard, who perhaps fell but little short even
of the surly Doctor in this qualification, as long as the disposition to ill-will
continued ; but the warmth of his passions was fortunately corrected by
their versatility. He was seldom, indeed never, implacable in his resent-
ments, and sometimes, it has been alleged, not inviolably faithful in his
engagements of friendshin. Much indeed has been said about his incon-
stancy and caprice ; but I am inclined to believe, that they originated less
in a levity of sentiment, than fi-om an extreme impetuosity of feeling,
which rendered him prompt to take umbrage ; and his sensations of pique,
where he fancied he had discovered the traces of neglect, scorn, or unkind-
ness, took their measure of asperity from the overflowings of the opposite
sentiment which preceded them, and which seldom failed to regain its as-
cendancy in his bosom on the return of calmer reflection. He was candid
and manly in the avowal of his errors, and his avoival was a reparation.
His native //e/7e never forsaking him for a moment, the value of a frank
acknowledgment was enhanced tenfold towards a generous mind, from its
never being attended with servility. His mind, organized only for the
stronger and more acute operations of the passions, Avas impracticable to
the efforts of superciliousness that would have depressed it into humility,
and equally superior to the encroachments of venal suggestions that might
have led him into the mazes of hypocrisy.
It has been observed, that he was far from averse to the incense ot
flattery, and could receive it tempered with less delicacy than might
have been expected, as he seldom transgressed extravagantly in that
way himself; where he paid a compliment, it might indeed claim the
power of intoxication, as approbation from him was always an honest tri-
bute from the warmth and sincerity of his heart. It has been sometimes
represented, by those who it should seem had a view to depreciate, though
they could not hope wholly to obscure that native brilliancy, which the
powers of this extraordinary man had invariably bestowed on every thing
that came from his lips or pen, that the history of the Ayrshire plougliboy
was an ingenious fiction, fabricated for the purposes of obtaining tlie inte-
rests of the great, and enhancing the merits of what in reality recjuired no
foil. The Cotter's Saturday Night, Tam o' Shanter, and the Mountain
Daisy, besides a number of later productions, where the maturity of his
genius will be readily traced, and which will be given t.> the public as
soon as his friends have collected and arranged them, speak sufficiently for
themselves ; and had they fallen from a liand more dignified in tlie rank
of socinty than that of a peasant, they had perhaps bestowed as unusual h
cxI
CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRlllNGS.
grace there, as even in the humbler shade of rustic inspiration from whence
they really sprung.
To the obscure scene of Burns's education, and to the laborious, though
honourable station of rural industry, in which his parentage enrolled him,
almost every inhabitant of the south of Scotland can give testimony. His
only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, now guides the ploughshare of his
forefathers in Ayrshire, at a farm near Mauchline ; * and our poet's eldest
son (a lad of nine years of age, whose early dispositions already prove him
to be in some measure the inheritor of his father's talents as well as indi-
gence) has been destined by his family to the humble employments of the
loom, f
That Burns had received no classical education, and was acquainted
with the Greek and Roman authors only through the medium of transla-
tions, is a fact of which all who were in the habits of conversing with him,
might readily be convinced. I have indeed :€.dom observed him to be at
a loss in conversation, unless where the dead languages and their writers
have been the subjects of discussion. When 1 have pressed him to tell me
v/hy he never applied himself to acquire the Latin, in particular, a lan-
guage which his happy memory would have so soon enabled him to be mas-
ter of he used only to reply with a smile, that he had already learnt all the
Latin he desired to know, and that was Omnia vincit amor ; a sentence
that, from his writings and most favourite pursuits, it should undoubtedly
seem that he was most thoroughly versed in ; but I really believe his clas-
sic erudition extended little, if any, farthci.
The penchant Burns had uniformly acknowledged for the festive plea-
sures of the table, and towards the fairer and softer objects of nature's
creation, has been the rallying point from whence the attacks of his cen-
sors have been uniformly directed ; and to these, it must be confessed, he
shewed himself no stoic. His poetical pieces blend with alternate happi-
ness of description, the frolic spirit of the flowing bowl, or melt the heart
to the tender and impassioned sentiments in which beauty always taught
him to pour forth his own. But who would wish to reprove the feelings he
has consecrated with such lively touches of nature ? And where is the
rugged moralist who will persuade us so far to " chill the genial current
of tile soul," as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated his Corinna, or that
Anacreon sung beneath his vine ?
1 will not however undertake to be the apologist of the irregularities
even of a man of genius, though I believe it is as certain that genius never
wa*! free from irregularities, as that their absolution may in a great mea-
sure be justly claimed, since it is perfectly evident that the woild had con-
tinued very sUitionary in its intellectual acquirements, had it never given
birth to any but men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, and a due re-
gard to the- decorums of -the world, have been so rarely seen to move hand
in hand with genius, that some have gone as far as to say, thou<.h there 1
cannot wholly acquiesce, that they are even incompatible ; besides, the
frailties tliat cast their shade over the sjilendour of superior merit, are
more conspicuously glaring than where they are the attendants of mere medi-
• Tlie fate of this worthy iiiaii is noticL-d :it p. 302, wliere will be found a deserved tribute
to hi> uuMiiory, (Cor lie, too, iilas I is j^'onc), from tlic pen of a fiieiid.
•j- '1 he plan ol brecilinfj the poet's eltlest .son a iiianufacturcr was piven up. He has been
phictd in oiiC cf tlie puljlic oflicts (tiie .Stanii)-()ilii-c) in I^ondon, where lie continues to fill
respectably a respectable nituatioii. His btrikiny liktnebs to the poet bus btyn often le.
tuarkeiL
CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. cxl
Dcrity. It Is only on the gem we are disturbed to see the dust ; tlic pcb])lc
tn;iy be soiled, and we never regard it. Tlie eccentric intuitions of genius
too often yield the soul to the wild effervescence of desires, always un
bounded, and sometimes equally dangerous to the repose of others as fata
to its own. No wonder then if virtue herself be sometimes lost in the blazo
of kindling animation, or that the calm monitions of reason are not inva-
riably found sufficient to fetter an imaginatio; which scorns the narrow
limits and restrictions that would chain it to the level of ordinary minds.
The child of nature, the child of sensibility, unschooled in the rigid pre-
cepts of philosophy, too often unable to control the passions which proved
a source of frecpient errors and misfortunes to him, Hur""* made his own
artless apology in language more impressive than ail tne argumentatory
vindications in the world could do, in one of his own poems, where he de-
lineates the gradual expansion of his mind to the lessons of the " tutelary
muse," who conchides an address to her pupil, almost unique for simplicity
and beautiful poetry, with these lines :
" I saw thy pulse's madd'ning play
A\'i!(l send thee pleasure's devious way ;
IMiiled by Fancy's meteor ray,
By passion driven ;
But yet the li^ht that led astray.
Was liff/tl J'roni heaven ."'*
I have already transgressed beyond the bounds I haa proposed to rr.y-
gelf on first committing this sketch to paper, which comprehends what at
least I have been led to deem the leading features of Burns's mind and clia-
racter : a literary critique 1 do not aim at ; mine is wholly fulfilled, if in
these pages I have been able to delineate any of those strong traits that
distinguished him, — of those talents which raised him from the jjlough,
where he passed the bleak morning of his life, weaving his rude wreaths
of poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprang around his cottage, to that
enviable eminence of literary fame, where Scotland will long cherish his
memory with delight and gratitude ; and proudly remember, that beneath
her cold sky a genius was ripened, without care or culture, that would have
done honour to climes more favourable to those luxuriances — that warmth
of colouring and fancy in which he so eminently excelled.
From several paragraphs I have noticed in the public. prints, ever since
the idea of sending this sketch to some one of them was formed, I find pri-
vate animosities have not yet subsided, and that envy has not j'ct exlunist-
ed all her shafts. I still trust, however, that lir'X'st fame will be perma-
nently affixed to Burns's character, which I think it wil' oe found he ^k/s
merited by the candid and impartial among his counrrymen. And where
a recollection of the imprudences that sullied his brighter qualifications in-
terpose, let the imperfection of all human excellence be remembered at
the same time, leaving those inconsistencies, which alternately exalted hi.«
nature into the seraph, and sunk it again into the man, to the fribuna
which alone can investigate the labyrinths of the human heart —
" Where they alike in tremblinj^ hope repofc,
— The bosom of his father and his God."
Okay's Elegt.
Annandale, August 7, 1796.
" Vide the \'ision — Duan 2d.
TO THE
NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN
OF THE
CALEDONIAx^ HUNT.
My Lords and Gentlemen,
A Scottish Bard, proud of tlie name, and whose liighest ambition is U
sing in his Country's service — wlicre shall he so properly look for patron-
age as to the illustrious names of his Native Land; those who bear the ho-
nours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors ? The Poetic Genius of
my Country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the
plough ; and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the
loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my
native tongue ; I turned my wild, artless notes, as she inspired. — She whis-
pered nie to come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and ay my
Songs under your honoured protection : I now obey her dictates.
Though mucli indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my
Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for
past favours ; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, that lio-
nest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address with the
venal soul of a servile Author, lookinij for a continuation of those favours :
I was bred to the Plough, and am independent. I come to claim the com
nion Scottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell .i.o
world that I glory in the title. 1 come to congratulate my Country, that
the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and that from
your courage, knowledge, and public-spirit, she may expect protection,
wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to prefer my warmest wishes
to the Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your
wcllare and happiness.
Vv'hen you go forth to awaken the Echoes, in the ancient and flivourite
amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your jxirty ; and
may Social Joy await yo.ur return : When harassed in courts or campa
clx DEDICATION TO THE CALEDONIAN HUNT
with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest coiisci-
ousness of injured worth attend your return to your Native Seats ; and
may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates I
May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny
in the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People, equally find an inexorable
foe!
I have the honour to be,
With the sincerest gratitude,
and highest respect,
My Lords and Gentlemen,
Vour most devoted humble servant,
ROBERT BURNa
Edinburgh, (
April 4, 1787. ^
POEMS,
CHIEFLY SCOTTISH.
THE TWA DOGS:
A TALE.
TwAS ij that place o' Scotland's isle,
That Dears the name o' Auld King Coil,
I'poa a bonnie day in June,
When wearing thro' the afternoon,
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.
The first I'll name they ca'd him Cccsar,
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure :
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's doers :
But whalpit some place fur ahroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter'd, hraw brass collar
Show'd him th« gentleman and scholar :
But tho' he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride na pride had he ;
But wad hae spent .m hour cares>in',
Ev'n with a tinkler gipsey's mcssin'.
At kirk or maiket, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sac duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
.And stroau't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving liillie,
Wha for his friend an comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang,*
Was made lang syne — Lord knows bow lang.
He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, haws'nt face.
Aye gat him friends in ilka |)lace.
His breast was white, his to-.vzie back
We* 1 clad wi' coat o' glossy black ;
His gawcic tail, wi' upward curl,
Hurg o'er his hurdies wi' a 3wurl.
•-tuchuUin'i dog in Ossian's Fingal.
Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
An' unco pack an' thick theirither ;
Wi' social noise whyles sriutTd and snowkit j
Whyles n;ice and mowdieworts they howkitj
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
An' worry'd ither in diversion ;
Until wi' daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down,
And there began a lang digression,
About the lorda o' the creation
C^SAK.
I've often wonder'd honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you aare*
An' when the gentry's life I saw,
M'hat 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 flunkies answer at the bell ;
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ;
He draws a bonnie silken purse.
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steekii.
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiliagi
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ;
An' tho' the gentry fast are stechin*.
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie,
That's little short o' downright wastrie.
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonucr.
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner.
Better than ony tenant man
His Honour has in a' the Ian' :
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own its past my comprehension.
LUATH.
Trowth, Ca>sar, whyles they're fash't enetwh
A cotter howkin in a sheus-h,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke.
Baring a quarry, and sic like,
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An' nought but his hau' darg; to keep
Them righ* and tight in tlack an' rape.
2
BURNS WORKS.
An' when they meet wi sait ciis-isters.
Like loss o' health, or want of masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger;
But, how it conies, I never ken'd yet,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ;
An' buirrlly chiels, an' clever hizzics,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
Rut then to see how ye're negleckit,
How hufTd, and culTd, and disrespeckit !
L — d, man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditcliers, and sic cattle ;
They gang as saucy by poor fo'k,
As I wad by a stinking brock.
I've notic'd on our Laird's court day
An' mony a time my heart's been wae,
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash ;
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear,
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ;
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,
An' hear it a', au' fear an' tremble !
I see how folk live that hae riches ;
But surely poor folk maun be wretches.
LUATH.
They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think ;
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink :
They're sae accustomed wi' the sight.
The view o't gi'es them little fright
Then chance an' fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or miir provided ;
An' tho' fiitigu'd wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o* their lives,
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ;
The jnuttlin things are just their pride
That sweetens a' their fire-side.
An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy
Can mak the bodies unco happy ,
They lay aside their private cares.
To mind the Kirk and State affairs
Tliey'll talk o' ))atronage and priests,
Wr kindling fury in their bre-asts,
Or tell what new taxation's comiu'.
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.
As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns,
They get the jovial, rantiu' kirns,
When riiritl life, o' every station.
Unite in common reireution :
Love blinks, Wit sla|n, an' social Mirth
Forgets there's Can' iij)o' the oarth.
That merry ^i y the rear l)egins.
They bar the Quor on frosty winds;
The nappy lecks wi' mantling re' »
An' jheds a heart-inspiring steaur> *,
The luntin' pipe, aiA snee>ihin' mill,
Are handed round wi' right guid will:
The cantie auld folks crackin' cruuse.
The young anes rantin' thro' the house,-^
]\Iy heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.
Still it's owre true that ye 'nae said.
Sic game is now owre aften play'd.
There's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k,
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himself the faster
In favours wi' some gentle master,
Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin',
For Britain's guid his saul indentin'--
C^SAR.
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it
F'or liritain's guid ! — guid faith, I doubt it
Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him.
An' sayin' aye or no's they bid him :
At operas an' plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ;
Or may be, in a frolic daft.
To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To mak a tour, and tak a whirl.
To learn hon ton and see the worl'
There, at Vienna, or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails !
Or by Madrid he takes the rout.
To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt ;
Or down Italian vista startles,
Wh — re-hunting among groves o' myrtles
Then bouses drumly German water,
To mak himsel' look fair and fatter,
An' clear the consequential sorrows
Love gifts of Carnival signoras.
For liritain's gnid ! — for her destruction .
Wi' dissipation, feu«l, an' faction.
LUATH.
Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gata
They waste sae niony a braw estate !
Are we sae foughten an' hara.ss'd
For gear to gang that gate at List !
O would they stay aback frae courts,
An' please themselves wi' countra sport*.
It wad for every ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter ;
For thae frank, rantin', ramblln' billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows;
Excejjt for breakin' o' their timmer,
Or s])eakiii' lightly o' their linimer,
Or sliontin' o' a hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er a bit they're ill to jumr folk.
But will ye tel! mc^ Maner Cccsnr,
Sure gr';at folk's 'ijVs a /''"f o ])>wure!
N. ca'Jd i.r liunger e'er can sie> ..neto.
The very tnought o't need na fear tliein.
POEMS.
CJG3AR.
L — il, man, were yc but whjles where I am,
riie gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'im.
It's true, they need na starve or sweat,
Thro' winter's cauUl or simmer's heat ;
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes,
An' fill auld age wi' gripes an' granes :
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colk-ges an' schools.
That when nae real ills perplex them,
Thev niak enow themselves to vex them.
An' 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 eiieugh ;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel ;
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst,
\Vi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ;
Tho' deil huet ails them, yet uneasy ;
Tl.eir days insipid, dull, an' tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless;
An' ev'n their sports, their balls, an' races,
Their gallopin' through public places.
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches.
Then sowther a' in deep debauehes :
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an wh-ring,
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 an' jads thegither.
VVhyles o'er the wee bit cup and platie.
They sip the scandal potion pretty ;
Or lee lang nights, wi' crabbit leuka
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard.
An' cheat like ony unliang'd blackguard.
There's some exception, man an' woman ;
But this is Gentry's life in common.
By this the sun was out o' sight :
An' darker gloaming brought the night :
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan :
When up they gat an shook their lugs,
Reioic'd they were na men but dogs ;
And each took aff his several way,
Resolv'd to meet some ither day.
SCOTCH DRINK
Gie liim strong drink, until he wink.
That's sinkinp; m des air ;
An' liquor guid to tire his bhiid,
Thai's urest wi' %rief an' care;
There let hirn bouse, and deep carouse
WI' bumpers tlowin;; o'er,
'J ill he forjjets Ins Inves or dfftt!.
An' niiuds his (jrieCs no mure.
S'jliimons l'rur;iDs, xxxi. 6, "J.
Lf:t other poets raise a fracas,
'Bout vines, aiui wine;i, and drunken liacchua.
An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us,
An' grate our lug,
I sing the juice Sects bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.
O Thou, my Muse f guid auld Scotch Drink
Whether thro' wim]ding worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream o'i:r the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink.
To sing thy name.
Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn,
And Aits set up their awnie horn,
An' Pease and Beans at e'en or moin.
Perfume the plain,
Leeze me on thee, Jo/ui Barleycorn,
Thou king o' grain !
On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scone<, the wail o' food !
Or tumbliu' in the boiling flood,
Wi' kail an' beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood.
There thou shines chief
Fond tills the wame, an' keeps us livin';
Tho' life's a gift no woith receivin'.
When heavy diagg'd wi' pine and grievin* ;
But oii'd by thee,
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin',
Wi' rattlin' glee.
Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ;
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair j
At's weary toil ;
Thou even brightens dark Despair
M'i' gloomy smile.
Aft, clad in massy silver weed,
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ;
Yet humbly kind in time o' need.
The poor man's wine,
His wee drap parritch, or his bread.
Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life o' public haunts ;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts,
By thee inspir'd,
When gaping they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fir'd.
That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in '
Or reekin' on a New-year morning
la cog or bickef
V
4 BURNS'
WORKS.
Axi' just a vree drap »p'ritua] bum in,
Thou comes they rattle T t„eir raiikt
An' gusty sucker !
At ither's a — ■ .'
When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
Tliee, Ferintosh ! O sadly lost !
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
Scotland, lainent frae coast to coast !
0 rare ! to see the fizz an' freath
Now colic grips, and bar kin hoa.st.
r the lugget caup !
Way kill us a* ;
Then JBurnewin * comes on like death
For loyal Forbes' chartered boast
At ev'ry chaup.
Ts ta'en awa' !
Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ;
Thae curst horse leeches o' th' Excise,
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel",
Wha mak the Wliisly Stells their prize !
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel.
Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thriue !
The strong forehammer,
There, seize the blinkers !
Till block an' studdie ring an reel
An' bake them up in brunstane pies
Wi' dinsome clamour.
For poor d — n'd drinkers.
When Bkirlin weanies see the light,
Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright.
Hale breeks, a scone, an' M'hisky gill,
How fumlin' cuifs their dearies slight,
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,
Wae worth the name !
Tak a' the rest,
Nae howdie gets a social night,
An' deaJ't about as thy blind skill
Or plack frae them.
When neebours anger at a plea,
Directs thee best.
An' just as wud as wud can be.
How easy can the biirlei/ bree
THE author's
Cement the quaiTcl ;
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee.
EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER*
To taste the barrel.
TO THE
Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ;
SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES
But mouy daily weet their weason
Wi' liquors nice,
IN THE
An' hardly, in a winter's season.
E'er spier her price.
Wae worth that hraiidy, burning trash,
Fell source o' monie a patn an' brash !
HOUSE OF COMMONS,
How art thou lost ! Parody on Sliltoi
Twins monie a poor, diiylt, drunken hash,
O' half his days ;
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash
Ye Irish Lords, Ye Knights an' Squires,
To her warst faes.
Wha represent our brughs an' shires,
And doucely manage our aifairs
Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well !
III parliament,
To you a simple i »*ts prayers
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless devils like niysel' !
Are humbly sent.
It sets you ill,
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wine< to mell.
Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse !
Or foreign gilL
Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce
To see her sittin' on her a —
]May gravels round his l)lather wrench,
Low i* the dust.
An' gouts torment him inch by inch,
An' screichin* out prosaic veise.
Wha t^vists his gruntle wi' a glunch
An' like to brust !
O' sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o' ii'hisky punch
Tell them wha hae the chief direction.
M'i* honest men.
Scotland an* nif's in great affliction.
E'er sin they laid that curst restriction
O Whishy! soul o* plays an' pranks!
On Aqiiavita >
Accept a Baidie's humble thanks !
An* rouse them up to strong conviction
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
An* move their pity.
Are my poor verses !
• This wa« written l)cfi>re the act anent the Sooo h
Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and
1
• Burnruin — Burntlit-wind — the blacksmith^ an
Bppiopriate title
the Author return their most crateful thanks.
1
POEMS.
Stat foith, an' tell yon Premier Youth,
The h. est, open, nakt-ii truth :
Tell 111 ' o' iiiiin; and Scotliiid's drouth,
Ilis si'i vants humble :
The mi.' k!o devil blaw je south,
If ye disscuible !
Does >ny great man glunch an' gloom !
Speak I'lt, ail' never t'.ish yimr thumb :
Let pose- an' pensions sink or soom
Wr thetn wha grant 'em ;
If honest .y they canna cqme,
Faj- better want 'em.
In gat' ring votes you were na slack ;
Now stai -t as tightly liy your tack ;
Ne'er claw your lug, an fidge your l)ack,
An' hum an' haw ;
But raise .our arm, an' tell your crack
Before them a'
Paint S.otland greeting owre her thrissle ;
Her mutchi- n stoup as toom's a whissle ;
An' d-mn'it Excisemen in a bussle,
Seizin' a sttll,
Triumphant 'uahin't like a mussel,
Or lainpit shell.
Then on th tither luind present her,
A blackguard vimggler right behint her,
An* cheek-for-Oi>-.iw, a chuffie Vintner,
Colleaguing join.
Picking her pou>:r as bare as winter
Of a' kind coin.
Is there, that be.n- the name o' Scot,
But feels his heart's uid ris'ng hot,
To see his poor auld .'ither's pot
'I 'lis dung in staves,
An plunder'd o' her hi imost groat
By ^ 'ows knaves ?
Alas ! Fm but a namele« wight,
Trode i' the mire out o' sigi
But could I like Montyomerie 6ght,
Or gal) lik tSostvM,
There's some sark-necks I wad r.raw tight.
An' tie some i ise well.
God bless your Honours, can ye see't.
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet,
An' no get warmly to your feet,
An gar tiiein hear ic,
An' tell tbem wi" a patriot heat,
Ye winna bear it !
Some o you nicely ken the laws.
To round *,he periml an' pause.
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause
To niak harangues ;
Then echo thro* Saint Srejihen's w.i's
Auld Scotland's wrangs.
Dempster, a true blue Scot I'^e warran ;
rhee, aith- detesting, chaste Kdherran ;*
Sir .\dam I'erguson.
A n' that glib-gabbct High ir.d Baron,
The Laird o' iiraham i*
An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran,
Ttnniias his name.
Ershinc, a spunkie Norland billie ;
True CaiiiphMs, I'reilerirk an' Ilui/ ;
An' Liviiiijitoiie, the bauld Sir Willie ;
An' niony ithers.
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
Might own for britheri.
Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle,
To get auld Scotl.md back her liettle ;
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle,
Ye'll see't or lang,
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle,
Anither sang.
This while she's been in canc'rous mood.
Her lost Mihtia fir'd her bluid ;
(Deil na they never mair do guid,
Play'd her that pliskie!^
An' now she's like to rm red-wud
About her Whisky.
An' L — d if ance they pit her till't.
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt,
An' durk an' pistol at her lielt,
She'll tak the street*,
An' rin her whittle to the hilt,
r the first she meets !
For G — d sake. Sirs ! then speak her itia,
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair.
An* to the muckle hou'^e repair,
wr instant speed,
An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' lear.
To get remead.
Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ;
But gie him't bet, my hearty cocks !
E'en cows the caddie
An* send him to his dicing box
An' sportin' lady.
Tell yon guid bluid o* auld Jiockonnock" s,
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks,
An' drink his health in auld iVu7i.se Tinnock9,f
Nine times a week,
If he some scheme, like tea and winnocka.
Wad kindly seek.
Could he some cnmmutation broach,
I'll pledge mv aith in guid braid Scotch,
He need na tear their foul reproach
Nor erudition,
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotcl-potch,
The Coalition.
Auld Scotland has a raucle toi-gue ;
She's just a devil wi' a rung ;
• The present Duke of Montrose.— (1 800,)
t A worthy old Hosicis ot the Author's in Mauch.
line, wlicre he someii.iics studies Politic* over a glait
of i\i\Aiia\ti Scotch Drink.
BURNS' WORKS.
An' If she promise auld or young
To t:ik their part,
The* by the neck she should l)e strung,
She'll no desert.
An* now, ye chosen Five-and- Forty,
May still your Mither's heait support ye :
Then, tho* a Minister grow dorty.
An' kick your place,
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty.
Before his face.
God bless your Honours a' your days,
"VTi* soups o' kail and brats o' claise,
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes
That haunt St Jamits !
Your humble poet sings an' prays
While Itab his name is.
POSTSCRIPT.
Let half-starv'd slaves, in wanner skies
See future wines, rich clust'riiig rise ;
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,
But blithe and frisky,
She eyes her freeborn martial buys.
Tak aif their Whisky.
What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms,
hile fragrance blooms and beauty charms !
When wretches lange, in famish'd swarms.
The scented groves.
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hungry droves.
Their gun's a burden on their shouther ;
They downa bide the stmk o' ])outher;
Their bauldest thought's a h;uik'ring swither
To Stan or rin,
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther.
To save their skin.
But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill.
Say, such is royal Georgt's will,
An' there's the foe,
He has nae thought but how to kill
Twa at a blow.
Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
Death comes, with fi-arless eye he sees him ;
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ;
An' when he fa's.
His latest draught o* breatliin' lea'es him
In faint huzz>is.
Sages their snlenm een may steek,
An raise a philosophic reek.
An' phy.sically causes seek,
In clime an' season ;
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek,
I'll tell tlie reason.
Scotland, my auld, respecteii Mither !
rho' whylcs ye uioistily your leather.
Till whare ye sit, on craps o* heather,
Ye tine your dam ;
{Freedom and Whisky gang theglther !)
Tiik aif your dram !
THE HOLY FAIR.*
A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hill crafty Observation ;
And secret hung with poison'd crust.
The dirk of Defamation :
A mask that hke the Rorget show'd
Uye-varying on the pigeon j
And for a inantle hu'ge and broad.
He wravt him in Reli^inn.
Hypocrisy-a ia^^aof'*.
LTpoK a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
An' snuff the callar air.
The rising sun owre Gahtnn muirs,
Wi' glorious light was glintin' ;
The hares were, hirplin' down the "ur».
The lav 'rocks they were chantm'
Fu' sweet that day.
II.
As llghtsomcly I glowr'd abroad
To see a scene sae gay.
Three hizzie-', early at the road,
Cam skelpin' up the wa^ ;
Twa had manteeles o' dolctn* black,
But ane wi' lyart lining ;
The third that gaed a w-e a-back.
Was in the fashion snining,
Fu* gay that day.
III.
The twa appear'd like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes :
Their visage wither'd, lang, an' thin,
An* sour as ony slaes ;
The third came up, hap-stap-an'-loup,
As light as ony lammie.
An' wi* a curchie low did stoop.
As soon as e'er sue saw me,
Fu' kind that dajr
IV.
Wi bannet aff, quoth I, ' Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me ;
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,
But yet I canna name ye.*
Quo' she, an* laughin' us she spak,
An* tiji's me by the hands,
" Ye, for my sake, Iia'e gi'en the feck
Of a* the ten commands
A screed some day.
• IJoly Fair is a common phrase in the west of Scot
land fur a sacrameiitai occasion.
POEMS.
•^ Bfv name i"! Fnii — yniir cronie dear,
Tho iRMie-t IVIc'ikI vl- li I'l; ;
An' this is Si'j>(r.--tifii)n liLTe,
An' that's lliipiicrhii.
I'll) paiin t" Ii"ly F(nr,
To sjK-iid a)i hi)iir in diffiii' ;
Gin yc'll !;i) there, yon nink'eil pair,
Wo will get fanious liu!;hin'
At them this day.*
VI.
Quoth I, ' With a' my heart I'll do't;
I'll £;et njy Sunday's saik on,
An' meet yon on the holy spot ;
Faith we'se hae fine reniarkin' !'
Then I gaed hame at tniwdie time.
An soon I made nu- reailv ;
For roads were el id, f'r le side to side,
Wi' monie a weaiy liody,
In droves that day.
VII.
Here fai-.ners ^ash, in ridin' graitli
Gaed hoddin' by their otters :
Their swankles youiiij, in hraw braid-claitli
Are sj)rin^in' o'er the gutters.
The lasses, skelpin' barefoot, thrang,
In silks an' scarlets glitter ;
Wi' sweet-tiiil/i c/ifise in monie a whang.
An' fares bak'd wi' iintter,
Fu' crump that day.
VIII.
When by the jilntr we set our nose,
Weel heapeil up wi* ha'pence,
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws.
An* we maun draw our tippencc.
Then in we go to see the sliow.
On ev'ry side tliey're gatherin',
Some carrying deals, some chairs an' stools,
An' some are busy bletherin'.
Right loud that day.
IX.
Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,
Aii' screen our couutra Gentry,
There, racer Jt-ss, an' twa-three whores,
Are blinkin' at tie entry.
Here sits a raw of titthn' j ides,
Wi' heavin' breast and bare neck.
An' there a batch of wahster lads,
Blackguardin' frae K ck.
For _/'«/! this day.
Here some are thinkin' on their sins.
An' some iipo' their ciaes ;
Ane curses feet that fyld his shins,
Anithcr sighs an' liniys;
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces;
On that a set o* cii ip- at watch,
Thratig winkiu' on the lasses
To chairs chat da/
XI.
O happy is the man an' blest !
IS'ae wonder that it pride hiin !
Wh I's ain dear lass, that he likes hmtf
Comes clinkln' down besi<le him !
Wi' arm repos'd on the ch lir-bark.
He sweetly does comjjose him !
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck)
An's loof upon her bosom
Unkenn'd that day.
XII.
Now a' the congregation o'er
Is silent expectation ;
For speels the holy door
Wi' tidings o' daninatimi.
Should Iloriiic, as in ancient dava,
'JMang sons o' God ])resi-nt him.
The vera sight o' 's face,
To's ain het hame had sent him
Wi' fright that day.
XIII.
Hear how he clears the points o' faith
Wi' rattlin* an' thunipiii' !
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath.
He's stam|)iii' an' he's juinpiu' '
His lengthen'd chin, his turu'd-up snout,
His eldiitch squeel and gestures,
Oh, how they fire the heart devout.
Like cantharidian plasters,
On sic a day !
XIV.
But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice }
There's peace and rest nae langer :
For a' the real jvdyes rise.
They canna sit for ani;er.
opens out his cauld harangues
On practice and on moials ;
An' afF the godly pour in thrangs,
To gie the jars an' barrels
A lift that day.
XV.
What signifies his barren shine
Of moral pow'rs and reason ?
His English stWe, an' gesture fine,
Are a' clean out o' season.
Like Socrates or Antunir.e,
Or some auld pagan Heatnen,
The moral man he does lietioe,
But ne'er a word o* faith in
That's right that day
XVI.
In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic puison'd nostrum :
For , frae the watei-fit.
Ascends the holy rostrum :
See, up he's got tlie woid o' God,
An' meek an' mini has view'd it.
B
BURNS' WORKS.
While Ccmmon-sense lias ta'en the road,
Aa' aff, au' up the Cowgate, •
Fast, fast, that day
XVII.
Wee Tielst the guard relisves,
An' orfhoddxy raihles,
rho' in his heart he weel believes,
And thinks it atiM wives' fables;
But, faith ; the birkie wants a manse
So cannily he hums them ;
Altho' his carnal wit and sense
Like hafflins-ways o'erconies him
At times that daj.
XVIIL
Now but an' ben, the change-bouse fills,
Wi' yill-caup commentators :
Here's crying out for bakes and g:Ils,
And there the pint stoup clatters ;
While thick an' thran?. an' loud au' lang^
Wi' logic, an' wi' Scri])ture,
They raise a din, that in the enii.
Is like to breed a rupture
O' wrath that day.
XIX.
ijceze rae on Drink ! it gi'es us mair
Than either Scliool or College :
It kindles wit, it wankcns lair.
It pangs us fiiu o' knowledge.
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep,
Or ony ytronger pution.
It never fails, on drinking deep.
To kittle up our niitmn
By uight or day.
XX.
The lads an' lasses, blytln-ly bent
To mind liaith sjul an' body.
Sit round the tilde weel content,
An" steer about the todily.
On this ane's dres», an' th it ane's leuk,
They're makin' ob^ervations ;
While some are cozie i' the neuk,
Aa' forming asisign itions
To meet some d;iy.
XXI.
But now the I 'I's an trumpet touts,
Till a' the hills are rairiii'.
An' echoes back rt-turn the shouts:
Black is na spairin" :
His piercing winds, like Highland swords,
Divide the joints a.." 'narrow ;
His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell,
Osiff very sauls does harrow f
Wi' frigiit that day.
XXII.
K vast, unbottom'd boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane,
Wha's ragin' fiairie an' scnrchin' heat.
Wad melt the hardest whiin-stane'
The half aJeep stiirt up wi' fear,
An' think they hear it ro;u-in ,
Wlien presently it does appear,
'Twas but »ome neighbour snorin
Asleep that day.
XXIII.
*Twad be owre lang a tale to tell
How monie stories p ist.
An' how they crowded to the yill,
When they were a' disniist :
How drink gaed round, in cogs an* caups
Amang the fuinis an' benches ;
An' cheese an' liread, (r:if women's laps,
Was dealt about in lunches
An' dawds that daj,
XXIV.
In comes a gaucie, gash giiidwife,
An' sits down by the fire.
Syne draws her kebbuek an' her koif^
The bssos they are shyer.
The auld Ruidmen, about the grace,
Frae side to side they liother.
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
An' gi'es them't like a tether,
Fu' lang that d«y.
XXV.
Waesucks ! for him that gets nae ^aaa*
Or lasses that hae naetlung !
Sma' need has he to say a firace
Or melvie his braw claitliing !
O wives be mindfii' anre yoiiisel
How bonnie lails ye wanted,
An' dinna for a kebbiiik-becl.
Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day !
XXVI.
Now CUnhimhdl, wi' rattlin' tow,
Begins to jow an' croon ;
Some swagger hame, the best they Aotr^
Some wait the alternoon.
At slaps the billies bait a blink,
Till lasses strip their slioon :
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love au* drink,
They've a' in famous tune.
For ci ack that day,
xxvn.
How monie hearts t\\\- day converts
O' sinners and o' lasses I
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gaoc
.\s saft as ony fl.-sli i,s.
There's some are fou o' love divine ;
There's some are fou o" brandy ;
An' niony jubs that day begin.
May eud in houghmagandie
Some ither 6ij
• A street so oaHeil, which fares llic int in ■
* ShakesDi'itrc'i Huinlt't.
i-r -
POEMS. 9
DEATH AND DOCTOR HORN-
I red ye weel, tak care c' skaith.
BOOK :
See there's a g^.Oy !*
A THUE STORY.
' Guidman,' quo' he, ' put up your whittle,
Some Imoks arc lii's iVac Lti'l to end,
I'm no design'd to try its mettle ;
Anil some sri'frtt lies were never penn'd :
But if I did, I wad be kittle
Ev'a ^liiiisteis, they Iku; hcen keim'd,
To l)e mislear'd.
In lidly raptuie.
I wadna mind it, no, that spittle
A roiLsing wliid, at tinu's, to vend,
Out owre my beard.
Ajid nall't \vi* Scripture.
' Weul, weel !' says I, ' a bargain be't ;
Hut this that I ain i^aim to tell,
Come, gie's your hand, an* sae we're gree't j
Wliieii lately on a niijKt befell,
We'll case our shanks an' tak a seat,
U just as true'd tlie De'iis in hell
Come gie's your news ;
Or Duli'.in ir!ty :
This while • ye hae been mony a gate,
Tliat e'a' he nearer ennus mirsel*
At mony a house.*
'S a nmckle pity.
' Ay, ay !' quo' he, an' shoidj his head.
Tlip Clachan ylll had made me canty,
' Its een a lang, lang time indeed
I vr&s iiiie foil, Imt just had plenty ;
Sin' I began to nick the thread.
1 stacher'd whiii^, hut yet took tent aye
An' choke the breath;
To free the ditches ;
Folk maun do something for their bread,
An' hillocks, stanes, an' hushes, kenn'd aye
All' sae maun Death.
Frae ghaists an' witches.
' Sax thousand years are nearhand fled
The rising innon Ijesran to jrlow'r
Sin' I was to the hutching breil.
The distant Ciimnnck hills out-owre ;
An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid.
To count her horns, \vi* a' my power.
To stap or scir me ;
I set niysel' ;
Till ane Hornbook 's -f- tuen up the trade,
But whether slie had thiee or four,
An' faith, he'd waur ine
I cuuldua tell.
' Ye ken Jock Hnnibonh, i' the Clachan,
I was come roimd about the hill,
Deil mak his king's hood in a spleuchan !
And todlin down on Willt's mill,
He's grown sae weel acqu.unt wi' Buchan \
An' ither chaps,
Setting my statf wi' a' my skill,
To keep nie sicker ;
The weans haud out their fmgcrs laughia*
Tho' leeward whyles, aEjainst my will,
An' pouk my hips.
I took a hicker.
' See, here's a scythe, and tjiere's a dart,
I there vi-i* Snmctliinrj diil forfjathea,
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart :
That put me in an eerie swither :
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art
An' awfu' scythe, out-owie ae shouthcr.
And cursed skill,
Clear-dangling, hang ;
Has made them baith no worth a f — t.
A three-taed leister on the itJier,
Damn'd hact they'll kill
Lay, large and lang.
' 'Twas but yestreen, n le farther gaen,
I thjew a noble throw at ane ;
Its stature seem'd Ian<» Scotch ells twa.
The queerest sha|)e th ct e'er I saw,
Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain;
For fient a wame it h.ul ava ;
Hut deil-mu-care,
And tlien, its shanks,
It just play'd dirl on the bane.
They were as thin, as .•.harj). an' sma'
But did nae niair.
As cheeks o' branks.
' Hornbook was by, wi' ready art.
' nuld-een,'()uo'I ; ' Fiienil ! luie yelwen mawin'.
And had sae fortified the part.
VMien ither folk are busy sawin' ?' •
That when I looked to m) dart.
It seem'd to male' a kind o' stan',
It w.is 8,ie blunt,
P.ut naethiug spak :
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart
At lengtli, savs I, ' Friend, where ye gaun,
Of a kail-runt.
Will ye go back ?'
• I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
(t gpak right howe, — ' My name is Death,
But be aa flcvM." — C^ioih I, ' Guid faith,
Ye're mayi)e come to st.ijj my breith ;
• An epidemiral fever was than raginf; in that countrr
t This gintjem in, hr. Hunib'mh, h, ]>r()fessinnally
But t. Ill me, billie :
a brother of the Sovereign Order iif tlie Kcnila; but
by intuition and inspt/aiion, is at out* an Ajiothecary
Suri;win, ajicl I'hviiciiui.
• This rencoujitor haiiiK-invl ui si'eil-time, XlhS.
X Bueliaji's Domest'*; Medicine.
II
0
1
lO
BURNS' WORKS.
I neaihand coiipit wi' my hurry,
But yet the bauld A]Kitiicriiry
Withstddii the shock ;
J might as weel liae tried a qiinrry
O' hard whin rock.
Ev'n thetF I:e canna get attended,
Altho' theii face he ne'er had ken'd it,
Just in a kail-lilade, and send it,
As sodn's he smells't,
Baith their disease, and what will ineud it,
At once he tells't.
■ An' then a' doctors' saws and whittles,
OF a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles,
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles.
He's sure to hae ;
Tlieir Latin names as fast he rattles
As A B C.
• Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ;
True Sal-marinuni o' the seas ;
The Farina of beans and pease.
He has't in plenty ;
Aqua-fontis, what you please.
He can content ye.
' Forhye some new, uncommon weapons,
Urinus Spiritus ot capons ;
Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings ;
Distil I'd per se ;
Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippins.
An' moi>y mac.*
* Waes me for Jnhniit/ GerTs Huh * now ;'
Quo' I, ' If that the news be true !
His braw calf-ward where gowans grew,
Sae white an* bonnie,
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough ;
They'll ruin Johnny T
The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh.
An' says, ' Ye need na ynke the pleugh,
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear ;
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh
In twa-three year.
' Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death,
By loss o' blood or want o' lireath.
This night I'm free to tak my aith.
That HiiTiibook's skill
Has clad a score i* their laht claith,
By diap an' pill,
' An honest Wabster to his trade,
Wha'^e wile's twa nieves were scarce weel bred.
Gat tip|)ence-worth to mend her head.
When it was sair ;
The wife slade canuie to her bed.
But ne'er spak mair.
' A conrtra Laird had ta'en tlie batta,
Or Home cu inurriiig in his guts.
His only son for Ilortihonk set?.
An' pays l-.iin ■R'aB;
Tlie lad, for twa guid giniiner pets,
Was laiid himsel'
' A bonnie lass, ye ken her name,
.Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her Wbme ;
She trusts hersel', to hide the shame,
In Hornbook's care ;
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
To hide it there.
' That's just a swatch o' Hornhook's way j
Thus goes he on from day to day.
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slav,
An's weel paid for't ;
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prev,
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 wad a groat,
He gets his fairin' !'
But just as he began to tell,
The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell.
Some wee short hour ayont the twal,
Which rais'd us baith
I took the way that pleased mvsel',
And sae did Death.
THE BRIGS OF AYR:
A POEJL
Inscribed to J. B-
-, Esq. Ayr.
• The £1 tve (lit;ccr.
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plouglr.,
Learning his tuneful trade from every hough ;
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush.
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, ia the green
thorn bush :
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,
Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o'er
the hill ;
Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed,
To hardy independence bravely bred.
By early Poverty to hardshi]) steel'd,
And train'd to arms in stern IVIisfortune'
field-
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes.
The servile, niercenaiy Swiss of rhymes ?
Or labour hard the )'ane^yrii' dose.
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose?
No! though his artless stiains he rudely singa.
And throws his hand imi-outhly o'er the string!
He glows with all the spirit of *Jie Bird,
Fame, honest fame, his great, nis dear reward.
Still, if some Patron's geiurous cure he trace,
Skilled in the secret, to bestow with grace ;
I When B befriends his humble laine
'And hands the rustic sti anger up to tame.
POEMS.
11
WItli )irart felt throes his grateful boson)
sui'lls,
The gotllikn t) give alone excels.
'T«-a» when the stacks get on their winter
hap,
Anil thack and rape secure the toil-won crap :
FcJatoe binsjs are ^nlli;ged up IVac skaith
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath;
The bees, rejoicing o'er their simmer toils,
Unnuniber'd buds an' fluwers* delicious spoils,
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen
pili'i.
Are diiom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak.
The death o' devils, snioor'd wl' brimstone
reek :
The thundering guns are heard on ev'rjr side,
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ;
The feather'd fit Id-mates, bound by Nature's tie,
Siics, mothers, children, in oiie carnage lie :
(What warm, jioetic heart, but inly lileeds.
And execrates man's savaije, ruthless deeds) !
Nae mair the flow"r in field or me idow springs :
Nae mair the grove « i' airy concert rings.
Except. ])erliaps, the Uobin's whistling glee,
I'roi.ii o' the heigiit o' some bit halt'-laiig tree :
The hoary morns precede the sunny davs,
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide
blaze,
While thick the gossaniour waves wanton in
the rays.
'Twis i.i that season, when a simple bard,
Unknown and poor, simplicity s reward,
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr,
By whim inspired, ot haply prtst wi' care,
He left his bed, and took his wayward route.
And down by ISiwpson^s* wheel'd the left
about :
(Whether impell'd by al'-ilirecting Fate
To witness what I after shall narrate ;
Or whether rajit in meditation high,
He wander'd out he knew not where nor why),
Thtf Avuw^y Dunuenri-r.luck.^ had nunii)er'd two.
And Widliice t/ti-er f had sworn the fact was
true :
The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-soundijig
roar.
Thro' the still uight dash'd hoarse along the
shore :
All else was hush'd as Nature's cio^ed e'e ;
The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree :
The chilly frost, liene.ith the silver beam,
Ciept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream.
When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning bard.
The clanging sough of whistling wings be
heard ;
"ira (iusky forms dart thro' the midnight air,
t (vift as the Gos \ drives on the wheeling hare ;
♦ / nofe<i tsvcm at tlie Aid I Brig end.
* 1 \.v t«i> SI epics.
i T!»e gos-hawk, or falcen.
Aiie on th Aiild lirit) his airy shape upreara,
The ither flutters o'er the risin;/ piers :
Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry'd
The Sjuites that owre the Bnys of Aijr presldo,
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke,
An' ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ;
F.iys, Spunkies, Keljjies.a' they can explain them,
And ev'n the vera ileils they brawly ken tiieiu.';
AiiH Jiihj appejr'd of ancient I'ictish race.
The very wrinkles Ciothic in his face :
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang
Yet toiighly doure, he bade an unco bant;.
New liriy was buskit in a braw new coat,
That he, at Lon'on, frae ane A'lams got ;
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead,
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head.
The Goth was stalking round with anxious
search.
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ;
It chanc'd his new-come neei)or took his e'e,
And e'en a vex'd an' angry heart had he !
Wi' thieveless sneer to see each modish mien.
He, down the water, gles him thus guide'en— .
AULn URIC.
I doubt na', frien', ye'U think ye're nae sheep •
shank,
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bauk !
IJut gin ye be a brig as auld as me,
Tho" faith that day I doubt ye'U never see ;
There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a t.>odd!e,
Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle
NKW BKIG.
Auld Vandal, ye but show your little meuse,
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ;
Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street,
Wliere twa wlieel-barrows tremble when they
meet,
Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stane an' lime.
Compare wi' bonnie lirirjs o' nu)dern time ?
There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducat
stream, *
Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim,
Ere they would grate their fee ings wi' the view
Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you.
AULn KRIG.
Conceited gowk ! jjuffd up wi' windy pride !
This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide
An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn,
I'll be a Urip when ye're a shapeless cairn !
As yet ye little ken about the matter,
But twa- three winters will inform ye bette. .
When heavy, daik, ccuitinucd, a'-day rains,
Wi* dee])ening deluges o'eitluw the plains;
Vf'hen from the bills where springs the bi awl-
ing Coil,
Or stately L>iijitr''s mossy fount.iins bcil,
Or where the lircenock wiiids his nioorlauJ
course.
Or haunted Gurpal | draws his feeble source.
• A nofcti fonl, ju^t ::bo\c the AiiM Ilnp,.
\ The banks o1'6''<;j7«/ /*'a/i:r is oueof the lewj)?*
l2
BURNS' WORKS.
Arous d byblust'iing winds and spnttirg tliowes.
In mony a tdiienl dv)\vn liis s. a-broo roww ;
While crashing ice, biirne on the roaring speat,
Sweeps dams, an* mills, an' brigs, a' to the
gate ;
And from Ghnhuik* down to the Rutton k(y,f
Auld Aur is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea;
Then down ye'U hurl, deil nor ye never rise !
And dash the guralie jaups up to the pouring
skies,
A lesson sadly teaching, to ynur cost,
That Architecture's noble art is lost !
NEW BRIG.
Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't
o't!
The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate
o't!
Gaunt, ghastly, gsist-alluring etlifices.
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices ;
O'cr-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves,
Supporting roofs fintastic, stony groves ;
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture
drest.
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ;
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream,
The craz'd creations of mi-<guided whim ;
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended
knee,
And still the second dread command be free.
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or
Eea.
Mansions that would di-grace the building taste
Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast;
Fit only for a doited Monkish race.
Or frostv maids forsworn the dear embrace.
Or cuifs of latci time>, wha held the notion
That sullen gloom was s-terlin^ true devotion ;
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection,
And soon may they expire, unblest with re-
surrection !
AUI.n BRIG.
O ve, my dear-rememlier'd ancient yealings.
Were ye but here to share my wminded feelings !
Ye worthy Pruveses, an' mony a liailie,
Wha in the piths o' righteousness did toil aye ;
Ye dainty Deacons, an ye douce Conveners,
To wliom our moderns are but causey-
doaners ;
Ye godly Coiinrits wha hae blest this town ;
Ye godly lirUhrvn of the sacred gown,
Wha meeklv gae \nur liunlits to the tmitcrs ;
And (what would now be strange) ye godly
Writers :
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo,
Were ye but here, what would jo say or do !
How would your spirits groan in deep vex-
ation.
To see each nulanclmly alteration ;
hi the West of Scotland, where tho;p fancy.scarinij he-
UiCii, known l)y the name ol" O/uiUts, itiU conluiuc
pertinaciously to inhaljit.
• The Mill- e of tlic river A\r.
< A smail lanilingpL-u-c abc-'e the large key.
And agonizing, curse the time anil place
M'hen ye begat the base, degenerate race !
Nae liinger Rev'rend Men, t\e\t countiy't
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid
story !
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce,
Meet owie a pint, or in the Council house :
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry,
The herryment and ruin of the country ;
Men, three parts made by tailors and by bar-
bers,
Wha waste your wcll-hain'd gear on d d
new £riijs and Uarbours I
NEW BRIG.
Now baud j'ou there ! for faith ye've said
enough,
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through,
As for your Piiesthood, I shall say but little,
Corbies and Cleryy are a shot right kittle :
But, under favour o* your langer beard.
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared ;
To liken them to your auld warld squad,
I must needs say comparisons are odd.
In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a hanaie
To mouth ' a Citizen,' a term o* scandal :
Nae mair the Council waddles down the
street
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ;
Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an*
raisins,
Or gathei'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins.
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp.
Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp.
And would to Common-sense, fur once betrayed
them.
Plain dull Stupidity slept kindly in to aid
them.
WTiat farther clishmaclaver might been said.
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to
shed.
No man can tell ; but all before their sight,
A fairy tra'n appear'd in order bright:
Adowr. the glitt'riug stream they featly danced:
Bright to the moon their various dresses
glanced :
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat.
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet :
Wliile arts of Minstrelsy among them rung,
And snul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung.
O had M'Laiic/ilin,' thairm-inspiring sage.
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage.
When thro' his dear Struthspei/s they bor«
with Hij;hland rage ;
Or when they struck old Scotia's meltinp airs.
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ;
How would his Highland lug been nobl»r fir'd.
And even his matchless hand with finer touch
ins;)ir'd !
• A well knowTi perlbnner of Scottish miuic on lh«
violin.
POEMS.
l>
No pi.'ss coulJ tell wnat instrument appear'd,
Hut ;ill the soul of Music's self was heard ;
H;irnu>iiious conceit rung in every part,
While simple melody pour'd moving on the
heart.
The Genius of the stream in front appears,
A venerable chief advanced in years;
His ho;in- head with water-lilies crown'd.
His manly leg with garter tangle hound.
Next catne the loveliest pair in all the rin"-,
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hajid with
Spring ;
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural
Joy,
And Suuinier, with his fervid-heaming eye :
A!l-cheering Plenty, with her flowii^g horn,
Led yellow Autunm wreath'd with nodding
com ;
Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary
show,
By Hospitality with cloudless brow ;
Next fiillow'd Courage witli his nuirtial stride.
From where the Feul wild-woody coverts hide ;
Henevolence, with mild benignant air,
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair:
[.earning and Worth in equal measures trode
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode:
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel
wreath.
To rustic Agriculture did Ijcqueath
The bri/keii iron instruments of death :
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their ki«d-
liug wrath.
THE ORDINATION.
For sense they little owe to Frucal Heav'n—
To please the Mob they hiile the litile giv'n.
I.
KiLMAftNocK Wabsters, fidge an* claw,
An' pour your creeshie nations ;
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw,
Of a* denominations.
Switl: to the Laiyh Kirk, ane an' a*,
An" there tak up your stations j
Then aff to Beyhies in a raw,
An' pour divine libations
For joy this day.
II.
Curst Common- sense, that imp o' hell.
Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder;*
But O aft made her yell,
An' R sair misca'd her ;
This day, M' takes the flail.
An' he's the boy will blaud her !
• Alliitlmg to a scoffing baJlad which was made on
we admission of the late Reverend and wortlw Mr. L.
to tlMi Laifih Kirk-
He'll clap a shanyan on her tail,
An' set the bairns to daud her
Wi' dirt this day
IIL
Mak haste an' turn king David owre,
An' lilt wi' holy clangor;
O double verse come gie us four,
An' skirl up the Hangor :
This day the Kiik kicks up a stouie,
Na« mair the knaves shall wrang her
For heres-y is in her power.
And gloriously she'll whang her
Wi' pith this day.
IV.
Come let a projicr text be read,
An' touch it alF v/'' viijour,
How graceless Ham • Ici.gh 3*. his Dad,
Which made Ciinaan a nige; •
Or P/iineasf drove the murdering b.ad%
Wi* whore-abliorriug rigour ;
Or Zipporah, \ the scaulding jade.
Was like a bluidy tiger
r the inn that d&r ,
There, try liis mettle on the creed.
An' bind him down wi' caution.
That Stipend is a carnal weed.
He tuks but for the fashion ;
An' gie him o'er the flock to feed.
An' punish each transgression ;
Especial, rams that cross the breed,
Gie them sufficient threshin',
Spare them nae day.
VI.
Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail,
An' toss thy horns fu' canty ;
Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dale
Because thy pasture's scanty ;
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail
Shall fill thy crib in plenty.
An' runts o' grace, the pick and wale,
No gi'en by way o' dainty.
But ilka day.
vn.
Nae mair by SabeVs streams we'll weep,
To think upon our Zion ;
An* hing our fiddles up to sleep,
Like baby-clouts a-dryin' ;
Come, screw the pegs with tunefu' ci eep>
An' owre the thairms be tryin' ;
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks whetp,
An' a like lamb-tails flyin'
Fu' fast this day.
VIII,
Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim.
Has shored the Kirk's undoin'.
• Genesis, ch. ix. vcr. 22.
t Numbers, ch. xxv. ver. 8.
i Exodus, ch. iv. ver 25.
14
BURNS' WORKS.
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,
Has proven to its ruin :
Our Patron, honest man ! Ghncairn,
He saw mischief was brewin' ;
An' like a godly elect bairn,
He's wal'd us out a true ane,
An* sound this day.
IX.
Now R harangue nae inair,
But steek your gab for ever ;
Or try the wicked town of Ayr,
For there they'll think you clever ;
Or, nae reflection on your isar,
Ye may commence a shaver ;
Or to the Nitherton repair,
An' turn a carper weaver
Aff hand this day.
and you were just a match,
M —
We never had sic twa drones :
Auld Hiirnie did the Lni'p/i Kirk rt',-\tch,
Just like a winkin' baudrons :
An' aye he catch'd the tither wretch,
To fry them in his caudrons :
But now his honour maun detach,
Wi' a* his brimstone squadrons,
Fast, fast, this day.
XI.
See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes.
She's swingein' through the city;
liark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays !
I vow it's unco pretty :
There, Learning, wi' his Greekish face,
Grunts out some Latin ditty :
An' Common-sense is gaun, she says,
To mak to Jamie Heattie
Her plaint this day.
XIL
But there's Morality himsel',
Embracing a' o|)inions ;
Hear, how he gies the tither yell,
Between his twa companions ;
See, how she peels the skin an' fell,
As ane were pcelin' onions !
Now there — they're packed aff to hell,
An' banish'd our dominions,
Henceforth tliis day
XIH.
O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice !
Come bouse about the porter !
Morality's demure decoys
Shall here nae mair find quTte; :
M' , R , ar? the j^ys,
That heresy ca*' ortu.' .
They'll gie u •:' on a rupe a hoyse,
/ -* cvwf iier mea.'<ure shorter
By the head some day.
XIV.
Come bring the tither luatchkin in,
An here's for a conclusioii.
To every New Ligid * mother's ton.
From this time forth. Confusion :
If mair they deave us wi' their dia.
Or Patronage intrusion.
We'll light a spunk, an' ev'ry skin,
We'll riu them aff in fusion
Like oil, some day
THE CALF.
TO THE REV. MR.
On his Text, Malachi, ch. iv. ver. 9. ' And I'M?
shall go forth, and grow up, like calves of -he staii,-
Right Sir! your text I'll prove it trie.
Though Heretics may laugh ;
For instance ; there's yoursel' just now,
God knows, an unco Calf I
An' should some Patron be so kind,
As bless you wi' a kirk,
I doubt nae, Sir, but then we'll find,
Ye're still as great a Stirk.
But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour
Shall ever be your lot.
Forbid it, every heavenly Power,
You e'er should be a Slot I
Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear,
Your but-and-ben adorns.
The like has been that you may wear
A noblo head of horns.
And in your lug, most reverend James,
To hear you roar and rowte.
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims
To rank amang the nowte.
And when ye're numbcr'd wi' the dead,
Below a grassy hillock,
Wi' justice they may mark your head—
' Here lies a famous Dulluck /'
ADDRESS TO THE DEIL
O Prince! O Chief of many throned Power's,
Tliat led th' embattled Seraphim to war JlliUn.
O THOU ! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yn cavern grim an' sootie,
Clu ";! Ui del .tt^ S
6pairj,-es nbo'i.. *hs •••unstane cootie,
To sraud poor wretcLei
Hear me, auld Ilan/jie, for a wee,
An' let poor danmed bodies be ;
• Next' TAght is a cant phrase in the West of Sort.
laml, for those religious npininns wnich Dr. Taylor ot
Norwich has defended so strenuously.
—
^OEMS. 'k
Vw sure sma' ijloasine it can gie.
Is instant made no worth a louse.
E'en to II (Itil,
Just at the bit.
To skclj) an' siauil poor dogs like me.
An' lioar us squt'cl !
Vi'hon thowes dissolve the snawy hoort^
An' float thejinglin' icy-boord.
Great is tliy powV, an' great tliy fame ;
Then Water-kclpies haunt the foord.
'ar ktiul and noted is thy name ;
By your direction,
An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hanie,
An' nighted Trav'llers are allured
Thou travels far ;
To their destruction.
An' faith ! tliou's neither la^ nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur
An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkiet
Decoy the wight that late and drunk "s ;
Wliyh'S, ranffing hhe a roarin' lion^
The bleezin', curst, mischievous nionkeyb
For prey, a' holes and corners trj in' ;
Delude his eyes.
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin*,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Tirling the kirks j
Ne'er mair to rise.
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin',
Unseen thou lurks.
When Masons' mystic u-ortl an' grip-.
In storms an' tempests raise you up.
I've heard my revi-rend Grattnie say.
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
In lanely glens you like to stray ;
Or, strange to tell .'
Or where auld ruiu'd castles gray,
The youngest Brother ye wail whip
Nod to the moon.
Atr straught to helj '
-e fright the nightly wand'rer's way.
\Vi' eldritch croon.
Lang syne, in Eden's bonuie yard,
When yimthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
WTien twilight did my Grannie summon.
An' all the soul of love they shar'd,
To say her prayers, douce honest woman !
The ra])tur'd hour,
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin' !
Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird
\Vi' eerie drone ;
In shady bower :
Or, rustliu', thro' the boortries comin*,
\Vi' heavy groan.
Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog !
Ye came to Paradise incog.
Ae dreary, windy, winter night.
An' played on man a cursed brogue,
The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light,
( Black be your fa' \j
Wi' you, rnysel', I gat a fright,
An' gied the infant world a shog.
Ayont the lough ;
'Maist ruined a'
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight,
Wi waving sough.
D'ye mind that day, when in a biza,
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz.
The cudgel in my nieve did shake.
Ye did present your snioutie phiz
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake.
'J\!ang better folk,
'Vlicn wi' an eldritch stour, quaick — quaick —
An' sklented on the man of Uz
Amang the springs,
Your sj)itefu' joke ?
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake.
On whistling wings.
An' how ye gat him i' your thrall.
An' brak him out o' house an' hall.
Let Warh.chs grim, an' wither'd hags,
While scabs and blotches did him gall.
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags,
Wi' bitter claw.
They skim the muirs, and dizzy crags.
An' lowsed his ill tongued wicked ScawV
M'i' wicked speed ;
Was warst ava ?
And ia kirk-yards renew their leagues.
Owre howkit dead.
But a' your doings to rehearse.
Your wily snares an' fechtin' tierce.
Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain.
Sin' that day Michael * did you pierce,
\l\y plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ;
Down to this time.
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
By witching skill ;
In prose or rhyme.
An' dawtlt, twal-pint Hawkies gane
As yell's the Bill.
An' now, auld Cloots, I ken » ..'re chinlria
V certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin',
Thence mv«»ic kcr's mik great ab jse.
jou » \u<-i».e8s ..our «'ii; st-rd '"a. l'"V'u>*.
Ou youuf G-.am o, fo-.o, keeii, an' c.uuse ;
1 t }•"' O'V f J'V •
^ *• 'L- vcs vaiK-iuine i' the house.
By cantrip wit,
- Vide Milton, book ti.
iO
BURNS' WORKS
But, faltli ' l.e'll turn a corner, jinkin ,
And clu-at you yet.
But, fare ye weel, aulil X!ch!e-len !
0 wad ye tak a tliou2;1u f.nd men' !
Ye aiblins mi;;ht — I diiini ken —
Stiil hae a stake —
1 m wae to think upon \ on i!eii,
Even for your sake !
DEATH AND DYING WORDS
OF
POOR MAILIE,
THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.
AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.
As Mailii, an' her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibh'ing ou the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hiteh,
An' oivre she warsled in the ditch ;
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Huyhoc' he came doytin by.
Wi' glowrin* een, and lifted hau's,
Poor liughoc like a statue Stan's :
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, wae's my heart I he could na mend it !
He gaped wide, but naething spak !
At length poor Mailie silence brak.
• O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my waefu' case !
My dying words attentive hear,
Kn bear them to my Master dear.
' Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
O, l.'id him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair !
But ca' them out to park or hill.
An' let them wander at their will:
So may his flock inciease, an* grow
To scores o' lambs, ati' packs o' woo' !
' Tell him, he was a master kin*,
An* aye was guid to me an' mine:
An* now my dying charge 1 gie him,
My helpless lambs I trust them wi* him.
' O bid him save their harmless lives,
Frae dogs, an* tods, an' butchers' knives !
But gie them guid cow milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend thenisel ;
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn,
Wi' teats o' hay an' rij)3 o' corn.
' An' may they never learn the gaets
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets!
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' st-al,
At stacks o' pea^e, or stocks o' kail,
So may they, like their great forbean.
For muny a year come thro' the sheers:
So wives will gie them bits o' l.-read.
An' bairns greet for them when they'ie dead
' My poor f'lO/) lamh, my son an' heir,
O bid hini breeil him up wi' caie '
An' if he live to be a beast,
To pit some bavins in his breast !
An' warn him, what I winna name.
To stay content wi' yowes at hauie ;
An' no to rin an* wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes.
' An' neist my yowie, silly thing,
Guid keep thee frae a tether strir-g ■
O, may thou ne'er forgather -ij/
Wi' ony blastit moorland toip :
But aye keep mind to moop an' raell
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel' !
' An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breatfl,
I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith :
An' when you think upo' your mither.
Mind to be kin' to aue auither.
' Now, honest Hughoc, dinaa fail
To tell my master a' my tale ;
An' bid him burn this cursed tether.
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether.'
This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,
And closed her een aniang the dead.
* A nccbor heril-callan.
POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ;
Our bardie's fate is at a close.
Past a' remead ;
The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ;
Poor Maine's dead !
It's no the loss o' wail's gear.
That could sae bitter draw the tear,
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear
The mourning weed :
He's lost a friend and neebor dear,
In Mailii dead.
. Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ;
A lang half-mile she could descry him ;
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did s])y him.
She ran wi' speed ;
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh hina,
Than Mailie dead.
I wat she was a sheep o' sense.
An' could l)ehave htrsel' wi' mense •
ril say't, she never brak a fence.
Thro' thiev" ih. greed
rOEMS.
n
Ourhaidie, lanely, keeps tliospence
Sill' yjailie's dead.
Or, if hn wanilors up jlie howe,
Hei living imige in her i/owe,
Cc'inea bleating to iiini omto the knowe.
For liits ()' bread ;
An' down the briny |ie;ii Is mwe
For Alailie dead.
She n-as nae get o' moorland tips,
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips:
For her forbears were bi'oiinht in ships
Frae yont tlie Tweed!
A bonnier^eCiA ne'er (•ro.--s'd the clips
Than Mailie dead.
Vae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile, wanch.ineie thing — a rape I
It niaks guid fellows girn an' gape,
Wi' chokin' dread ;
An' RohMs bonnet wave wi' crape.
For Mailie dead.
O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon !
An' wha on Ayr your chaunters tune !
Come, join the nielancholious croon
O' liihin's reed !
His heart will never get ahoon
His Mailie dead.
TO J. S-
Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul '
Siveet'ner of life, and solder of society 1
I owe thee niucJi ! Ulair,
-, the sleest, paukie thief,
Dear S— _
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef
Owre human hearts;
For ne';r a bosom yet was prief
Against your arts.
For me, I swear by sun an' moon,
And every star that blirdis ahoon,
Ye've cost nie tweuty pair o' siioon,
Just gaun to see you :
And every ither pair that's done,
JVIair taen I'm wi' you.
That auld capricious carlin, Nature,
To niak amends for serimpit stature,
She's tum'd you afF, a human creature
On liL-rJirsl plan,
And in her freaks, on every feature,
She s wrote, t/te Man.
Just now Fve tien the fit o' rhyme,
My barmie noddle's working prime,
My fiflcy yerkit up sublime
Wi' hasty summon ;
Ilae ye a leisure moment's time
To hear what's comin' ?
Some rhyme a ncebor's name to lash ;
Rome rhyme (vain thought!) for neeilfu' cafih,
Some rhyme to court the countra clash,
An' raise a <liu ;
For me an aim I never fash ;
I rhyme for fun.
The star that rules my luckless lot.
Has fated me the russet coat.
An' damned my fortune to the groat :
But in re(juit,
Has bless'd me wi' a random shot
O' countra wit.
This while my notion's taen a sk".etjt,
To try my fate in guid black preut ;
But still the mair I'm that way bent,
Something cries ' HooUq
I red you, honest man, tak tent !
Ye'U shaw your folly,
' There's ither poets, much your betters,
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters,
Hae thought they had ensured their debtors,
A' future ages ;
Now moths deform in shapeless tetters,
Their unknown pages.
Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-ljoughs,
To garkuxl my poetic brows !
Henceforth I'll rove whei'e busy ploughs
Are whistling thrang,
An teach the lanely heights an' howes
I\]y rustic sang.
I'll wander on, with tentless heed
How never-hdlling moments sj)eed,
Till fite shall snap the brittle thread ;
Then, all unknoun,
I'll lay me with tli' inglorious dead,
Forgot and gone !
But why o' death begin a tale ?
Just now we're living, sound an' hale.
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
Heave care o'er side
And 'argc, before enjoyment's gale.
Let's tak' the tide.
T^, is life, sae fu's I understand,
Is a' enchanted fairy land.
Where pleasure is the masic wand.
That, wielded right,
Maks hours like minutes, hand, in hand.
Dance by fu' light.
The mngic-wand then let us wield ;
For ance tint five-an'- forty's speel'd,
See crazy, weary, joyless eild,
Wi' wrinkled face.
Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field,
Wi' creepin' pace.
18
BURNS' WORKS.
Wlien ance life's daii nraws near the gloamin',
Then fciitwcel vacant careless roaniin' ;
Aii' farewee) rheerfu' tankards foam in',
An' social noise ;
An' farewcel dear deluding womatiy
The joy of jiiys !
O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning,
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning I
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning.
We frisk away,
Like school-boys, at the expected warning,
To joy and play.
We wander there, we wander here,
We eye the rose upon the brier,
Unmindful that the thorn is near,
Amang the leaves :
And though the puny wound appear,
Short while it grieves.
Some, lucky, find a flowery spat,
For which they never toiled nor swat,
They drink the sweet and eat the fat,
But care or pain ;
And haply eye the barren hut
M'ith high disdain.
With steady aim, some Fortune chase ;
Keen hope ricies every sinew brace :
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,
An seize the prey :
Then cannie, in some cozie place.
They close the day
An' others like your humble servan',
Poor wights nae rules nor roads observin' ;
To right or left, eternal swervin',
They zig-zig on ;
Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin'.
They aften groan.
Alas ! what bitter toil an' strainings
But truce with peevish poor com|ilaining !
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning ?
E'en let h-r gang !
Beneath what light she has remaining,
Let's sing our sang.
My pen I here fling to the door,
And kneel, * Ye pow'rs!' and warm implore,
' Tho' 1 should wander terra o'er.
In ail her climes,
Grant me but this, I ask no more.
Aye rowth o' rhymes.
' Gie drpeping roasts to countra lairds^
Till icic!(!s hing frae their beards :
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,
An' maids of honovr ;
An' yiil an whisky gie to cairds,
Until they sconner.
• A title, Dempster merits it,
A 'jart'jr gie to WiUie Pilt ;
Gie wealth to some be-Iedger'd cit,
In cent, per cent
But give nie real, sterling wit,
An' I'm content.
' ^Vlll1e ye are pleased to keep me bats^
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal,
Be't water-brose or musliu-knil,
Wi' cheerfu' face,
As lang's the muses dinca fail
To say the grace.*
An anxious e'e I never throws
Behint my lug, or iiy my nose ;
I jouk beneath misfortvine's blows.
As weel's I may »
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' prose,
I rhyme away.
O ye douce folk, that live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool,
Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool !
How much unlike !
Your liearts are just a standing pool.
Your lives, a dyke !
Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces
In your unletter'd nameless face-s ;
In arioso trills and graces
Ye never stray,
But gravissimo, solemn basses
Ye hum away
Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye"re uTtaSf
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys.
The rattlin* squad :
I see you upward cast your eyes —
— Ye ken the road.—
Whilst I — but I shall hand me there—
Wi' you I'll scarce gang any u/iere^
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae m.iir.
But quat my sang,
Content wi' you to mak a jiaii',
Whare'er 1 gang.
A DREAM.
Thoughts, words, and deeds, tlie statute blames vl'Jl
reason ;
But surely dreams were ne'er ir.dicted treason.
[On reading, in the public papers, tlic Laurrate's Odt,
with the other par^ide of June 4, \'>iG, the authof
was no sooner dro|it asleep, than he mianincd him.
eelf transpotted to the birth-day levee; and in ilS
dreaming fancy, made the following W<W/e«."i
I.
Guid-mornin' to your Majesty /
May heaven augment your blisses,
On every new birth-day ye see,
A humble poet wishes !
My hardship here, at your levee,
On sic a day as this is,
POEMS.
19
b siiro an uncniith sifjht fo see,
Aiiiaiijj t!ie biitli-d.iv divssus
Sue fije this day.
II.
I see ye're c-omplfrnentod thransj,
I5y niony a lord an' lady,
• Odd save the King !' 's a cuckoo sang
That's unco easy said aye ;
The poe/s, too, a venal t^ang,
Wi" rhymes wtel turn'd an' ready,
Wad gar \oii trow ye ne'er do wrung.
Bat aye unerring .stcadv.
On sic a day.
III.
For me ! befoie a snonanh's face,
Ev'n l/icie I winna flatter ;
For neither i)ensiiin, ])()st, nor [dace,
Am I your humhle debtor:
So nae reflection on i/oiir grucc,
Your kingNhl]) to bespatter;
Tiiere's nioiiie wanr been o' the race,
Aq' aiblins ane been better
Tiian you this day.
IV.
Tis very true, my sov'reign king,
^ly skill may weel. be doubted :
But facts are chiels tliat wiuna ding,
An' dou-na be di^^puted :
Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right reft an' clouted,
Kn now the third part o' the string.
An' less, will gang about it
Than did ae day.
V.
Far be't frae me that I aspire
To blame your legislation,
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire.
To rule this miglity nation !
But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire,
Ye've trusted ministration
To chaps, wha, in a barn or bvre.
Wad beUer fill'd tlitir station
Than courts yon day.
VI.
An' now ye've glen auld Britain peace.
Her broken shins to piaister ;
Your sair taxation does her fleece,
Till she has scarce a tester ;
for me, thank God, my life's a lease,
Nae barguiii wearing faster.
Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese,
I shortly boost to pasture
I' the craft some day
VII.
I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
\\ hen taxes he enlarges,
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get,
A name not envy sjjairges),
Jiat be intends to oay your debt,
An' lessen a' your ciiarget ;
Hut, God-sake ! A't nae aaving fit
Abridge your bonnie liar>res
An' boats this day,
VIII.
Adieu, my Lirge ! may freedom geek
Beneath your high protection ;
An' may ye rax Coiruption's neck.
An' gie her for dissection !
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect.
In loyal, liue allection,
To pay your Queen, with due respect,
My fealty an' subjection
This great birth-dajTi
IX.
Hail, Majesty! Most ExceUtrtt !
While nobles strive to please ye.
Will ye accejit a coniplinierit
A simple poet gies ye ?
Thae bonnie bairntime, Ileav'n has lent,
Still higher may they lieeze ye.
In bliss, till fate some day is sent,
For ever to release ye
Frae care that day.
X.
For you, young potentate o' M'ales,
I tell your Highness fairly,
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling g«ij%
I'm taidd ye'ie driving rarely ;
But some day ye may gnaw your nails.
An' curse your folly sairly.
That e'er ye biak Diana's pales,
Or rattled dice wi' Cltiiriie,
By night or day.
XI.
Yet aft a ragged co'xfe's been known
To mak a noble uiver :
So, )e may doucely fill a throne.
For a' their clish-ma-claver :
There, him • at Agincimrt wha shone.
Few better were or braver ;
An' yet wi' funny queer Sir John,f
He was an unco shaver
For nionie a day
XII.
For you, right rev rend Omahrug,
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Altho' a ribbon at your lug
Wad been a dress completer :
As ye disown yon paughty dog
That bears the keys of Peter,
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug,
Or, trouth, ye'l! stain the mitre
Some luckless dajf.
XIII.
Voting royal Tarry Greeks, I leara,
Ye've lately come athwart her ;
• Kinp Ilenrv V.
t Sir John Kalstafi; vide Shakespcai*.
20
BURNS' WORKS
A gloriots gnlleij* stem an stern,
Weel rio^g'd for Venus' barter ;
Bjt first haa'^ cut, that she'll discern
Your hymeneal diarter,
Then heave aboard your grapple aim,
An' large tpo' her quarter,
Gime full that day.
XIV.
Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a',
Ye royal lasses dainty,
Meav'n niak you guid as weel as braw,
An' gie you lads a-plenty :
But sneer nae liritish hoy a awa',
For kings are unco scant aye;
An' German gentles are but sma'.
They're better just than wmit aye
On onie day.
XV.
God bless you a' ! consider now,
\''e're un(ro muckle dautet ;
But, ere the cr.urse o" life be thro'.
It miy be bitter sautet ;
Au' I h^e seen their cogyie fou,
That yet hae tarrow't at it ;
But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen they hae clautet
Fu' clean that d3>
THE VISION.
DIIAN FIRST.|
The sun had closed the winter day,
Tlie curlers quat their roiiring pl.iy.
An' hunger'd raaukin t.i'en her way
To kail-yards gre<r
WTiile faithless snaws ilk step l)etray
Whare she has be».
The tliresher's weary flinpin-tree
The lee-lang day had tired nie :
And whan the day had closed his e'e.
Far i' the west,
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie,
I gaed to rest.
There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek.
That fiH'd wi' huast-provoking smeek.
The auld clay biggin" ^
An' hoard the restless rattons s(pieak
About the riggiu'.
All in this mottle, misty clime,
I ijackward musM on wasted time,
How I had spent my youthfu' prime,
An' done nae-tliing.
• Alluding to the ncwspiper accijunt of a cwtain
royal sailor's amour.
* Dunn, a term of Ossinii's fur the (IKnrcnt divisions
of a digressive iH)em. itcc \iii Ciith-LuUa, vol. ■!. of
U'Pherwn's translaiiun.
But stringin' blethei s 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 clarkit
My cash account :
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sa»'V'
Is a' th' amount.
I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! c-/'
And heav'd on high my wauki*. ]<rJi,
To swear by a' yon starry rejf.
Or soTie ra"'.! a'.ib,
That I, henceforth, v,-o> id '.^e ;ni(.ne proi^'
Til) ,[i'j la-oi b.eatn--
Wlien click ! tni* st-.n^ the sneck did dr»>
An* jee ! the dooi p'.ed to the wa* ;
An* by my ins''.i-' avz I saw,
?'ow bleczin bright,
A tight jr .Ja .d" .h flizzie braw,
Come full in sight
Y's ree"^ vi daubt, I held my whisht
Tte i4if?.<it aith h il'.'-form'd was crush't ;
I g'jT r''" a'^ eerie's I'd been dusht
In some wild glen ;
f^cic I pwcit, like modest worth, she blnsh't,
And stei)ped ben.
Green, slender, leaf-clad hnUy-bovghs,
Were twisted gracefu' round her brows;
1 took her for some Scottish Muse,
By that same token ;
An' come to stop those reckless vows,
Would soon been broken.
A ' hair-brain'd, sentimental trace'
Was strongly marked in her face;
A wildly-witty, rustic grace
Shone full upon her ;
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space,
Beam'd keen with honoui
Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen,
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ;
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean
Could only pear it ;
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean,
Nanu else cam near it.
Her mantle large, of greenish hue,
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ;
Deep lights and shaiJes, bold-mingling, threw
A lustre grand ;
And seem'd to my astonish'd view,
A well hnow.i Und.
Here, rivers in the sea were lost i
There, mnimtains to the skies were tost :
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast,
Witli surging foam;
There, distant shone Art's lofty t)oast,
The lordly dome.
POEMS.
21
iTeii. Donn I'd.irM down his tir-fetch'd flooils;
riure. \V(.'ll-fl(l Incinv r^t.itely tlnids :
Auld hermit Ayr st;i\v thro' his wiinds
On t(i tlie shore ;
And many a csser toiren' sciiils,
Vt'it'j Kti'iiiing mar.
Low, in a s;\ndy valley s[irca(I,
An anciont hormitik i'miM her head ;
Still, as in Scottish story read,
She luiiists a race,
To every nohler virtue hred,
And [Kilish'd grace.
By stately tow'r or p.ilaie fair,
Or ruins pemlcnt in the air,
Bold stems of heruos, here and there,
I eoidd discern ;
Some secm'd to muse, smne seein'd to dare.
With feature stern.
My heart did i;In\viiig transport feel,
To see a race * heroic wheel,
And brandish round thi' deep-dy'd st«el
In sturdy hlows ;
While bark-recoiling seem'd to reel
Tneir suthron foes.
His Country's Saviour, f mark him well !
Bold Jiicliardtiiii's \ heroic swe!l ;
The chief on Sark § who glorious fell,
in high command ;
And he whom ruthles> fates expel
His native land.
There, where a sceptred Pictish shade ||
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid,
I niark'd a maitial race pnurtray'd
In coloiirs strong ;
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd
They strode along.
Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,^
Near many a hcrniit-faney'd cove,
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love
In musing mood).
An aged Judge, I saw him rove,
Dispensing good.
With deep-struck reverential awe,**
The learned sire aiul son I saw,
To Nature's God and Nature's law
Thev gave their lore.
• The Wal'aoes. i William Wallnco.
t Adam Wallace, of Richardtoii, cousin to the im-
mortal preserver of Seotlisli indeiicndf nee.
{ Wall.-icc, Laird of Craii;ii', who wassc'cr:nd in mm-
inaiid, under r)oiii;las Karl of Ornioiu!, at the fairoiis
battle on the bank- of SarK, fought iinno HIS. That
glorious victory was |)riiici|iallv nwmf; to ihe jmlicioiis
conduct and intrepid valoi^r of the gallant 'Laird of
Cmigic, who lied of h s woi;nds after the action
i'Coilus, Kipgof the I'lets, from whom the district
of Kyle is stiid to tdsc its name, lies hinicd, as traili-
tion ^i\s, near the family-seat of the Moiitijomcries of
Coilsiield, where hi~ burial pl.icc is still shown.
^ Barskimming, the seat ol tiie late Lord Justice.
Clerk.
•• fatrine, the s^it of th late Doctor, and present
?rof#^sor .Stewart.
This, all its source and end to draw,
Tli.it, to adore.
Bri/tiiin'i brave ward • I well could spy,
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eve.
Who call'd on Fame, low stamiitig bv>
To hand him on,
Where .wny a patriot-name on hi:^'h.
And hero shone.
DUAN SF.CONI).
With musing-dec]), astonish'd stare,
I view'd the heav'nly-sceming /*«/;• ;
A whisp'ring thruh diil witness hear,
Of kindred sweet,
When with an elder si-tei's air
She did inc greet.
' All hall ! my own insjjircd hard I
In me thy native muse regard ;
Nor longer mourn thy fite is hard,
Thus jiooily low,
I come to give thee such reward
As we bestow
' Know, the great genius of this land
Has many a light, aerial band,
Who, all beneath his high command,
Harmoniouslv,
As arts or arras they understand,
Tlieir labours ply
' They Scotius race among them share 5
Some fire the soldier on to dare ;
Some rouse the patriot up to hare
Cornijjtion's heart ;
Some teach the bard, a darling care,
Tlie tuneful art.
' 'Jlong swelling floods of reeking gor«,
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour;
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar,
They, sightless, stand.
To mend the honest j)atriot-lore.
And grace the hand.
' And when the I).ird, or hoarv sai-e.
Charm or instruct the future a"e,
Tliey bind tJie wild jioetic rage
In energy.
Or point the inconclusive page
Full on the PfC.
' Hence Fullaifoii, the brave and ycuag;
Hence Dempstcr'g zeai-iiisplred tongue ;
licence sweet iiarmonimis Jie ittie sun"
His •' Minstrel lays;"
Or tore, with noble ardour stung,
Tiie scejitics bays.
' To lower orders aie ass'gn'd
The humbler ranks of human-kind.
• Colone Fullanoa.
1
22 BURNS' ^VORKS
rhe rustic Bard, the lab'iincr Hind,
I taught thee how to pour in song.
The Arti>an ;
To soothe thy flame.
All choose, as various they're incliiiM,
The various man.
' I saw thy pulse's maddening play,
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way,
* WTien yellow waves the heavy .c;rain,
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray,
The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ;
By Passion driven ;
Some teach to meliorate the ))'aiti,
But yet the liglit thut led astray
With tillage skill ;
M'as light from heaven
And some instruct the shepherd-train,
Blithe o'er the hill.
' I taught thy manners-painting strains
The loves, the ways of simple swains
' Some hint the lover's haimless wile ;
Till now, o'er all my wide domains
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ;
Thy fame extends ;
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil,
For humble gains,
And some, the pride of Coila's plains.
Become thy friends.
And make his cottage scenes beguile
His cures and pains.
* Thou canst not learn, nor can I show
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ;
' Some bounded to a district-space,
Explore at large man's infant race.
Or wake the bosom-melting throe,
With Slienstone^s art ;
To mark the embryotic trace
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow
Of rustic Sard ;
Warm on the heart.
And careful note each op'ning grace,
A guide and guard.
' Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose,
The lowly daisy sweetly blows :
' Of these am I — Ccih my name ;
Tho* large the forest's monarch throws
And this district as mine I claim,
His army shade.
Where once the Canijihells, chiefs of fame,
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows.
Held ruling pow'r :
Adown the glade.
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame.
Thy natal hour.
* Then never murmur nor repine ;
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ;
' With future hope, I oft would gaze.
And trust me, not Potosi's mine.
Fond on thy little early way*,
Nor king's regard,
Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase.
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine.
In uncouth rhymes,
A rustic Hard.
Fired at the simple, artless lays
Of other times.
' To give my counsels all in one,
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ;
« I saw thee seek the sounding shore.
Delighted with the da-liing roar ;
Preserve the dignity of Man,
With soul erect ;
Or when the north his fleecy store
And trust the Universal plan
Drove thro' the sky,
Will all protect.
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar
Struck thy young eye.
* And wear thnn this,' — she solemn sitd
And bound the Holly round my head ;
' Or when the deep-green mantled earth
The polish'd leaves, and berries red.
Warm chcrish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth.
Did rustling play ;
Anil joy and music pouring forth
And, like a passing thought, she lied
In ev'ry grove.
In light away.
I saw thee eye the general mirth
With boundless love.
' Wlien ripen'd fields, ami azure skies,
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise,
ADDRESS TO THE UN'CO GUID
1 saw thee leave their ev'ning joys,
And lonely stalk,
OR TMS
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise
In pensive walk.
RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS.
• Whtti youthful love, warm-Idushing, strong,
Keen-shivering s'lot thy nerves along.
My son, these maxims make r n't*.
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue,
Th adored Name,
And lum|i ihem aye tlie^itl rj
Tlie Hi^iil Iiii:/ilf,iiis fi a fool.
■J he U i,'.U /y ise uiiilUcr 1
^
roEMS. as
'JTic ripnnest porn tliat e'er was dight
VII.
M.iy Mac »miu' pyli-s n" cair in ;
Then gently scan your brother man.
Sat- iieVr a I'lllow-orfatiire slight
For ramloni (its <>' ilaflin. —
Still gentler sister woman;
Sulumou. — Kcclc's. ch. vii. ver. 16.
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang,
To ste|) aside is human :
One point must still be greatly dark.
I.
The moving w/ii/ they do it ;
0 YK wha are sao £;iiiH yoursel,
And just as lanu-ly can ye mark,
Sae (lidus an' sae holy,
How far perhaps they rue it.
Yo've ii(iui;lit to <lo l)iit miik ami tell
Your ncel)oiir's fauts and folly !
VIII.
Wli.ise life is like i vveel tjaiin iiiill,
Who made the heart, 'tis lie alone
Siip|)l; M wi' store o' water,
Decidedly can try us,
The heapit hamper's e!)l.inrj still,
He knows each chord — its various tone,
And still the clap ])lay3 clatter.
Each spring — its various bias :
Then at the balance let's be mute,
II.
We never can adjust it ;
Hear me, ye vpneiahle coie.
What's tiuiie we partly may compute.
As counsel for poor mortals.
But know not what's resi.sted.
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door
For glaikit Follv's portals ;
I, for their thoii;,'litless. careless sakes,
Woidd here propone detences,
TAM SAMSON'S* ELEG?
Their donsie tricks, their hl.ick mistakes,
Their failings and iiiischauces.
III.
An honest man's the noblest work of God.— Po;*
Ye see your state wi' theirs compared,
Has nuhl K ',rrr\ tliii n,iil 1
An' shudder at the iiiffer.
Or great ]\1' f thrawn his heel?
But cast a moment's fair resjard,
Or R \ again grown weel
Wliat maks the mighty differ ?
To i)reach an' read ?
Discount what scant occasiou gave,
' Na, waur than a' !' cries ilka chiel.
That purity ye pride in,
' Tarn Siimsitns dead !
An* (what's aft iii lir than a' the lave)
Your better art o' hiding.
K lang may grunt an' granc.
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,
IV.
An' deed her bairns, man, wife, and weaa
Think, when your castigated pulse
In mourning weed ;
Gies now and then a wallop.
To death, she's dearly paid the kane,
What ragini;s must his veins convulse,
Taui Samson's dead
That still eterucd gallop :
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,
The brethren of the myotic level,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
May hing their head in woefu' bevel.
But in the teeth o' haith to sail.
While by their nose the tears will revel,
It maks an unco lee-way.
Like ony bead !
Death's gien the lodge an unco (level,
V.
Tam Samson's dead '
See social life and glee sit down.
All joyous and unthinking.
When winter muffles up his cloak.
Till, quite tiansnM)L;rified, tliey're grows
And binds the nure like a roek ;
Dehauchery and ilrinking :
When to the loehs the curle-s Hock,
0 would they stay to calculate
Wi' gleesome speed ;
Th' eternal con>equences ;
Wha will they stat»(n at the oick 9
Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Tam Samson's dead !
Damnation of expenses '
He was the king o' a' the core,
VI.
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,
Ty'd u|) in godly laces,
Before ve gie \)inir fraHtij names.
• Wlien this worthy old sportsman went out last
muirfowl season, he supposed it was to he, in Ossiau'i
phrase, ' the last of his fielils !' and expressed an ar-
Suppose a change o' cases ;
dent wish to die and be buried in the niuirs On thit
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug,
hhit the author composed liis elet;v aiid qi.taph.
t A cert:iin prcaelier, a RTcat favoiirile witli the mil-
A treacherous inclination —
lion, yide the Ordination, Stanza 1 L
But, let nie whisper i' ycmr lug,
^'e're aibiius --u: tea;ptatiun.
X AnoiluT preaelier, an e(iual favourite with the fcir
who was al tltil time ailnig. For hnii see al^o Uic Or
Uuuuon blanza I.\..
24
BURXS' WORKS.
Or up the rink, like Jehu roar,
In time o' need ;
I)ut now he lags on (ieatli's horj-srore.
Tain Sanisun's dead !
"Sow safe the stately sawniDnt sail,
And triiuts be',!ri)|)|)M wi' ciinison luill,
And eels weel kenn'd f(pr simple tail,
And geds far greed,
Since dark in dedth's Ji.sh-creel we wail,
Tain Samson dead !
Rcioice, ye lilrrini; ])aitrieks s.' ;
Ve cootie raoori ocks, erouselv craw;
Ye niajkins, cock your fiid i'u' liniw,
VVilhouten dread ;
Your mortal fae is now awa*,
Tain Samson's dead •
That wacfu' morn he ever moiirnM,
Saw liim in shootin' i^raith acliirn'd,
\^'hi!e pointers rounil impatient hiirn'd,
Frae i-ouple'* treed !
iiut, och ! he gaed and ne'er retiirii'd !
Tarn Samson's dead I
In vain auld aj;e his body hafters ;
In vain the fjou't his ancles fetters ;
In vain the burns came down like waters,
An acre braid !
Now cv'ry aiild wife, greetin', clatters,
Tam Samson's (lea(
Owre mony a weary haj; he lliiipit,
An' aye the tlther shot he thnnipit,
Till coward death behind him jumpit,
Wi" deadly felde ;
Now he proclaims wi" tout o' trumpet,
Tam Samson's dead !
When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reei'd his v.'oufed bottle-swa^ifjer,
but yet he drew tlie luiu-t.il triii'^er
^\'i' weel-.iiiii'd lu\-d j
L — d, five 1' he cry'd, an' owre did staij^er
Tam Samson's deai! I
irlk hoary hunter moMrii'd a hrlt'ier ;
I7k spiiitsuuiii youth bi'inoan'd a fitlier ;
Y(ui auld grey staue, auian^ the heathei-,
Marks out his liead,
Whare Hums lias wrote, in rhyming l)lether,
TiiiH Salmon' s cleuil !
There low he lies, in lasting rest :
Perhaps upon his mould'rintj breast
Some spiteiu' niuirfuwl bigs her nest,
To hatch an' breed
Alas ! nae mair Ik''!! them molest !
Tam Samson's dead !
"WTien August winds the heather wave,
^nd sportsmen wauch-r by yon grave,
flax'e volleys let his mem'ry crave
O jiouther au' lead,
Till Echo answer frae her cave,
Tain Samson's dead !
Ileav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be I
Is th' wish o' mony inae than me :
He had twa fauts, or may be three,
Yet what remead ?
A 8 social, honest man. want we :
Tam Samson's dead
THE EPITAPH
Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies,
Ye canting zealots, spare him !
If honest W(uth in heaven rise,
Ye'll mend or ye won near him.
PER CONTRA.
Go, Fame, an I cinfer like a filly
Thro' a' tlie streets an' neuks o' Killie,'
Tell every social, honest billie.
To cease his grievin
For yet nnskaith'd by death's gleg gullie,
I'ain SaiDsun's livin
HALLOWEEN.!
[The foUowin!; poem will, by many renders, be wrB
enough understood ; but for the sake of tliose who
are unacquaiutcil with the manners anil trailitioiisoj
the country wliercthc scone is cast, notes are aililed,
to iiivc some airouiit of the prineipal eharma and
spells of that niglit, so bip with (iropheey to thepe»-
sanlry in the West of Sedlaiul. Tlie pas'sion of I'r^.
ill" into futurity makes astiikinf; part nf the history
of human nature in its ruile state, in all aqes and
nations : and it may he some entertainment to a
(ihilo-ophie mind, if any such should hnUDur the
author with a perusal, to see th;' remains of it a
mong the more uncnliyhiened in our own.]
^'es ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain.
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ;
To me more dear, ci-n;jenial to my heart,
One iiali\c charm, tl'.an all the jjkts of art.
GaUismiik
I.
Urov that nit^ht, when fairies light,
On CkssHIh liownans \ dance.
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers praiiceij
Or for Citlcun the roi;te is ta'en.
Beneath the moon's pale beams !
• KWie is a phr.asc the country folks sometimes ust
for Kilmariioek.
t Is thonuht to he a nipht when wifehes, devils, and
other mischii'f-makiiiij bcnj;s, .ue all abroad on then
baneful midnipht errand^:' partieiilailv those ;!eriai
people, the Fairies, are saul on that night to hold a
grand anniversary.
t Certain little' romartie, rO' kv, Rrccn hills, in th»
nclirhbourliood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Tss-
ailis.
AILCL KI^LILO'WS [E^^E.
POEMS.
25
ri ere, up tlie cove,* to str.iy au' rove
AuMng tliu rucks iind stiear.is,
To siKut tliat night
11.
Aiiiang the honnie winding; banks
\\'licre iJoun rins, winiplin', dear,
Whi'ie BiucEf ance rul'd tlx' niai tial ranks,
An' ^huuk his Cunich spear,
Some n'.eiiT, friendly, countia iulks,
'i'ogetlier did eoincne,
To bum their nits, an' }iim their stocks,
Au' Laud their IhiU'nucn
l"ii' hliihe ihat night,
III.
The lasses feat, an' clean 'y neat,
iMair braw ihan vvlien their tine;
Their faces hhtlie, lu' sweetly kythe,
Hearts leal, au' wami, an' kin' :
The lads sae trig, \vi' wnoer-babs,
\\'e< 1 knotted un their garten.
Some unco b'ate, an' ^unie wx ga')s,
Gar lasses' liearts ganj' startin*
\Vh)ies fa>t at night.
IV.
Then fust and foremost, thro' the kail,
Tiieir sti^vks^ maun a' be sought aiice ;
They steek tiieir een, an' (jraip an' wale,
l*"or muckle anes and strauglit anes.
Poor hav'rel Wdl lell art' tiie drift.
An' wander'd thro' the b w-kuil,
An' pou't, lor want o' better shift,
A rtiiit was like a sow- tail,
Sae bow't that night.
V.
Then, strauglit or cruoked, yird or nane,
They roar an' cry a' thruu'ther ;
The vera wee thiiii^s, todliu', riu
N\'i' stocks uut-ovvre their shoiither ;
An gif tile cuntiii's sweet or suur,
Wr jiietelig-. they taste tlieni ;
Syne cuziely, .iboun the door,
Wi' cauuie (-are, they've jjlac'd them
I'o lie that night.
I
VI.
• A note<l cavern near Colean-honse, called 7 he
Cove of C'olean ; ivliicli, ;is C'assilis Downans, is fanuil
in country siory fur bi'iiiL' a favour ite haunt for fairies.
tThe famous family of llial naii.e, the aiUTSturs of
R'lBiatr, llie great deii'veier of his country, were Earls
of Carritk.
t llie (irst ceremony of Halloween, is pulling each
a .'!ocL; or plain of kail. They must go out, hand in
li.ind, with eyes slu.t, and (iiill the liist thei mcc;
wi:h ! Its beiiiy big or litile, straight, or ci<Joked, is
prophetic of the si/e aim shape of the griin I object of
\li their spells— tliL- husband or wife. If any yird, or
earth, stick to the loot, that is tuclier, or fortune; and
the tasie of the castuc, that is the heart of the stem, is
Indieativ* of the iiatutai temper and disposition. —
Lastly, tne stems, or, to gi\e she n their ordinary a))-
jicilation, the tunti, ac plai-eil s..me >here al)o^e the
head of the door; and tht iMirisiiaii names of ihe peo-
ple wluiin ihaiice brings into the house, are, aeiorduig
ty the priority of plaeint; tlie lUiUs, tJie names m Ques-
tion.
'The lasses staw frae 'inang tliein &
To pon tl'.eir itul/is o' curii ;'
Hut liab slips (Hit, anil jinks alout,
Ik'hiiit the muckle thorn :
He grijipet Nelly hard an' fast;
Lond skirl'd a' the lasses;
But her t(i/i-pick/e niaist was lost,
When kiiittliu' in the fiusc-house^
\\i' him that uigLU
vn.
The anlil guidwife's weel-iioordet nitsi
Are round an' round divided,
And inonie lads and lasses' fates,
Are there that night decided :
Some kind'e, cuuthy, side by side,
An' burn thcgitiicr trimly ;
Some start awa' wi' saiicy pride.
An' jump out-owre the chimlie
Fu' high that nigbt>
VHI.
Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ;
Wha 'twas, she wadiia tell ;
But this is Jock, an' this is me,
She says in to liersci' :
He bleez'd owre her, and she owre liim
As they wad never mair part ;
Till fuff! he started up the liim.
An' Jean had e'en a sair heart
To tee't that night.
IX.
Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt.
Was brunt wi' priinsie Mallie ;
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunty
To be coiiipar'd to Willie :
PJall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling,
.\n her ain lit it brunt it ;
While Willie lap, and swoor hyjinff,
'Twas just the way he wanted
To be that night.
X.
Nell had the fause-honse in her niin',
She pits hersel' au' Hob in ;
In loving bleeze they sweetly join.
Till white in ase they're sobbin' ;
Nell's heart was dancin' at the view,
Slie whi-per'd Uob to look for't :
• They go to the barnyard, and pull each, at thre*
several times, a stalk of oiits. If the third '■'^m wanti
llie tup- pick e, that is, the grain at the top of Ihe stalk,
the jiany In qurstion will cuine to the marriage-bed
any thing but a maid-
t When the corn is in a d.wbtful state, by being too
green, or wet, the stack-buililer, by means of old tim-
ber, iVc. makes a large apailmeiic in his stack, with an
opening in the side whiih is faiiest exposed to the
v;iiid ; this he calls a fuuse linuse
J Uurniiig tlie nuts isa i'av. .iiriteeharjn. Tlicy iiains
tlie lad and la>s to each particular nut, as tlicy 1 ly theia
in the (ire, and aciordmgls as they burn quietly toge-
ther, or start from beside one anoiher, tlie coi'is* and
iaoue of the courtship will be.
I
26
BURNS
' WORKS.
Rol), sjawlins, prieM her honnie mou
9
The siiiuH-r had been canld an* wat.
Fu' cczie in the neuk fui "t,
An' stuff was uiu-o greeu ;
Unseen that night.
Vn' AV- a rantin kirn we gat.
An' just on Halloween
XI.
It fell that nigh*
But Mcrr.-.n sat hehint their hacks,
Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ;
XVI.
She lea'es them !5a>hia' at their cracli
s,
" Our stibblc-rig was Rah M'Grasn,
And sli|)s out by hersel' :
A clever, sturdy fallow ;
She thro' tlie yanl the nearest taks,
He's sin git Eppie Sim wi' wean,
An' to the kihi siie goes then,
That liv'd in Achmacall i :
An' darklins graipit fur the l)aiiks,
He gat hemp-seed,* I mind it weel,
And ia the blue c/ e* throws then
An' he made unco light o't ;
Right fear't that
night,
But niony a day was hi/ himael',
He was sae sairly frighted
XII.
That vera night.*
An' aye she win't, an' aye she swat,
I wat she msJe nae juiikin ;
XVII.
Till sonuthir.s; liehl witliin the pat,
Than up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck,
Guid L — d ! but >he was quakin* !
An' he swoor by his conscience,
But whether 'twas tlie Deil hiuisel',
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ;
Or whether 'twas a hauk-en,
For it was a' but nonsense !
Or whether it was Andrew Bell,
The auld guid- man raoght down the poc'a
She did na wait on talk in'
An' out a haiulfu' gled him ;
To sjiear that night.
Syne b.id him slip frae 'mang the folk.
Scmetinie when nae ane see'd him.
XIII.
An' tiy't that night
Wee Jenny to her Grannie says,
" VvMll ye (JO wi' me, graunie?
XVIII.
l'l\ eat the apple f at the (/lass,
He marches thro' amang the stacks.
I gat frae uncle Johnie :"
Tho' he was somtthing sturtin,
She f'uff't her |)i|je wi' sic a iunt.
The ffraip he for a harmw taks,
In wrath she was sae vap'riii',
An' haurls at his eurpin :
She uotic't na, an aizle biunt
An' ev'ry now an' then he says,
Her braw new worstt a|)ron
" Hemp-seed I saw thee.
Out thro' that night. |
An' her tliat is to be my l.iss.
Come after me, and draw thee,
XIV.
As fast this night."
" Ye little skelpie-linnner's face !
How daur ye try ^!c sportin',
XIX.
As seek the foul Thief ony place.
He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march,
For him to sjjae your fortune ;
To keep his courage cheery ;
Nae doubt hut ye may get a siyht /
Altho' his hair began to at eh.
Great cause )e hae to fear it;
He was sae fley'd an' eerie :
For mcmie a ane has gotten a fright,
Till presently he hears a squeak.
An' liv'd an' di'd d,leeret
An' then a grane an' gruiitle ;
On sic a night.
He by his shouther gae a keek,
Au' tumbl'd wi' a wintle
XV.
Out-owre that night
" Ae hairst afire the Sherra-moor,
I mind 't as weel's yesMeen,
XX.
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure
He roar'd a horrid niuider shout.
I was na past fyfteeo :
In dieadfu' despeiation !
An' ynuiig an' auld cam rinnin' out.
To hear the sad narration .
• Whoever would, with siipccss, try this
•trictly (iliserve Ihisc iliieclioiis: S-eal out,
rrt f),0 M/ri till.) it.rl/li.i,. ,1.^.....;., ., lU,. ..
pell, must
all alone, |
♦ .^f(>a] nut tllltl/imolfnit nilit cr»,tr -> Ii-ii,<trit1 ^f harynr\.
blue yarn ; wind it In ;i iiewdue olfrlic . Id one: and,
toward* tho latter end, s.imetliinn will hold the thread,
demand h/w /uiwls'r i. e. wlio hcilds,' an answer wjll
be returned <"roni the kdn-po', liv naming the Chris-
tian iiid sirname of your I'litiire sponse.
t Take a eandlo, and po alone to a lookinp-plass ;
Mt an apple hcfore it. and s, nic Irailitions s.iv, von
•liould cond) your hair all tlie limi': the face oV your
conjucsl oom)iaiicnii. In he, « i|| Lie «cen in the glass, as
if lieepiU); over your shouldor.
seed ; harrowin'^ it with any ihiiif; von can ennvcnieiit-
ly draw after you. Reprat iiow and then, • lltmp-sci'd
1 saw thee; heinp-secd 1 saw thee: a' d him |i>r litr)
that is to be my true-love, eome after me and |>ou
thee." I^ixiU over your \t"t ^hmilder, ai.d von wdl se«
the apiiearanee of the pemon invokeil, in the attitude
of pulhiif; hemp. .'Some tr ditions sav, ' eonie after
me, and shaw thee,' that is, show tliyself : in which
ca-e it simply appears, iithrr^ nniit the harrowing
and tay, ' coirie after me, ami h.irrow the*.'
»OEMS.
27
[Ic swoiji- 't\ras hilcliiii JLVin IM'Crau',
Or I'loui'liie Merran Iliiiiijjliie,
Tii' stop ! she tiotttil thio' them a' ;
A V wha was it but (jriiwp/iie
AstCLT that night .
XXI.
Mog fiin wail to the ham hae gane,
To win three wec/its o' naethinc/ ; *
But for to nit'ft the (k'il her lane,
She ])at but little faith in :
She gies the herd a piikle nits,
An' twa reil chcekit ajiples,
To watch, while for the ham she sets,
In hopes to see Tain Ripples
That vera night.
XXII.
She turns the key wi' cannie thraw
An' owre the threshold ventures;
But first on Sawnie gies a c i".
Syne banldly in she enters ;
A Tatton rattled up the wa'.
An' she ciy'd, L — d preserve her !
An' ran thro' niiddeu-liole an' a',
An' pray'd wi' ze.d and fervour,
Fu' la^t that n ght.
XXIII.
Thev hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ;
Then lieeht him some fine hraw ane ;
It ehane'd the stack \\\i fnililntnd thrice,f
Was tininier-prapl for thr.iwiu ;
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak,
For some black, tirousome carlin ;
An' loot a wince, an' diew a stroke,
Till tkin in biypes cam haurlin'
All's nieves that night.
XXIV.
k wanton widow Leczie was,
As canty as a kittlen ;
But Oeh ! that nii^lit, ama'ig n shaws,
She got a feaifu' settlin' I
She thill' the wiuns, an' by the cairn.
An' owre the hdl gaed scrievin',
Whare three lairds' la/n.'s met at a burn,\
To dip her left sark->leeve in.
Was bent that night.
» This charm must likewise be performeii unpcr-
feived, and alone. Vi>u rc to thi barn, and ojieii bot!i
doors, taknifi ijiem ort'ihc lunges, it' |io>.'iibles 'or lliee
is danger, that the lifiti/; ab.nit to appear, may Nhul
the doors, and do yon sonv.- mischief. Then take thai
instriimiiu nsecl in wjnnowniij the corn, which, in oiu
country dialei!t, we call a i;'cc/)<,a-id go through all ihc
ittiludes of letting down corn against the wiid. Re-
peal it three times: .inri the ihiTil time an apparitinn
will pass throi'gd the Itun, in at the windy door, and
out at the other, having boih the fignre in question,
and the appear.inc-. or letinue, m.;rk.ng the employ-
men!, or sliiiioi) in lit'j.
t 'I'ake an opponunity of going, unnoticed, to a
Detir.sl cl:, and i.nh'im it three iMnc> round. \l£
last fathom of he last liiue you will catch in your
arms the appe* nice of your future conjugal yoke-
fellow.
t V ou ^i oi't, one or more, for this is .•» social pell,
(o a vinij, ■nimig sprii g it rivulet, where ' three
lairUi.-' iaiids meet, and dip your Lft shut sleeve. (Jo
XXV.
Whyles owre a linn the !)urnie plays,
As thro' the glen it winijd't ;
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ;
Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ;
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays,
Wi* bickeiing, dancing dazzle ;
Whyles cookit underneath the biacs,
Below the spreading hazel.
Unseen that night.
XXVI.
Aniang the brackens, on the brae,
Between her an' the moon.
The deil, or else an cutler quey.
Gat up an' gae a croon :
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ;
Ne'er lavrock-height she jumpit,
But mist a tit, an' in the 7;i;o/
Out-owre the lugs she plumpit,
Wi' a pluiige that niglib
XXVII.
In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
The litpgies three' are ranged.
And ev'ry time great care is ta'cn,
To see them duly changed :
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys
Sin' iiLir's-t/ear did desire.
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice.
He heav'd them on the fire.
In wrath that night.
XXVIII.
Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks,
I wat they did na weary ;
An' unco tales, and funnie jokes.
Their sports were cheap an' cheery :
Till hiitler'd so'ns,f wi' fragrant lunt.
Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ;
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,
They parted alf careerin'
Fu' blithe that night.
to beil in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve 1)8-
forc it to dry. l.ie awake; and some time near mid-
night, an ajiparition, having the exact figure of the
grand object m ipiestion, will come and turn the sleeve
as if to dry the oiher side of it.
• 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 dishea
are ranged : lie (or shei dips the left hand : if by
chance in the cieaii water, the future hti^band or wife
will ooine 10 the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in tha
foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretil's, with
equal cer'ainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated
three times, and every time the arrangemei t of th«
dishes is abend.
t Sowcus, with butter instead of mill; Ic litem, ia
always the Ualluaetn Supper.
1
?R BURNS'
WORKS.
THE
\Mien thou was corn't, an' I was melloW,
We took the road aye like a swallow :
AULD FARMER'S
At Urooses thou 1-ad ne'er a fellow,
N>W-TEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS
For pith an' speed ;
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,
AULD MARE MAGGIE,
Whsre'er thcu gaed.
ON GIVING HER THE ACCL'STOMED RIPPOF CORN
The sma', droop- rumpl't, hunter cattle.
TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR.
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ;
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle.
A Gtiid Nfw- Year I wish thee, INIagpit !
An' gar't them whaizle :
Kae, there's a rijip to thy auld busTgie .
Nao whip nor spur, but just a wattle
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie,
0' saugh or hazel.
I'vn seen the day,
Thou could liae gaen like onie stai;gie
Thou was a Tioh]e Jittie-!an',
Out-owre the lay.
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ;
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun,
Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,
On guid March weather,
An' tliy auld hide's as white's a daisy,
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',
I've seen thee dapul't, sleek, an' glaizie.
Foi' days thegither.
A bonnie gray :
He should been tight that daur't to raize th3e,
Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit
Ance ia a day.
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy weel tiU'd brisket,
Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
Wi' pith an' pow'r.
A filli/ buirdly, stecve, an' swank,
Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' ri>ket,
An' set weel down a shapely shank
An' slypet owre.
As e'er tred yird ;
An' could hae flown out-owre a ^tank,
MTien frosts lay lang, au' snaws were deep,
Like onie bird.
An' threiiten'd labour back to keep,
I gied thy cop a wee bit heap
It's now some nine-an'-twi-nty year,
Aboon the timmer :
Sin' thou was my guid father's metre ;
I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep
He gied me thee, o' tocher <;lear.
For that, or simmer.
An' fifty mark ;
Tho' it was suia', 'twa< weei-won gear,
In cart or car thou never recstit ;
An' thuu was stark.
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ;
Thou never lap, and sten t, and breastit,
When fir>it I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Then stood to blaw ;
Ve then was trottin* wi' your miiinie :
Out just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an* funnie,
Thou snoov't awa.
Ye ne'er was donsie,
Lut hamely, tawie, quiet, an' c^mriie.
Jly pleuf/h is now thy bairn-time a .
An' unco sonsie.
Four gallant bi utes as e'er did draw ;
Forbye sax niae, I've seli't awa.
That day, ye pranc'd wi' ir.uckle pride,
That thou hast nurst :
When ye buie hame my I onnie bride :
They drew me thretteen pui;d an' twa,
An" sweet an' giacefu' jhe did ride,
The vera warst.
Wi' maiden air !
I\yh Stewart I could bragged wide,
Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought;
For sic a pair.
An' wi' the weary warl' fought !
An' monie an anxious day, I thought
Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble,
We wad be beat !
An' wiutle like a samouiit-c oiile,
Yet here to crazy age we"re brought,
That day ye was a jiukei uol.le.
Wr simiuthing yet.
I'l.T heels an* win' !
An' ran them till the\ a' did waulde.
And think na, my auld, trusty servan ,
Far, fai bchin'.
That now perhaps tliuu's le>s deseivin',
An' thy auld days may end in starvia',
When tho'i an' I were young and skcigh.
Fur my last /<;«,
Au' stalple-M:eal> at fiiis weie dieigh.
A heapit stiinpart, I'll nscrve ane
How thou Wad prunce, an' >nore, an' skreigh.
Laid liy for you.
An' tak the road !
Town's bodieu ran, an' stood abeigb,
We've worn to crazy years thegither;
Au' ca't, tlictt mad.
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither :
POi£MS.
29
Wi' teiitie rare I'll flic thy tcflipr,
To Sdiiic li;iii:'(l rig,
Whare je may nobfy r.ix _>.nir It-.itlier,
\Vi' siiia' fatigue.
TO A I\IOUSE,
OV T'JRNINO HEa VV IN HER NF.ST WITH TH2
fLOUGH, NOVKJIUEII, 1785.
Wee, slceUit, cow'rin', tim'roiis beastie,
O, uOiat a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need lu* start awa sae ha^ty,
Vt'V bickering brattle !
I wad be laitU to rin an' chase tUce,
\Vi' inurd'ring pattle I
I'm truly sorry man's doniiiiion
Has tjroken Natiiitt's social union,
An' just r,es that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy [loor eartli-born com[)anion
An' J'Llloic-niurtal !
I (ioul)t na, whylcs, but thou may thieve ;
Vr'hat then ? poor beastie, thou man live !
\ daiinen nlur in a throve
'S a sma' request :
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave.
An' never miss't !
Thy wee bit hnusie, too, in ruin !
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' !
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' f.
oirirajrc srreerj
Au' bleak December's wind^ eusuin',
Baith snell an' keen !
Thou saw the fields laid bare an* waste.
An' weary winter comin' fast.
An' cozie here, beneath the I)last,
Thou thought to dv.'ell,
Till crash ! the cruel osulter past
Out thro" thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
His cost thee mony a weary nibble !
New thou's turn'd Jut, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
F) thole tae winter's sleety dribble.
An' cranreuch cauld !
But, Miinsie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving fonsiyht may be vain :
The best laid schemes o' mice an" men,
Gang aft agley.
An' lea'e us nought but grief an pain,
For promis'd ioy.
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me I
The jiTMenf « "Iv toiicheth thee :
n-.it, Och : I backward cast my ee
On prospects drear :
Au' forward, though i caana .sec,
I f)uess an' J'tar.
A WINTER NIGHT.
Poor naked wrctclic;, wheresoo'er you are,
That l)iile the |)eltiii(,' of this pitiless storm !
Iloiv sh:ill your houseless heads, auM loitVd sides
\uux looji'il a.'ul wiiiilowM rajjtje liiess, rtefeiid you
From seasons such as these i—S/iu/csepean.
When biting Jii reus, fell and dotire,
Sh irp shivers thr(uigh the leafless bow'r ; .
When P/iabus gi'es a short-liv'd glower
Far south the lift,
Diui-dark'ning through the flaky show'r
Or whirling drift :
Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While buriw, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked,
Wild -eddying swirl,
Or through the mining outlet hocked,
Down heudlong hurl.
List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle.
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
O' winter war,
And through the drift, dcep-lairiug sprattle
Beneath a scar.
Ilk happing l.'iid, wee, helpless trsing,
That in the merry month o' sjiring.
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o' thee ?
Whare wilt th'^u cow'r tiiy chitteiins; wing,
An' close tl
y e e :
Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'J,
Lone from your savage homes exil'd.
The blood stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoir<i
My heart forgets,
While pitiless the teinjrest wild
Sore on you be.its.
Now P/icehe, in her midnight reign,
Dark muffled, view'd the dreaiy jdain ;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,
V/hen on my ear this plaintive strair.
Slow, solemn stoic —
' Blow, blow, y wiiuls, with heavier gust
And (Veeze, ye b.tter-biting frost ;
Descend, ye chilly, sniotlieriug snows ;
Not all your rage, as now, united, shown
IMore hard uiikindncss, unrelenting.
Vengeful malice unrepeating,
so
BURNS' WORKS.
rhaa heaven-illumin'd man on brother man
bestows !
See stern 0|)pression's iron ,?rip.
Or mad Ambition's gory hand,
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,
Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land !
Even in the peaceful rural vale,
Truth, weepinfj, tells the mournful talc.
How pampered Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side,
The parasite empoisoning her ear,
With all the servile wretches in the rear.
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ;
And eyes the simple rustic hind,
Whose toil upholds the giitt'ring show,
A creature of another kind,
Some courser substance, unrefined.
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile,
below.
AVhere, where is Love's fond, tender throe.
With lordly Honour's lofty brow.
The powers you proudly own ?
Is there, beneath Love's noble name,
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,
To bless himself alone !
Mark maiden-innocence a prey
To love-pretending snares,
This boasting Honour turns away,
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway.
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs !
Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest.
She strains your infant to her joyless breast.
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock-
ing blast !
Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down.
Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
riiink, for a moment, on his wretched fate.
Whom friends and fortune quite disown !
[11-satisfy'd keen Nature's clara'rous call,
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to
sleep,
While thro* the rugged roof and chinky wall.
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap !
Think on the dungeon's grim confine.
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine !
Guilt, eriing man, relenting view !
But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch, already crushed low
By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow?
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress,
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the
bliss !'
I beard nae mair, for Chanticleer
Sho<ik off the pouthery snaw.
And hail'd the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing cr"- . .
But deep this truth impressed my laind^
Thro' all his works abroad.
The heart benevolent and kind
The most resembles God.
EPISTLE TO DAVIE,
A BROTHER rOET.
January
I.
While winds frae a!f Den-Lomond h\zv.
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,
And hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass the time.
And spiu a verse or twa o' rhyme.
In hamely westlan' jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift.
That live sae bien and snug :
I tent le.'s, and want less
Their roomy fireside ;
But hanker and canker.
To see their cursed pride.
IL
Its hardly in a body's pow'r
To keep at times frae being sour,
To see how things are shai'd ;
How best o' chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
An' ken na how to wair't :
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head.
Tho' we hae little gear,
We're fit to win our daily bread,
As ling's we're hale and fier :
' Mair speir na, nor fear na'-f-
Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only for to beg.
in.
To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,
When iianes are craz'd and bluid is thia,
Is, doubtless, great distress !
Yet then, content could make us blest;
Ev'n 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'.
IV.
\Miat though, like commoners of air.
We wander out we know not where.
But cither house or hall ?
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.
In days when d.iisies deck the grounJ-
And bla .\birds whistle clear.
• David Sillar, nnp of the club at Tarboltoi), aarf
auttior of a volume of poems in tlic Scottish dia'ecK
t Kani^av.
POEMS.
8J
With lione«t joy our licarts will bniiiid,
To sec the comiiuj year :
On hraes when we please, then,
We'll sit and sowth a tune ;
Syne rhijme till't, we'll time till't,
And sing't when we hae done.
V.
It's no in titles nor in rank ;
Ft'n no in wealth like Lon'im bank,
To jmrch.ise peace and rest ;
It's no in inakiiitj inuckle viair :
It's no in bonks ; it's no in lear,
To niak us truly blest !
If happiness hae not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may b". wise, or rich, or great,
Hut never can be blest :
Nae treasures, no« pleasures.
Could make us '.appy lang ;
The heart ay'es the part aye,
That makes us right or wrang.
VI.
Think j'c that sic as you and I,
Wia drudge and drive through wet an' dry
Wi' never-ceasing toil ;
Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wlia scarcely tent us in their way,
As haidly worth their while?
Alas ! how oft 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 heav'n or hell ;
Esteeming and deeming
It's a' an idle tale !
VII.
Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce;
Nur make our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state;
And, even should misfortunes come,
I here wha sit, hie met wi' some,
An's thankfu' for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth ;
They let us ken oursel';
T'ney make us see the naked truth.
The real guid and ill.
Thu' losses and crosses,
15e lessons right severe.
There's wit there, ye'll get there,
Ye'll tiud uae other where.
VIII.
But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts !
^To say aiii^ht else wad wrang the cartes.
And flatt'ry I detest)
This life has joys for you and I ;
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ;
And joys the very best,
riiere's a' l/ic pleasures o' the heart.
The lover an' the frien' ;
Ye hae your Me(/, your dearest part.
And I my darling Jean I
It warms uic, it charms n.e.
To mention but her name ;
It heats me, it beets nie.
And sets me a' on flame!
IX.
O all ye Powers who rule above !
O Thou whose very self art love t
Thou knowest my words sincere !
The life-blood streaming thro* my heart«
Or my more dear immoital pait.
Is not more fondly dear !
When heart-corroding care and giief
Deprive my soul of rest.
Her dear idea brings relief
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,
O hear my fej vent piay'r ;
Still take her and make her
Thy most peculiar care !
X.
All hail, ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear.
The sympathetic glow ;
Long since, this world's thorny ways
Had numbered out my weary days,
Had it not been for you !
Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In every care and ill ;
And oft a more endearing band,
A tie more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene.
To meet with, and greet with
My Davie or my Jean.
XI.
O, how that name inspires my style !
The words come skelpin' rank and file,
Amaist before I ken !
The ready measure rins as fine.
As Phccbus and the famous Nine
Were glowrin' owre my pen.
My spaviet Per/aaus will liiiij).
Till ance he's fairly het ;
And then he'll hiltcli, and stilt, and jimp^
An' rin an' unco fit :
But lest then, the beast then.
Should rue his hasty ride,
I'll light now, and (light now
His sweaty wlzeti'd hide.
THE LAMENT,
OCCASIONED BY THEU.'IKOUTIIN ATE ISSUK ;T k
friend's AMOL'R.
Alas I Jiow oft docs Goodness wound itself
And sweet Affection prove ihc spring of woe U-Somt-
I.
O THOU pale orb, that silent shines.
While care-uutroubled mortals sleep '
82 BURNS'
WORKS.
w
Thou Fcest a wreti-h tliat inly pines,
Must wring my soul, ere Phcehus, low.
And wanrlers htTe to wail and weep !
Shall kiss the distant, v.'esterr- main.
Witl. woe I nigl.'vly vigils ktej/,
Beneath thy wan unwaiming beam ;
VIII.
K'aA mourn, in lamentatinn deep,
And when my nightly couch I try.
How life and Lve are all a dream.
Sore-harass'd out with care and grief,
3Iy toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye.
IT.
Keep watchings with the nightly thief:
/ joyless view thy rays adorn
The fiinily-marked distant hill :
I joyless view thy trembling horn,
Reflected in the gurgling rill :
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief.
Heigns baggard-wdd, in sore aflright :
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief,
From such a horror-breathing night.
Jly fondly-fluttering heart be still !
IX.
Thou bu-^y povv-er. Remembrance, cease !
0 ! thou bright queer, wl:o o'er t'l' expanse
Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway
^h I must the agonizing thrill
For ever bar returning peace !
Oft has thy silent-marking ghince
Observ'd us, fondly wandering, stray :
III.
Tl'.e time, unheeded, sped away.
No idly-feign'd poetic pains,
While love's luxurious pulse beat hlgi,
My sad, love-lorn lanientings claim ;
Beneatli thy silver-gleaming ray,
No sheplierd's pipe — Arcadian strains ;
To mark the mutual-kiadling eye.
N ) fabled tortures, quaint and tjuie :
1 p.e pligV. cd faith ; the niutiial flame;
X.
The oft-attested Powers above ;
Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance act !
The protnised Fatlicr'a tairJer name ;
Scenes, never, never, to return '
These were the pledges of my love !
Scenes, if in stujjor I forget,
Again I feel, again I burn !
IV.
Encircled in her clasping arms.
How have the raptur'd moments fiown !
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn.
Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ;
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll moura
How have I wish'd for Fortune's charms,
A faithless woman's broken vow.
For her dear sake, and hers alone !
And must I tliink it? is she gone,
My secret heart's exulting boast ?
And does she heedless hear my groan .'
DESPONDENCY :
And is she ever, ever lost !
AN ODE.
V.
Oh ! can she bear so base a heart,
I.
Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with call,
So lost to honour, lost to truth,
A burden more than I can bear,
As from the fondest lover ]iart.
I sit me down and sigh :
O life ! thou art a galling load,
Tl'.e plighted husband of her youth!
Alas! life's p,ith may be unsmooth !
Along a rough, a weary road,
Her way may lie tliro' rough distress!
To wretches such as I !
Then, who h.er )):in;;s and pains will sooth ?
Dim backward as I cast my view,
V.'hat sick'ning scenes ap;)ear !
Her sorrows share and nrdie them less ?
What sorrows Jjet may pierce me thro',
VI.
Too justly I may fear !
Ye winged hours that o'er us past,
Still caring, despairing.
Eniaplur'd mure, the nu)re enjoy 'd.
j\Iust be my bitter doom i
Your dear remembrance in my breast.
My woes here shaH close ne'er,
I\Jy fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ 'J.
Hut with the closing tomb !
That breast, how dreary now, and void,
For her too scanty once of room !
II.
Ev'n cv'ry ray ol hope de-troy'd.
Happy ye scms of busy life,
And nut a wish ta gild the gloom !
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard !
VII.
Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd.
Tlie morn that warns th' approaching day.
Yet while the busy yiiains are ply'd,
Awakes me up to toil and woe :
They bring their own reward :
I see the hours in long array.
Whilst I, a hope-abanJon'd wight,
That I must suffer, lingering, slow.
Unfitted wirh an aim,
Full many a |)ing, and many a throe,
Meet ev'ry sad returning night,
Keen recollection's direful train,
And joyless muru the same ;
.^ '
POEMS.
33
You, biistlini^, and justlin^,
rmgut each jziiff ami pain ;
I, liutK'sa, vft tf^tlf.''s.
Find ev'ry i)io>i)ect vain,
III.
Hniv blest the solitary's lot,
Wlio, uJl-fors^ettiii!;. ail-forgot,
Within liis liumlili' I'l'li,
The cavtrn wild »ith ran;;;iing roots,
Sits oVr his ciewiy-ir.itlier'il fruits,
I5esiile his crystal well !
Or, haply, to his ev'riino; thought,
By uiifrcquetited strcatn.
The ways ut nion are distant brought,
A faint i-ullecteil dreani :
^y}li^e praisini;, and raising
His thoughts to heav'a oa high.
As wand'rinr;, ineaiid'ring,
He views the suieiim sky.
IV.
Tlian I, no lonely hermit placed
Where never hiuMan footstep traced.
Less fit to play the part ;
The lucky nionient to improve,
Am] just to stop, undjitst to move,
With self-respecting art :
But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,
The Solitary can despise.
Can want, and yet be blest !
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate,
Whi^t I here must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate !
Oh ! enviable, early days.
When dancing thoui^luless pleasure's maze,
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 sport.
Like linnets in the bush.
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish !
The losses, the crosses.
That active man engage!
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim declining a(/c I
WINTER :
A niRCE.
L
Tbe ■wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw ;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet anil snaw •
Whil>> tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae 3
And bird and beast in coven rest.
And pass the heartless day.
n.
" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ereast," •
The joyless winter-day.
Let others fear, to me nu>re dear
Than all the pride of May :
The tempest's howl, it sootlies my so\lV,
My griefs it swims to join,
The leafless trees my fancy please.
Their fate resembles mine !
IIL
Thou Power Suprerne, whoso mighty schenM
These woes of mine fulfil.
Here, firm, I rest, they mu.%t be best,
Because they ave Thi/ Will !
Then all I want (O, do thou grant
This one request of mine ! ).
Since to enjoy thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
INSCRIBED TO 11. AIKEN, ESQ.
Let not ambition niocl< their useful toil.
Their homely joys, ami destiny ob?ourf.
Nor prandeur hear, with a di^lainlvil smile,
The short and simple annals of tJie poor.— Crai/.
L
My lov'd, my honoui'd, much respected
friend !
No mercenary bard his homige pays :
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end.
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and
praise :
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays.
The lowly train in life's secjuester'd scene ;
The native feelings strong, the guileless
ways ; [lieen ;
What Aitken in a cottage would hav«
Ah ! tho his worth unknown, far happier therni
I ween !
n.
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough ;
The short'ning winter-iiay is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their
repose :
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes.
This nlijit his weekly moil is at an end.;
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and hij
hoes,
Hoping the rnorn in case anil rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course Jooi
hameward bend.
* Dr. Young^.
12
S4
BURNS' WORKS.
III.
At length Ills lonely cot appears in vic\y,
Beneath, the shelter of an aged tree ;
TL' expectant u-ee things, toddlin, stacher
thro' [an' glee.
To meet their Dad, wi' flichteria' noise
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily,
His clem hearth-stane, his thriftie ivijies
smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,
A id makes him quite forget his labour an' liis
toil.
IV.
Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in.
At service out, amang the farmers roun*.
Some ca* the pleugh, some herd, some tentie
rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town ;
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman
grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e'e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bra' new
gown,
Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee.
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
Wi* joy unfelgn'd brothers and sisters meet,
An' each for other's wcelfare kindly spiers :
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd
fleet ;
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ;
The parents, partial, eye their h<ipeful years ;
Anticipation forward points the view.
The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears.
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the
new ;
1h.e father mixes a' wi* admonition due.
VI.
Their master's an' their mistress's command.
The younkers a' are warned to obey ;
And mind their labours wi' an eyedent hand.
And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play :
* An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord ahvay !
An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night !
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore his counsel and assisting might :
They never sought in vain that sought the
Lord aright !'
vn.
But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door- ;
Jtninj, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebor lail cam o'er the moor.
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious fiame
Sparkle in Jemiy^s e'e, and flush lur cheek ;
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his
name.
While Jenny halTlins is afraid to speak ;
Weel plca.s'd the niotlvr liears it's nae wild,
worthless rake.
VIIL
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ;
A strappin youth ; he taks the mother's eye;
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ;
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and
kye. [joy
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi
But blate and laithfu', scarce can wael
behave ;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' saa
grave ;
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like
the lave.
IX.
O happy love ! where love like t'nis is found !
O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond com-
pare !
I've paced much this weary mortal round.
And sage experience bids me this declare—.
' If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure
spare,
Oue cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the
ev'ning gale.'
Is there, in human form, that hears a heart—
A wretch! a villain ! los: to love and truth!
That can, with studied, siy, ensnaring arv.
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth /
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue, conscience all exil'd ?
Is there no pity, no relenfing ruth,
Points to the parents fondling o'er their
child !
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distrac*
tion wild?
XL
But now the supper crowns their simple
board,
The halesome/)«rri7cA. chief o'i'co^ifj's food:
The sowpe their only Haw/tie does afford.
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her
coed :
The dame brings forth in c<.mpiimental moo(l,
To srrace the lad, her weel- haiu'd kebbuck
fell.
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ;
The frugal wilie, garrulous, will tell.
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the
belh
xn.
The cheerfu' supper done, wP serious hco-.
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi' patrlaichal grace,
Tlie big ha'-Iiible, ance liis father's pride .
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside.
His lyart haffets wearing tl.in an' bare j
Those strains that once did sweet u< Zioa
glide,
POEMS.
3d
I
rie wales a portion with judicious care ;
And ' Let us u-orMp God !' he says, with
solemn air.
XIII.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise ;
They tune their hearts, by far the noldest
aim : ' [,ise ;
Perhaps Dundee s wild warbling measures
Or plaintive Marti/rs, worthy of the name ;
Or noble EU/in beets the heav'u-ward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays :
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ;
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.
XIV.
Tlie priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was thv friend o/'God on high;
Or, Moaes baile eternal warfare wage
AVith Amaltk's ungracious progeny ;
Or how the rni/al burd dtti groaning lie [ire ;
Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging
Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic tire;
Or Giher holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
XV.
Perhaps the Christian vnhime is the theme,
How guiltless blood for guilty man was
shed ; [name,
How He, who bore in Heaven the second
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ;
How his first followers ahd servants sped ;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a
How Ae, who lone in /'afmos banished, [laud :
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ;
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by
Heaven's command.
XVI.
Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal
King, [prays:
The saint, the father, and the hiisbiiiid
Hope ' sjirings exulting on triumphant wiiig,»
That thus they all shall meet in future
There ever bask in uncreated rays, [days :
No mo:e to sigh or shed the bitter tear'.
Together liymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear ;
While circling time moves round in an eternal
sphere.
XVII.
Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art,
When men display to c'>"gregations wide.
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart !
The Pow'r, incensed, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ;
But hapiy, in some cottage far apart,
Way hear, well-pleased, the language of the
soul ;
Ab'J :q his book of life the inmates poor enrol.
•^ III
• lope's Windsor I oresf
XVIII.
Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
1 lie youngling cottagers retire to rest :
The parent pair tlielr secrtt homage pav.
And prciffer u]) to Heaven the warm request,
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the Illy fair in flow'ry piide,
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best,
For them and fur tlu'ir little ones provide;
But chiefly in their hearts with yrace divine
preside.
XIX.
From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur
springs,
That makes her loved at home, revered
abroad ;
Princes and lorfts are but the breath of kings,
" An honest man's the noblest work ot
Gon!"
And certcs, it ^r virtue's heav'nly road,
The cottage (eaves the palace far behind ;
What is a lordllng's pomp ! a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined '
XX.
O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil !
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven ii
sent !
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil,
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet
content !
And, O ! may Heav'n their simple lives pre-
vent
From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile .
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous jjopuiace may rise the whUe,
And stand a wall of fire around their much>
loved Isle.
XXL
O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide.
That stream'd thro' Wallace's undauatM
heart ;
MTio dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art.
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward.)
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ;
But still the patriot and the patriot bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and
guard !
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN*
A DIRGE.
When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'nlng, a" I wander'd forth
Along the banks ol Ayr,
\-
S6 BURNS
WORKS.
I spy' J a man, wbise aged step
VIIL
Seem'd weary, worn with care;
See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wigb^
Ills face was funow'd o'er with years,
So abject, mean, and vile,
And hoary was his hair.
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil ;
11.
And see his lordly fellow-worm
Young stranger, whither wand'rcst thou ?
The poor petftion spurn.
Began the rev'rend sage ;
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife
Does thirst of weahh thy step constraiEj
And helpless offspring mourn.
Or youthful pleasure's rage ?
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes.
IX.
Too soon thou ha«t began
If I'm design'd yon lordling's s1aT&i» ■
To wander forth, with nie, to mourn
By Nature's law design'd,
The miseries of man !
Wh;, was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind ?
III.
If not, why am I subject to
The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
His cruelty or scorn ?
Or why has man the will and pow'r
To make his fellow mourn ?
A haughty lordling's pride ;
X.
I've seen yon weary winter-suu
Twice foity times return ;
And ev'ry time has added proofs,
That man was mide to mourn.
Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast :
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last !
IV.
The poor, oppressed, honest man.
Had never, sure, been born.
0 man ! while in tliy early years,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn !
Hew prodigal of time !
Mis-spending all thy precious hours ;
Thy glorious youthful prime !
XI.
Alternate follies take the sway ;
0 Death ! the poor man's dearest friei s*
Licentious passions burn ;
The kindest and the best !
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest !
That man was made to mouru.
The great, the wealthy, fear thy bloV
V.
From pomp and pleasure torn ;
Look not alone on youthful prmie.
But, Oh ! a blest relief to those
Or manhood's active might ;
That, wearv-laden, mourn !
Msn then is useful to his kind.
'
Supported is his right :
But see him on the edgu of life,
With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want. Oh ! il!-match'd pair
Show man was made to mourn.
A PRAYER
VI.
IN THE TROSPECT OF DEATH.
A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure's lap carest ;
I.
0 THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear !
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.
But, Oh ! what crowds in every land.
Are wretched and forlorn ;
. Thro* weary life this lesson learn,
Perhaps I mu*t appear !
That man was made to mourn.
IL
If I have wander'd in those patirt
vn.
Of life I ought to shun ;
Many and sharp the num'rous ills.
As snmttlting, loudly, in my breast,
Inwoven with our frame !
Remonstrates 1 have dune ;
Mote pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame !
in.
And man, whose heav'n-erected face
Thou know'st that Thou hast formed tat
The Kniilcs of love adorn,
M'itli passions wilil ami strong ;
Man's inhumatiity to man
And list'ning to their witching voice
Mokes countless thousands mouru
Has often led me wrong.
POEMS.
y
IV.
Whete human ireaknens has come short,
Or Jrailti/ stout .iside.
Do thou, All Giiid! for such tliou ait,
la shades of darkness hide.
V.
Where with ihtentinn I have crr'd.
No otlier jilea I have,
But, Thou art gnod ; aud goodness still
Delisrbteth to forijive.
STANZAS
ON THE SAME OCCASION.
Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene ?
Have I .«o found it lull of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be-
tween :
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed
storms :
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ;
Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guili, my terrors are in arms ;
I tremble to approach an angry God,
An41 justly smart beneath his sin-averjging rod.
Fain would I say, ' Forgive my foul offence !'
Fain promise never more to disobey ;
But, should my Author health again dis-
pense,
Again I might desert fair virtue's way ;
Again in folly's path might go astray ;
.\gain exalt the brute and sink the man ;
Thjn how shon'id I for heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ?
Who sin so oft have moura'd, yet to temptation
ran ?
0 Thou, great Governor of all below !
If 1 may dare a lilted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to
blow.
Or still the tumult of the raging sea ;
With that coiitroliiiig pow'r as:.i>t ev'n me.
Those headlong furious passions to con-
fine ;
For all unfit I feel my pou'rs to be.
To rule their torrent m th' allowed line !
0 «id me with thy lielp, Omnipotence Divine I
IflSG AT A REVEREND FUIENd's HOUSE ONE
MGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING
VERSES,
IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT.
I.
0 THOU dread Pow'r, who reign'st above,
I know thou wilt me hear.
^^^!en for this scone of peace anrl ove,
I make my ])rayer sincere.
II.
The hoary sire — the mortal stn ke,
Long, long be itleased to spai'e,
To bless his little filial flock.
And show what good men an,
III.
She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
O bless her with a mother's joys.
But spare a mother's tears !
IV.
Their hope, their stay, their darling ^outhi
In manhood's dawning blush ;
Bless him, thou God of love and truth,
Up to a parent's wish !
V.
The beauteous, seraph sister-band.
With earnest tears I pray.
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand,
Guide thou their sttps alway !
VI.
When soon or late they reach that coas^
O'er life's rough ocean driv'n,
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost,
A family in Heav'n !
THE FIRST PSALM.
The man, in life wherever placed.
Hath happiness in store.
Who walks not in the wicked's way,
Nor learns their guilty lore !
Nor from the seat of scornful pride
Casts forth his eyes abroad,
But with humility and awe
Still walks before his God.
That man shall flourish like the trees
Which by the streamlets grow ;
The fruitful top is spread ou high.
And firm the rout below.
But he whose blossom buds in guilt
Shall to the ground be cast.
And, like the rootless stubble, tost
Before the sweeping blast.
For why? that God the good adore
Hath giv'n them peace and rest.
But hath decreed that wicked men
Shall ne'er be truly blest.
S8
BURNS' WORKS.
A PRAYER,
mZK, THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGL'ISII.
Tlfou Great Being ! what thou srt
Surpasses me to know :
vt sure am I, that known to thee
A.re all thy works below.
rhjr 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 !
O, free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death !
But if I must afflicted be,
To suit some wise design ;
Then man my soul with firm resolves.
To bear and not repine.
THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF
THE NINETIETH PSALM.
O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend
Of all the human ra-.-e !
Whose strong right hand has ever been
Their stay and dwelling place !
Before the nx)untains heav'd their heads
Bcueath thy forming hand,
Before this pond'rous globe itself
Arose at thy command ;
That pow'r which rais'd, and still upholds
This universal frame,
From countless, uabeginning time,
Was ever still the same.
Those mighty periods of years,
Which seem to us so vast.
Appear no more before th) sight.
Than yesterday that's past.
Tliou gav'st the word : Thy creature, man,
Is to e.MNtence brought :
Again thou say'st, ' Ye sons of men,
Return ye into nought !'
Thou layest them, with all their cares.
In cverla-ting sleep ;
As with a flood tium tuk'st them off
With overwhelniing sweep.
They flourish like the morning flow'r.
In bciufy's pride ai ray'd ;
But long ere nigiit iiit down, it lie*
All witlier'd and decay 'd.
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
ON TCKNING ONE DOWN WITH THE rLVTOB} tX
APRIL, 1786.
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour ;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem ;
To spare thee now is past my pow'r.
Thou bonnie gem.
Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet.
The bonny Lark, companion meet ,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet !
Wi' spieckl'd breast,
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting nurth
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 flow'rs our gardens yield.
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ;
But thou beneath the random bield
O' clod or stdi»e.
Adorns the his tie stiihle-Jidd,
Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise ;
But now the ahare ufirears thy bed.
And low thou lies !
Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweet Jloweret ot the rural shade !
By love's simplicity betray'd.
And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On life'^ rough ocean luckless starr'd,
Unskilful he to note the card
Oi ]>rii(hnt lorci
Till billows rage, and !;ales blow hard.
And whelm him o'er •
Such fate to svffering u-nrth is giv'n,
Who long with wints and woes has striv D,
By human pride or cunning driv'n
To UMs'ry's blink.
Till wrench'd of eve-y ^t.iy but Heaven,
lie, ruin'd, sink !
Ev'n tlion wild niourn'>t the Daisy j fat<!.
That Jute is titiiie — no ^ll^taut ilate :
POEMS.
SB
Sttrn Rui-"'* f lough-share drive's, cl;ite,
Full on rliy l)l()oin,
Fill crush ] beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom !
TO RUIN.
I.
Al.r, hail ! iiiexniahlt hird !
At whose destriuti(in-l)reatliing; word,
The mightiest ein|iires fall !
Thy cruel, woe-ilelighred train.
The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen weleiiMie, all !
With stem resolv'd, despairing eye,
I see each aiiUL-d dait ;
For one has eut my deiirest tie,
And quivers in my heart.
Then low rini;, and pouring,
The s/orm no more I dread ;
Tho' thiek'niiiir and bl lekn'in'r.
Round my devoted head.
11.
And thou grim power, by life abhorr'd,
While life a pleasure can afford,
Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer :
No more I shrink anpaiTd, afraid ;
I court, I beg rhy frienrlly aid.
To close this scene of care !
When shall my scjul, in silent peace,
Resign \\fe\j()i/(iss diy ;
My weary heart its throl.bings cease.
Cold moulilering in the ciay ?
No fear more, no tear more,
To sta'n my lifeless lace;
Enclasped, and grisped
V/ithin niv cold embrace !
TO MISS L-
WITH beaU'e's i'oe.ms, as a new-year's gift,
JAN. 1, 1787.
Again the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driv'n,
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime.
Art so much nearer lleav'n.
No gifts hav< I from IniVan coasts
The inlar t year to h lil ;
I send you n )re tli in India boasts
In Edu-iyi ; simple tale.
Our sex with guile and fiitl.Iess lore
Is chiirg'd, peril ip^, too true;
3ut may, lipir maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to vou !
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND
17S6.
I LA NO hae thought, my youthfu' Friend,
A sonii thing to have sent yon,
Tho' it should serve iiae other end
Than ju-t a kind memento ;
But how the suhject-thenie may gang,
Let time and chance determine ;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Pel haps turn out a sermon.
IL
Ye'II try the warld soon, my lad,
And, Anitrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And mnckle they miy grieve ye :
For care ami tiouhle set your thought,
E'en when your end's attained ;
An a' your views may come to nou'^ht,
\Vhere ev'ry nerve is strained.
III.
I'll no say, men are villains :i' ;
The real, harden'd wickcil,
Wha hae nae check hut human law,
Are to a iew restricted :
But och, niinkinl are unco weak.
An' little to be trusted ;
If seethe wavering balance shake,
Its rarely right adjusted !
IV.
Yet they wha fa' in fortime's strife
Their fate we shunld na censure,
For still th' ini/)ortiiiit end of life
They e(|ually m&v answer ;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' poortith hourly stare him ;
A man may tak a neebor's part.
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Aye free aif ban' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom cionv ;
But still keep somelhing to yoursel*
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
CoiU'eal ynursel' as weel'g ye can
Fiae critical dissection ;
Bi;t keek thro' every other man,
Wi' bharpen'd sly inspection.
VI.
The siicred lowe o' weei-plac'd tovt)
Luxuriantly indulge it ;
But never tempt th' illicit rove,
Tho' naething should divulge it
I wave the quantum o' the sin.
The hazard of concealing ;
But och ! it hardens a' within.
And petrifies the feeling !
vn.
To catch dame Fortunes golden iau]%
Assiduous wait upon her;
40
And gather fjear liy ev'ry wil*
That's jiistitii'd liy honour ;
Not for to hiile it in a hedge,
Nor for a train-attendant;
But for the ghn ious privilege
Of being incltjjendcnt.
VIII.
The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip
To hand the wretch in order ;
But where ye feel \i)ur honour grip,
Let that aye he your border :
Its slightest touches, instant pause —
Dehar a' side pretences ;
And resolutely l<eep its laws,
Uncai ing consequences.
IX.
The great Creator to revere,
Must sure become the creature i
But still the preaching cant forbear.
And ev'n the rigiil feature:
Vet ne'er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended ;
An Atheist's laui^h's a poor exchange
For Deity oifeuded !
X.
Wlien lanting round in pleasure's ring,
Religion ni;iy be Idinded ;
Or, if she gie a riindom stinp,
It may be little minded:
But when on life we're tenipest-dri>''n,
A conscience but a canker —
A coriespondcnce fix'd wi' Heav'n,
la sure a noble anchor.
XI.
Adieu, dear, amiable youth !
Your heart can ne'er be wanting :
Mav prudence, fortitude, and truth,
Erect your brow undaunting !
In plon;,'lMn;in phrase, ' God send you spe"<l,
Still daily to glow wiser ;
And may you better reck the rede.
Than ever did th' adviser !
BURNS' WORKS
ON A SCOTCH BARD,
CONE TO THE WEST INDIES.
A' TE wha live by soups o* drh.'\-,
A' ye wha live by crandiO-dink,
A' ye wha live and never thirds,
Come mourn wi' me !
Oar hillie's gi'vn us a' a jink.
An' owre tlic sea.
Lament him a' ye rantin core,
Wha deaily like a random-spliMC,
Nfte inair he'll join the iiierrii rorr,
lu Social key ;
For now he's ta'en anither shnrp,
An' jwre thi <8&
The honnie lassies weel mjiy wiss him,
And in their dear petitions plait hini ;
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him,
Wi' tearfu' e'e ;
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him.
That's oAvre the sea.
O Fortune, they ha'e room to grumble
Iladst thou ta'en all sjme drows\ bumnieS,
\\'ha can do nought but fyke ;in' fumble,
'Twad been nae plea
But he was gleg as ony wuiuble,
That's owre the sea.
Auld, cantie Ki/Ie may vecpers wear.
An' stain them wi' the s.iut, saut tear;
Tuill niak' her poor auld lie.ii t, 1 fear,
In flinders tlee ;
He was her lavreat monie a year,
That's owre the sea
He saw misfortune's cauld nor-wast
Lang mustering up a bitti'r blast ;
A jillet brak' his heart at last,
111 may she be !
So, took a birth afore the mast.
An' owre the sea
To tremble under Fortune's cummock,
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drumiiioik,
Wi' his proud, independent st.miach
C(udd ill agree ;
So, row't his hurdles in a hiunimick,
An' owre the sea.
He ne er was gi'en to great niisguidilig
Yet coin his u?uches wai' na hide in ;
Wi' hir. it ne'er was undir hidinr; ;
He dealt it fiee :
The must was a' that he took pride in.
That's owre the sea.
Jiimaica bodies, use him weel.
An' luip him in a cozie biel ;
Ye'll find him aye a dainty cliiel.
And fu' o' glee:
He wadna wrmg'd the veradeil.
That's owre the sea.
Farewcel, my rhj/mc-composing hilliet
Your native soil was right ill-willie ;
But may ye flourish like a li y.
Now bonnilie ;
ril toast ye in my hindnuist gillie,
Tho' owre the Bea.
TO A HAGGIS.
I Fa IK fa' your honest, sonsie fice.
Great chieftain o' the puddiu-race .'
POEMS.
4,:
Aboon thorn a' ye t.ik your place,
I'aiiiuli, tripe, or thainn :
Weel are ye wordy of a yrnce
As lung's my arm.
The £;rn,ininq: trenchiT there ye fill,
Your liiirdies like n distant hill.
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like aiiiher head.
Ilis knife sec rustic laI)our liight,
An' cut you up ui' ready slij;ht.
Trenching your t;ii<hin_;; entrails hriglit.
Like oiiie diteh ;
And then, O what a (glorious sifjht,
Warni-reekin', rieh !
Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive,
Deil tak the hiMtlmost, on tliey drive.
Till a' their weelswall'd kytes belyve
Are iieiit like drums ;
Then auld guidman, niai^t like to ryve,
Uct/iun/tit hums.
Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Or olio that wad xtaw a sow,
Orfiicassce wad niak her sjiew
^\'i' perfect sponner,
Looks down wi' sneerin;;, scornfu' view,
Ou sic a dinner ?
Poor devil ! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His 8,iindle-shaiik a j;jid whip-hsh,
His nieve a nit ;
Thro' bloody flood or lii Id to dash,
O how ur.tt !
But mark the rustic, hngrjis-fed.
The trenddinir earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walle nieve a hlaile,
He'll make it whissle ;
An' legs, an' arms, an heail, will sned.
Like taps o' thrissle
Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out tlieii bill o" fare,
Auld Scotland wants na skinking ware
That jaups in .
But, if ye wljh her gratefu" pray'r,
Cjie her a Hag (j is I
A DEDICATION.
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.
Expect na, Sir. in (his narration,
.\ fl^echin, (letli'Mn dediearion.
To rooze you up, an c,i' you sjnid.
An' sprung o' i;re^t an' nol.le hluiil,
Because ve're surii inied like lits grace,
Perhaps relalc' to the race ;
Tlien when I'm tiicd — and sac ure ye,
Wi' mony a fulsoi.ie, sinfu' lie.
Set up a face, hi w stop sliort,
For fear your modesty be hui t.
This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' th^ai wti
Maun please the great folk for a wamefii' j
For me ! sae laigh I neediia bow,
For, Lord he thinkit, [cm /)li>urjh;
And when I downa yoke a n lig,
Then, Lord he tl.ankit, I ecu biq ;
Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'iin',
It's just sic pott an' sic patron.
The Poet, some giiiu ingel help hini,
Or t'se, I fear some ill a.ie skelp him •
He may do weel for a' he's done )(■• '
But only he's uo ju-t begun yet.
"The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me,
I winna lie, come what will o' nie)
On ev'ry hand it will allowed be,
He's just — nae better than he should be.
I readily and freely grant,
He dowua see a poor man want ;
What's no his ain he winiia tak it.
What ance he says he wiima break it ;
Ought he can lend he'll no refuse
Till aft his goodness is al)use<l ;
And rascals whyles that do him wrang,
Ev'n thiit, he does iia mind it lang ;
As master, landlord, hu-baud, father
He does na fail his part in either.
But tlien, nae thanks to him for a' that j
Nae godly sgmptom ye can ca' that ;
It's naething hut a miMer featuie,
Of our poor, sinfu' coirupt nature:
Ye'll get the best o' moral works,
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponntuxi,
Wha never heard of orthodoxy.
That he's the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman ia word and deed.
It's no thra' terror of damnation ;
It's just a carnal inclination.
Jlorality, thou deadly bane,
Thy tens o' thousands tli;iu hast slain .
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust il
In moral mercy, truth, and justice •
No — stretch a point to catch a plaek ;
Abuse a brother t,) his bick ;
Steal thro' a winwicit frae a wh-re,
But point the rake that tak^ the <l,or :
Be to the ])oor like oiiIl- whunstane.
And baud their nosus to tbe giuustane •
Ply ev'ry art o' le-inl tliievin:,' ;
No matter, stick to sound bdieving.
Learn three mile jjrayVs, an' half-mile givsa^
Wr weel-spread loDves, an lang wry f,ces ;
Grunt up a solemn, len-then'd groan,
And daiua a' parties but your uwu ;
12
BURNS* WORKS.
r'l t(M;ant then, ye're 5ne deceiver,
A steadv, sturdy, staunch believer.
0 ye wlia leave the sj)i'ings of Calvin,
For gumlie ditlis of your ain delvin !
Ye sons of heresy and error,
Ye'U some diiy squetl in qu.iking terror !
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath ;
When ruin, with hi-; sweejiing hesum.
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies hioi :
While o'er the /c/r/j p.ile Misery moans,
And strikes the ever-detp'ning tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans !
Your pnrdon. Sir, for this digression,
I maist forgat my dedication ;
Rut when <livinity comes cross me,
Wy readers still are sure to lose me.
So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour,
But I n-.atiire'y thoiiglit it proper,
When a' my works 1 did review.
To dedicate them. Sir, to You :
Because (ye need na tak it ill)
I thought them something like yoursel*.
Then patronise them wi' your favour,
Ami your petitioner shall ever —
I had amai>t said tvtr pray.
But that's a word I need na sav :
For prayin* I hae little skill o't ;
I'm haith dead-sweer. an* wretched ill o't ;
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r,
That kens or heats aliout you, Sir —
" May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark,
Howl thro* the dwelling o' the Clerk!
May ne'er his geii'roiis. hone-t heart,
Fur that same gen'rous spirit smart !
May K 's far honoiir'd name
Lang lieet his hyiiieiieal flame.
Till H s, at lea-t a dizen,
Are frae her nuptial liliotirs risen:
Five hiiiinle lasses round their taUle,
And seven liriw fellows, sfnut an' able
To serve their V\n\i and country weel,
By word, or pen, oi pointed steel !
]May hejlth auil peace, with mutual rays,
Shine on the evening o' his days ;
Till his wee cuilie Juliii x ier-oe,
When elihiiig life iiae m.ir shall flow,
The last, sad, mournful lites bestow!''
1 will not wind a lang conclusion,
Wi' complimentary clfuHiuii ;
But vvhl-t your wishes and etideavours
Are blest with Fmtune'* siiiilis and favours
I am, dear Sir, with zeal iixist fei vent,
Your much iiidchtvd, huiiilde servant.
But if ( ivhuh Povv'tM ihnve prevent !)
That iruu-hcaitci/ call. \V,ii,t,
Attetiilcd in Ins i;rim advance-:,
By sad tnistukc*. and bhik uiiiithances,
^Vliile hopes, and joys, and pleasures fiy hitn.
Make you as poor a dog as I am.
Your humble servant the:i no more;
Fur who would humbly serve the poor I
But, by a poor man's hopes in Heavea '
While recollection's power is given.
If, in the vale of humble life.
The victim sad of fortune's strife,
I, thro' the tender gushing tear,
Should recognize my master dear,
If friendless, low, we meet together,
Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and hrotker
TO A LOUSE
ON SEEING ONE ON A LADy's BONNET A
CHURCH.
Ha ! whare ye gaun, j-e crowlin' lerlie ?
Your impudence protects you sairly :
I canaa say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gauze and lace;
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.
Y" ugly, creepin', blastit wonner.
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner,
How dare you set your tit upon her,
Sae fine a lady !
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ;
Theie ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle
Wi* ither kindred, juntpin' cattle.
In shoals anil nations ;
AMiare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle
Your thick plantatioDS.
Now hand you there, ye're out o' sight.
Below the fatt'rils, snug and tight :
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be light
Till ye've got on it,
The vera tapmost, tow'ritig height
O' Jtliss's bonnet.
My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nos' r;i^
As ])lump and grey as ony grozet ;
0 lur some rank, mercurial lozet,
Or fell, red sineddunc,
I'd gi'e ycu sic a heaity dose o't.
Wad dress your drod'' im ,
1 wad na been surprised to spy
You on an auld wife's fl.innen toy ;
Or aiblins some bit iluddie boy,
On's wyiiecoat ;
But Miss's fine Lunnrdit ! tie,
How date ye do't !
O, Jenny, dinna tos« your head,
An' set )our beauties a' al'read !
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makia'l
POEMS.
43
Tl.a3 trtnks -dnA Jiiiprr-enrl'), I dread,
Arc notice takiu' !
O wad .•iome power tlie giftie gie us
To see oiirsels as ol/wrs see us !
It wad fr.ic inonic a hliiiidcr free us,
And foolish notion :
What airs in dress an' pa it wad lea'e us,
And ev'n Devotion !
ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.
I.
Edin.v ! Scotin^s d irlinsj seat !
Ail tiail thy palaces and towers,
Wheie once beneath a monarch's feet
S.it lc;;i«l.iti()n's sovereign pow'rs !
From iiiirkinsj wildiy-scitter'd llow'rs,
As on the l)aiiks of Ayr I stray'd,
And siii'j;iti!^, lone, the hnt^'rin? hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.
II.
Here wealth still swells the golden tide,
As hii*y trade his lahours plies ;
There archirectiire's nol)le pride
Bids elejjaiice and splendiiur rise ;
Here justice, from her native skies.
High wields her balance and her rod;
There learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks science in her cuy abode.
Ill
Thy sons. Edin.v, social, liind.
With o|ien aims the stranger hail ;
Their views enlarged, their liberal luind,
Abi.ve the narrow, rural vale;
Attentive still to sorrow's wail,
Or modest merit's silent claim ;
And never may their soorces fail !
And uever envy blot their name.
IV,
Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn !
fiay as the gilded Mimnitr sky,
Bweet as the dewy milk-white thorn.
Dear as the r.iptiired thrdi of joy !
Fair Dtrnet srrikes tli' adoring eye.
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine :
1 See t\kK sire itf l,,ve on hhih.
And own his work indeed divine !
V.
There, watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough ruile fortre.-s gleams afir ;
Like some liold vetiian. giev m anus,
And iiiiik'd with ni tuv a seamy scar:
The piin'drous wall and massy U.ir,
Grim-rising o'er the i uggeil rock ;
Have oft withstood a>^uding war.
And oft repell'd the invader's shock.
VT.
With awe-struck thought, and pitying tearsj
I view that noble, stately di r.ie,
Where Scotia's kings of other years.
Famed heroes, had theu royal home.
Alas ! how changed the times to come '
Their royal name low in the dust !
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roata !
Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just !
VII.
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors in days of yore.
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
Old Scotiii's bloody lion bore •
E'en /who sing in rustic lore,
Haply mi/ sires have \i'^^. Cr.wr shed,
And faced grim danger's loudest roar.
Bold-following where yaur fathers led 1
VTII.
EniNA ! Scotia's darling seat !
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs.
Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs !
From maiking wiliilv-scatter'd flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ai/r I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,
I shelter'd in thv honour'd shade.
EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK,
AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL 1 St, I7S5
While briers an' woodbines building gretn,
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,
An' niurning poussie whiddin seen.
Inspire my muse,
This freedom in an unknown frien'
I pray excuse.
On fasten-een we had a rockin'
To ra' the crack and weave our stockia ;
And there was muckle fun and jokin'.
Ye need na doubt :
At length we had a hearty yokin'
At sang about.
There was ae sang amang the rest,
.\boou them a' it pleased me best.
That some kind husband had addicst
To some sweet wife :
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the Lriai^
A to the life.
I've scarce heard ought described sae weel,
What gen'ruus, maiiiy bosoms feel ;
Thought I, ' Can this be Pope, or Steele,
iie Heattie's wark ?*
They tald me 'twas an oild kind chiel
Al)out JJiiirkirk.
It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't.
And sae about hiiu there I s;)icrt,
ti
BURNS' WORKS.
ITien a' that keu't him round declarea
lie had inr/ine,
That nane excell'd it few cam r.eai't,
It was sae fine.
That set him to a pint of ale,
Au' either dnuce or mciry tale,
Or rhymes au' saiigs he'd made himsel'.
Or wittv catches,
Tween Inverness and Teviotdale,
He had few uiatches
Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,
T'qo' I should pawn my plough an' graith,
Or die a cadger pownie's death,
At some dyke back,
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith
To hear your crack.
But, first an' foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jinyle fell,
Tho' rude and rough,
Yet crooning to a body's sel'
Does weel eneugh.
I am nae pnct, in a sense,
But )ust a rliyiner, hke, by chance.
An' hae to learning nae pretence,
Yet, what the matter ?
Whene'er my muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.
Your critic folk may cock their nose,
And say, ' How can you e'er propose,
You wiia ken hardly verse fiae prose,
To ni.ik a sang ?'
But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're may be wrang
Uliat's a' your jargon o' your schools,
/our Latin names for horns an stools ;
If honest nature made you //o/.s.
What saii»* your grammars?
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Or kuappin-hammers.
A set o' dull conceited hashes,
Confuse their brains in college classes !
They (/a?t</ in stirks, and come nut asses.
Plain truth to speak ;
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek !
Gie me ae spark o' Nature'ii fire !
Th:it's a' the learning I desire ;
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an* mire
At ])leugh or cart.
My muEC, though hanrcly in attire,
May tuucl; the heart.
O for a spunk o* AlUui's glee,
Or Fer<insim's, the lijuld and slee.
Or bright Z,<ijfaik's. my iVietid to be,
If I can hit it ' I
That would be lear eneugh for me ?
If I could get it.
Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve are few,
Yet, if your catalogue be fou,
I'se no insist.
Bat gif ye want ae friend that's true,
I'm on. your list.
I winna bliw lirout mysel ;
As ill I like my faults to tell ;
But friends, and folk that wish me well,
They sometimes roose me
Tho' I maun own, as nionie still
As far abuse me.
Tliere's ae wee f ant they whyles lay to me,
I like the lasses — Guid forgie me !
For monie a plaek they wheedle frae nie.
At dance or fair ;
Alay be some itlier thing they gie me
They weel can spare.
But UfaiiMine race, or Mavchline fair,
I should be proud to meet you there ;
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care,
If we foigather,
An' hae a swap o' rhyming-ware
Wi' aue anither
The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter,
An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water ;
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter.
To cheer our heart ;
An' faith we'se be acquainted bettei
Before we part.
Awa ye selfish warly race,
Wha think that bavins, sense, an' grace,
Ev'n love and friendship, should give ])lace
To catch the plack !
I dinna like to see your face,
Is'or hear your crack.
But ye whom social pleasure charms.
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warm).,
Who hola your being on the terms,
' Each aid the othere,'
Come to my bowl, come to my wrms,
My frienuB, my brother* .
But, to conclude my lang epistle.
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ;
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle.
Who am, most fervent.
While I can either sing, or whissle.
Your friend and servant
PuEMS.
4^
TO THE SAME.
APRIL 21, IT^S.
Wirn E new-ca'il ky« rout at the stake,
An' [Knvnifs rock in pleiigli or lirake,
This hour on e'cnin's e<igc' I take,
To own I'm debtor
to honcst-Iieai'tcd aiild Lit/raik
For his kind letter.
Forje-ket sair, with weary legs,
Ratthii' the corn oiit-owre the rigs,
Or dealing thro' anians; tlie nai^s
Thfir ten hours bite,
My awkart muse sair pleads and Legs,
I would na write.
The tajjctless ramfeczl'd hizzle.
She's salt at best, and something lazy.
Quo' sLii. • Ye ken, we've been sae busy.
This month an' mair,
That trouth my head is grown right dizzie,
An' something sair.*
Ilcr dowIT excuses pat me mad ;
' Conscience,' says I, ' ye thowless jad !
I'll write, au' that a hearty blaud.
This vera night ;
So dinna ye affront your trade,
liut rhyme it right.
' Shall baiild Lapraik, the king o' hearts,
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes,
Iloose yi u sae weel for your deserts,
In terms sae friendly,
ifet ye'U neglect to shaw your parts,
An' thank him kindly !'
Sae I gat paper in a blink,
An' down gaed stunipie 'm the ink:
Quoth I, ' Before I sleep a wink,
I vow I'll close it;
An' if ye winna mak' it clltd<.
By Jove I'll prose it!'
Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither.
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither,
Let time mak proof;
But I shall scribble down some blether
Just cleao aff loof.
My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp
Tho' fortune use you hard an' shaip ;
Come, kittle up your mnnrland harp
Wi' glees'ime touch !
Ne'er mind how Fortune icaft and warp ;
She's but a b-tch.
She's gien me inonie a jirt and fleg.
Sin I could striddle owre a rig ;
Bu^ by the L — d, tho' I should beg,
Wi' lyart Jiow,
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg.
As laiig's I dow '
Now comes the sax and twentieth simaiei,
I've seen the bud u|)o' the timir.er,
Still persecuted by the limmer,
I'^ae year to yccr ;
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,
I, liiib, am here
Do ye envy the city Gettt,
Rehint a ki^t to lie ;uid sklent.
Or purse-proud, big wi" cent. u<t cent.
And muclde waiae,
In some bit brugh to represent
A liii'.lits name ?
Or is't the paughty feudal tliane,
Wi' ruffleil sark and glancin' cane,
Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks.
While caps an' bonnets aff are taen,
As by he walks ?
' O Thou wha gies us each guid gift !
Gie ine o' wit and sense a lift.
Then turn me, if Tudu please, adrift
Thro' Scotland wide <
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift.
In a' their pride !'
Were this the charter of our state,
* On ))ain o' hell be rich and great,'
Damnation then would be our fate.
Beyond lemead ;
But, thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the ga^
Me learn our creed.
For thus the royal mandate ran,
MTien first the human race began,
' The social, friendly, hone>t man,
Whate'er he i;e,
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's j.htn.
An' none but lie P
O mandate glorious and divine !
The ragged followers o' the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet miy sliine
In glorious ii'^lit.
While sordid sons of Mammon's line
Ai-e dark as night.
TIto' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' (jrowl,
Their worthless nievefu' o' a soul
May in some future carcase howl
The forest's fright ;
Or in some day>dctesting owl
May shun the light
Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native, kindred skies.
And i/«// their jileasures, hopes, and joys,
In some mild sphere.
Still closer knit in fricn(lshi|)'s ties,
Each pas^sing year.
16 BURNS'
WORKS.
TO \V. S N,
We'll gir our streams ann Lurnies sltine
Up wi' the best.
OCHILTREE.
We'll sing auld Collars plains au' fells,
May 1785.
He- moors red- brown wi' heather bells.
I GAT your letter, winsome Willie :
Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells,
Wi' Ejratefu' heait I thank you brawlie ;
W^here glorious Wallact
Tho' I uuiun siiy't, I wad be silly,
Aft bure the gree, as story tells.
An' unco vain,
Frae southern billies.
Should I believe, my coasLn' billie,
Your fiat-teiin' strala.
At Wallace^ name what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring- tide flood !
But I'se believe ye kindly meant it.
Oft have our fearless fathers strode
I sud be laith to think ye hinted
By Wallace' side,
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented
Still pressing onward, red-wat shod.
On my poor musie ;
Or glorious died.
Tho' in kIc phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it,
I scarce excuse ye.
0 sweet are Coila s haughs an' woods,
When lintwhites chant among the buds,
My senses wad be iu a creel,
An' jinkin hares, in amorous whids.
Should I but dare a hope to sneel,
Their loves enjoy.
Wi' Allan or wi' Gilbertfidd,
While thro' the braes the cushat crooda
The braes of fame ;
With wailfu' cry !
Or Ferguson, the writer chiel.
A deathless name.
Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me
When winds rave thro' the naked tree;
(0 Ferguson ! thy glorious parts
Or frost on hills of Ochiltree
Ifl suited law's dry, musty arts !
Are hoary grey ;
My curse upon your whunstane hearts,
Or blindmg drifts wild-furious flee.
Ye E'librugh Gentry !
Dark'ning the day !
The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes.
Wad stow'd his pantry !)
O Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms !
Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
Whetlier the summer kindly warms
■
Or lasses gie my heart a screed.
Wi' life an' light,
As whyies they're like to be my dead,
Or winter howls, in gusty storms,
(0 sad disease !)
The lang, dark night 5
T kittle up my rustic reed ;
It gies me ease.
The Muse, rae poet ever fand her,
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander.
Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain,
Adown some trotting burn's meander,
She's gotten poets o' her ain,
An' no think lang ;
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain.
0 sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder
But tune their lays.
A heartfelt sang !
Till echoes a' resound again
Her weel-sung praise.
The warly race may drudge and drive,
Kog-shouther. jiiudie, stietch, an' strive,
Nae poet thought her worth his while,
Let me fair Nature's face descrive.
To set her name in measured style ;
And I, wi' pleasure.
She lay like some unkenned of isle
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive
Bes'.dc New- Holland,
Bum o'er their treasure*
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil
Besouth Magellan.
Farewcel, ' my rhyme-composing britherl
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither :
Rmnsaij an' famous Ferguson
Now let us lay our heads thegithcr,
Gici Forth an' Tag a lift aboon ;
In love fraternal :
Yarrow an' Tweed to nionie a tunc,
May Envy wallop in a tethir.
Owre Scotland rings.
Black Oend, iafemkl !
Whil? Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, on' Doon,
Kae body sings.
Whiic I',igli!andmpn hate tolls and taxes ;
While moorian' herds like guid fat braxie« ;
Th' Jllssus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine,
While ten a fiima on her axis
Gliile sweet in monie a tunefu' line !
Diurnal turns,
But, Willie, set your fit to mine,
Count OQ a friead. in faith and practice.
An" cock your crctt,
Ik Hubert Burns.
POEMS.
47
POSTSCRIPT.
Mr memory's no worth a prees j
I hud aniai^t f;)ri;()ttoa dean,
Ye bade me write you what they mean
Hy this neio-liglit, *
Bout which our herds sae aft hae been
Maist Hke to fight.
In days when mankind were but callaus
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents,
They took nae [isius their speech to balance,
Or rules to gi'e,
But spak their thoucihts in plain braid lallans,
Like you or me.
In thae au.d times, they thought the mooru,
Inst like a sark, or pair o* shoon,
Wore by degrees, til! her last roon,
Gaed past their viewing,
An* shortly after she was done,
They gat a new ane.
This past for certain, undisputed ;
It ni'er cam i' thei.- heads to doubt it,
Tdl chiels gat up an' wad confute it.
An* ca*d it wrang ;
An muckle din there was about it,
Baith toud an' lang.
Some herds, weel learn 'd upo* the beuk,
Wad threap auld fulk the thing misteuk ;
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk,
An* out o' sight.
An' backlins-comin', to the leuk,
She grew Dcair bright
This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ;
The herds and kissels were alarm'd ;
The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd an' storra'd,
That beardless laddies
Should think they better were inform'd
Than their auld daddies,
Frae less to tnair it gaed to sticks ;
Frae words an' aith» to clours an' nicks j
An' nionie a fiUow gat bis licks,
Wi' hearty crunt ;
An' some, to learn them for tlieir tricks,
Were hang'd an' biunt.
This g:^me was play'd in monie lands.
An avld-Uylit caddies bure sic hands,
That faith, the youngsters took the sands,
Wi' nimble shanks,
Till lairds forbade, by strict comraamls.
Sic bluidy pranks.
But new-light herds gat sic a cowt.
Folk thou<;iit theni ruin'd stick-an'-stowe.
Till now aiziist on cv'ry knowe,
Ye'll find ane plac'd ;
An' some, theii new-light fair avow,
Just quite burefac'd.
Nae doubt the auld-Ught fluchs are bleatis' j
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' ;
AJysel, I've even seen them greetin"
W'V girnin' s])ite.
To hear the moon sae sadly He'd on
By word an' write.
But shortly they will cowe the louns !
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,
To ta'k' a flight.
An' stay a month amang the moons
An' se« them right.
Guid observation they will gie them ;
An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e then,
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' theoi,
Just i' their pouch.
An* when the new-light billies see them,
1 think they'll crouch !
Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter
Is naething but a ' moonshine matter;*
But tho' dall prose- folk Latin splatter
In logic tuhie,
I hope, we bardies ken some better
Than mind sic brulzie.
• See Note, p. 11
EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE.
ENCLOSING SOME I'OEMS.
O ROUOH, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale o' cocks for fun and diinkin' !
There's mony godly folks are thiukin'.
Your dreams * an* trickj
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin'.
Straight to auid Nick'».
Ye ha'e sae monie cracks an' cants
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye mak' a devil o' the saunts,
An' fill them fou ;
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,
Are a' scon thru'.
Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it !
That lioly robe, O dinna tear it !
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it.
The lads in blach !
But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives't aff their back.
Think, wicked sinner, wha ye' re skaithing
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing
O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naethicg
To ken them bv,
. • A certain humorous dream cf his was then n»Jf
ing a noise in the country-eide.
€8
BURNS WORKS
Frae ony unrcgencrate ncathen
Like yuu or I.
I've sent you Tiere snine rhyinii::g ware,
A that I bargainM for an' inair ;
Sae, when you hae ;in hour to spare,
I will expect
Yon sanff,* ye'll sen't \vi' eunnie care.
And no neglect.
Tho' faith, sma' heart liae I to sin;^ !
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing !
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring.
An' diinc'd my fill !
I'd better gaea and eair'd the king
At Bunkers Hill.
*Twas ae night lately in my fun,
I gaed a roving wi' t!ie gun.
An' brought a paitriek to the grun, '
A bonnie hen,
And, as the twilight w".s begun,
T'nought nane wad ken.
Tlie poor wee thing wks Tttle huit ;
I straikit it a v/ee for sjwrt.
Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't ;
B-.it, deii-ma care I
Somebody tells the pmicfier-roiirt
The hale affair.
Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note.
That sic a hen had got a shut ;
I was suspected for the plot ;
1 scorn 'd to lie ;
So gat the whiasle o' my groat,
Aa' pay't the fee.
But, }>y my gun, o' guns the wale,
An' by my pouther an' my hail.
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,
I vow an' swear !
The game shall pay o'er moor aa' dale,
For this, niest year.
As soon's the clorkin' time is by,
An' the woe pouts begun to cry,
L — d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by.
For my gnwd guinea :
Tho' I should herd the hnckskiii kye
For't, in Virginia.
Trowth, they had meikle for to blame !
'Twas neitlier broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps about the wame,
Scarce thro' the fes'Aero ;
\n' biitli a yellow George to claim,
An' tliule their blethers !
It ](its nie aye as mad's a hare ;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair.
But jientit/wort/is again is fair,
When time's expedient :
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,
Your most obedient.
• A icr:ig he had i)romiiie<l the Author.
WRITTEN IN
FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE*
OM NITH-SIDE.
Thou whom chance may hither lead,
Be tlum clad in russet weed.
Be thou deckt in silken stole.
Grave these counsels on tliy soul.
Life is but a day at most.
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ;
IIo])e not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lour.
As youth and love with sprightly dancs,
Beneath thy morning star advance,
Pleasure with her siren air
May deluile the thoughtless pair;
Let prudence bless enjoyment's rup.
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.
As thy day grows warm and Lig'n,
Life's meridian flaming riigh,
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ?
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale ?
Check thy climbing ste]), elate,
Kvi's lurk in felon wait :
Dangers, e.igle-pinion'd, bold,
Soar around each cliffy hohl,
While cheerful peace, with linnet song,
Chants the lowly dells among.
As the shades of ev'ning close,
Beck'ning thee to long repose:
As life it>e!f becomes disease.
Seek the ehimney-ncuk of ease,
There ruminate with sober thought.
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrougi
And teach the sportive younker's routid,
Saws of experience, sage and sound.
Say, man's true, genuine estiniats,
The g^and criterion of bis fate.
Is not, Art thou high or low ?
Did thy fortune ebb or flow?
Did many talents gild thy span ?
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ?
Tell them, and press it on their raind^
As thou thyself must shortly find.
The smile or frcrrn of ^wfu! Hea?'^,
To virtue or to vice !» iiv'n.
^l-AV, to be just, and kind, and wise,
There solid self-enjoyment lies ;
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways.
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base.
Thus resign'd and quiet, creep
To the bed of lasting sleep ;
Sleep, whence tliou shalt ne'er awake..
Night, where dawn shall never breaa^
Till future life, future no more,
To light and joy the good restore,
To light and joy unknown before.
POEMS.
49
Stranf;or, po ! Iloav'n ho tliy jjuiilc^
Qtiod t'lf bt'uilsiiiaii (if Nitli-siile.
ODE,
SACRED TO THE MKMOKY OK MRS. OK
DvvF.i.i.Kii in ynti (liiiifrt'on dark,
}laii;;man of cro itiim ! iiiatk
Wiio ill widow-M-ocds aiPijears,
LadiMi with iiiihonomi'd years,
>i'i«»in>j; with (Mix- a. hurstinsj purse,
Halted with many a deadly cuisl' I
STKOI'IIE.
View the witherM lielil.itii's face —
Can thy keen iiispe'/tioii trace
Aiiylit of hinnaiilty's sweet melting gract?
Not that eye, 'tis rluMmi o'erflows,
Pity's flood there never rose
See tluise hand>, ne'er stretch 'd to save.
Hands that took — hut never iiave.
Kee])er of .Mauunon's iron chest,
Lo, there she goes, uiipitied. and imhiest ;
She i^oes. hut not to realms of everli-.ting rest !
ASTISTIIOPIIE.
I'iunderer of armies, lift thine eyes,
(A vliil'i <orbear, ye tort'rini.' fieni!s\
Sees- thou wnose sre]) unwi.iing nirner necjs ?
No '"alien angel, hurl'd from uj);)er skies ;
Ti>. thv trusty rjuntidinn mute,
Dtiom'd to share thy fiery fate,
Slie, tardy, hell-ward plies.
EPODE.
And are they of no more avail.
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-ycar ?
In other worlds can Mannnon fail,
Omnipotent as lie is here ?
O, hitter mock'ry of the jioriipous bier,
Wiiile down the wretched vitul part is driv'n !
Tlic cave-lodg'd heggar, with a conscience clear,
Eapires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'u.
ELEGY
ON
CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON,
A CENTI.F.MAV WHO MFI.n TIIK PATENT FOR
HIS IIOSOIII'.S IMMKn'AXtLV FROM A I.-
SlIGHTy GOD !
But now his raitiant course Is run,
ror Matlliew's coiiric w.is brif^ht;
His soul was like the );lnrioiis sun,
A matchless, ilea\''iiiy lifjlil!
0 Death ! ;l.;.u tyrant fell and bloody;
T";* meikle devil wi a woodie
Haul 1 thee liame to his lilack smiddie.
O'er liiircheon hideOy
And like stock-fish come o'er his stinldie
Wi' thv auld sides !
He's gane, lie's gaiie ! he's frac us tore,
The ae best fcliiiw e'er was horn !
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sd >hall mourn
I5y wood and wild,
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn,
Frae man exil'd.
Ye hills, near ncebors o' the Jtarns,
That proudly cock voiir cresting cairns !
Ye clilis, the luuiits of sailing yearns.
Where echo slumbers f
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest h.iiins,
My wailing numl>ers;
Mourn ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz'llv shaws and briery dens !
Ye hurnies, wimplin down your glens,
Wi' toddlin' din.
Or foaming Strang, wi' liasty stens,
Frae lln to hn.
Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ;
Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see;
Ye Woodbines, hanging Ixmnllie
In scented bow're ;
Ye roses on your thorny tiec.
The first o' pKiw'rs.
At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blad"
Droops with a diamond at his head.
At ev'n, when beans their fragiance shrd
I' th' rustling gale,
Ye maukins whiddin thio' the glade,
Come join my waiL
Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ;
Ye grouse that crap the heather biul ;
Ye curlews calling thru' a cliid ;
Ye whistling ])lover ;
And mourn, ye whirring paitiick brood ;
He's gane for ever !
Mourn, sooty coots, and sjteckled teals;
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ;
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels
Circling the lake ;
Ye bitterns, till the (piagmire reels,
Uair for his sake.
iMourn, clam'ring cralks at cKiso o' dayi
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ;
And when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,
Tell thac far v.'iulils, wha lies in clay.
Wliani we deplore.
Ye houlets, frae yo'jr ivy bow'r.
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r,
What time the moon, wi' silent glow r.
Sets up her horn.
1
&0 BURNS
WORKS
Wall tLro' the dreary midnight hour
Here lies u ha wetl had ron thy prait*.
Till waukrile morn !
For Matthew was a bright man
O rivers, fDrcsts, hll's, and plains !
If thou at friendship's sacred ca',
Oft nave jv heard my cauty strains :
Vi'ad life itself resign, man :
But now, what else for me reraairis
Thy sympathetic tear maun f&'.
But t^iles of woe ;
For iMatthew was a kind man.
An' frae my een the drappin^ rains
Maun ever flow.
If thou art staunch without a stain.
Like the unchanging blue, man ;
Mourn, sprinj, thou darlings of the year !
This was a kinsman o' thy ain.
Ilk cowslip cu]) shall kep a tear:
For IMatthew was a true man.
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its iiead,
If thon hast wit, and fun, an<l fire,
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear.
And ne er guid wine did fear, man ,
For hira that's dead .
This was thy billie, dam, and sire.
For IMatthew was a queer man.
Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear !
If ony whiggish whingin sot.
Thou, winter, hurlinq: thro' the air
To blame poor Matthew dare, man
The roaring blast,
Jlay dool and sorrov/ be his lot,
Wide o'er the naked world declare
For IMatthew was a rare man.
The worlh we've lost I
Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light !
Mourn, empress of the silent night !
And you, ye twinklin? starnies bright,
LAMENT OF MARY QUEFS
My Matthew mourn !
OF SCOTS,
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight.
Ne'er to return.
ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.
O Henderson ! the man, the brother !
Now Nature hangs her mantle green
And art thou gone, and gone for ever !
On every blooming tree.
And hast thou cross'd that unknown river.
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Life's dreary l)ound !
Out o'er the grxssy lea :
Like thee, where shall I find another,
Now Phcehus cheers the crystal streams,
The world around !
And glads the azure skies ;
But nought can glad the weary wight
Go to your scnlptur'd tombs, ye Great,
That fast in durance hcs.
In a' the tinsel trash o' state !
But by the honest turf I'll wait,
No^v lav'rocks wake the merry morn.
Thou man of worth !
Aloft on dewy wing ;
And weep the ae best fellow's fate
E'er lay in earth
The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
M ikes woodland echoes rino; ;
The mavis mild wi' many a note.
Sings drowsy day to rest :
In love and freedom they rejoice,
THE EPITAPH.
Wi' caie nor thrall o])i)rest.
Stot, passenger ! my story's In lef
Now blooms the lily by the hank.
And truth I shall relate, man :
The primiose down the brae ;
I tell nae common tale o' grief.
The hawthoi n's budding in the gleu
For Matthew was a great man.
And milk-white is the slae :
The meanest hind in fair Scotlani,
If thou uncommon merit hast.
May rove their sweets auiang ;
Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; ;
Ihit 1, the Queen of a' Scotland,
A look of pity hither cast,
Maun lie in prison Strang.
For JVhitthew was a jxior man.
I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
If tliou a ni.ble sodger art.
V.'here lia])jiy I hne been ;
'Mi.it p.isvi'st by this grave, man ;
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn,
Tlirie iiiiiuldcrs here a gallant heart,
As blithe lay down at e'en :
For Ahittliew was a bt ive man.
And I'm the sovereign of Scotlaoi?,
And mony a traitor ther** •
> If thou on men, their works and ways^
Yet here I lie in foreiij^n bands,
Canst throw uncommon light, man ,
And never ending care.
J
POEMS.
But as for tlu-e, thru f.ilse woman.
My sifter and my fae,
GiinJ von'^eance, yet, shall whet a sword
Tliat thio' thy soul shall ijae :
The \vi'i'|)ing olood in woman's breast
Was never known to thee ;
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe
Frae woman's pitying e'e.
Mv son ! my son ! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine ;
An<l may those pleasures gild thy reign,
That neer wad blink on mine !
Goil keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
Or turn tlieir hearts to thee ;
And where thou nieet"st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me I
O ! soon, to me, mav svimmer-suas
Nae mair light up the morn !
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn !
And in the narrow house o' death
Let wmter round me rave ;
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring,
Bloom on my peaceful grave.
TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq.
OF FINTRA.
Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg,
Al)out to bog a pass for leave to heg ;
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejeited, and deprest,
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest^ ;
Will generous Graham list to his jioet's wail ?
(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her
tale),
And hear him curse the light he first survey 'd,
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ?
Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ;
Of thy capr-ce maternal I complain.
The lion and the bull thy care have found,
One shakes the forest, and one spurns the
ground :
rhou giv'st the ass his hide, the snoil his shell,
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell.
Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour,
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. —
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ;
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ;
Toads with their poison, doctors with their
<hug, [snug.
The priest and hedge-hog, in their robes are
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, [dart*.
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and
But 0\ ! thou bitter step-mother and hard.
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard !
A thing unteachable in world's skill,
And half an idiot too, more helpless still.
No heels to bear him from the opening dun
No claws to dig, his hated siglit to shun ;
No horns, hut those by luckless Hymerj woru,
.\nd thiise, alas! not .\matthea's horn :
No tierves olfactory, Mammon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur,
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
■Jlii bears tli* ii'ibroken blast from every side:
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.
Critics — appall'd, I venture on the name,
Those cut-thro It bandits in the paths of fame;
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten .Monn)es ;
He hacks to teach, they mangle to e.\pose.
His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung.
By l)!ockheads' diriiig into madness stuiig ;
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear.
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must
wear ;
Foil'd, bleeiling, tortur'd. in the unequal strife
The hapless poei floimders on through life,
Till II m1 each hope tiiat once his bosom fired,
.And tied eich muse that glorious once inspired.
Low sunk in squalid, unptotected age,
Dead, even resentment, for his injured page,
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's
rage !
So, by some hedge, the generous steed de-
ceased,
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast;
By toil and fimine wore to skin and bone.
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son.
0 dulnes-; ! poi tion of the truly blest !
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest !
Thy sons ne'er ma<iden in the fierce extremes
Of fortune's polar fro-t, or torrid beams.
If mantling high she fills the golden cup,
With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; [serve.
Conscious the bounteous meed they well de-
They only wonder ' some folks' do not starve.
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,
.Aiid thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.
Wlien (lis appointment snips the clue of hope,
.•\iid thro' di-a^truus night tliey darkling grope,
With deaf endurance sluggi^hly they bear,
.\nd jjist conclude ' that fouls are fortune's KVe.'
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,
Strong on the sign- post stands the stupid ox.
No' so the idle muses' mad-cap train.
Not such the workings of their moon-struck
brain ;
In eauanimity they never dwell,
By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell.
1 dread thee, fate, relentless and severe.
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear;
Already one strong hold of hope is lost,
Glc!iC(tir7i, the truly noble, lies in dust ;
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noun appears,
And left us darkling in a world of tears) :
O ! he.ir ii,y ardent, grateful, selfish prav'rl
Fintra, my other stay, long bless anil spare !
..
>2 BURNS'
WORKS.
Hirn' a long life his hopes aid wislies crown,
" Awake thy last sad voice, my harj !
\n(l briifht in clouiilt'ss skies liis sun go down !
The voice of woe and wild despair !
Uay bliss domestic sniootii his privute path ;
Aivake, resound thy latest iay.
Give enersry to life; and soothe his latest breath,
Then sleep in silence evermair !
ft'ith nianv a filial tear circling the bed ol'
And thou, my last, best, only frienu,
death !
That fillest an untimely tomb,
Accept this tribute from the bard
Thou brought from fortune's mirkest glooa
LAMENT FOR JAMES EARL
OF GLENCAIRN.
" In poverty's low barren vale.
Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ;
The wind Mew hollow frae the hills,
Tho' oft I turn'd the wistful eye.
By fits the sun's departing beam
Nae ray of fame was to be found :
Look'd on the fadinc^ yellow woods
Thnu found'st me like the morning sun
That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream :
That melts the fogs in limpid air.
Beneath a craigy steep, a bani,
The friendless bard and rustic song,
Laden with years and nieikle pain,
Became alike thy fo-tering cai-e.
[n loud lament bewail'd his lord,
Whom death had ail untimely ta'en.
" 0 ! why has worth so short a date ?
While villains ripen grey with time !
lie lean'd him to an ancient aik,
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great,
Whose trunk was niould'ring down with
Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime !
y«ars ;
Wliy did I live to see that day?
His locks were bleached white wi* time,
A day to me so full of woe !
His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears !
0 ! had I met the mortal shaft
And as he touch'd his trembling harp.
Which laid my benefactor low !
And as he tun'd his doleful sang.
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
" The bridegroom may forget the bride
To echo bore the notes alang.
Was made his wedded wife yestreen ;
The monarch may forget the crown
" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing,
That on his head an hour has been ;
The relies of the vernal quire!
The mother may forget the child
V'e woods that shed on a' the winds
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ;
The honours of the ai'ed year !
But I'll remend)er thee, Glencairn,
A few short months, and glad and gav.
And a' that thou hast done for me I"
Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ;
But nocht in all revolving time
Can "lad.uess brin-.^ airain to me.
D O i5
LINES,
" I am a bending aged tree.
SENT TO SIR JOTIN WIIITEFORD, OF WHITEFORB,
That long has stood the wind and rain ;
BAUT. WITH THE lOKEGOING POEM.
But now lijs come a Ci uel Mast,
And my last hald of earth is gane :
Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st.
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the sjiring.
Who, save thy mind's rcprtxich, nought earthlj
Nae simmer sun esalt my bloom ;
fear'st,
But I maun lie before tiie storm.
To thee this votive offeiing I impart.
And ithers plant them in my room.
" The tearful tribute of a broken heart."
The friend thou vahied'st, I the patron lov'd ;
" I've seen sac mony changefu' years,
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd.
On earth I am a strai-.ger grown ;
We'll nu)urn till we too go as he is gone,
I wander in the waw of men,
And tread the dreary path to that dark wsnd
.\like unkiu)wing and unknown ;
unknown.
Unheard, im]>itied, unrelieved,
I bear alane my laile o' care.
.""or silent, hiw, on beds of dust.
Lie a' that would my sorrows sharek
TAM 0' SHANTER:
" And last, (the sum of a' my griefs).'
A TALE.
My noble master lies in cl.iy ;
llie flow'r auiatig our barons bold,
His country's pride, his country's stay:
111 weary being now I pine.
For a' the life of life is <iend,
Of Crownyis .iml of Uogihs full is tills Hi kc.
And iiope has left my aged ken.
When chapman billies leave the street,
On forward wing for ever fled.
Ami drouthy necbors, -actbors meet.
1
POEMS. 5S
Aj martiet-d.iys arc woariiij; late,
Or like tlic borcalis race,
All' folk bi'gin to tak tlic ijate ;
That flit ere you can point tlieir place;
Wliile ue sit Ixiusiiifi; at the nappy,
Or like the r.iiiihow's lovelv form
An' j^'ottiii' I'ou am! uiii'o li:ippy.
Kvanishing amid the storm
\Vf tliink na on the lin;^ Sints miles.
Nae man can tether time or tide ;
The mosses, waters, slaps, ami stik's,
The hour apiuoiches Tarn maun ride ;
That lie between us ami <iur hanie,
That hour, o' nij;ht's biack arch the key-»Mna,
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
Gathering her lirciws like gathering stoim,
And sic a night he taks the road in,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
.■^s ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
This truth fanii honest Tain o' Shaiitcr,
The wind blew as 'f.vad blawn its last ;
As he frae Ayr ae nij;ht did cinter.
The rattliii' showers rose on the blast :
(Aulil Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ;
For houest men aud bonny lasses).
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd ;
That ni^ht, a child might understand.
O Tarn ! had'st thou but been sae wise.
The deil had business oii his hand.
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
Weel monnteil on his grey mare, Meg^
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ;
A better never lifted leg —
That Crae Novcndier tiii October,
Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Ae market-day tliou was na sober ;
Despising wind, and rain, and lire ;
That ilka meliler, wi' the miller,
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet;
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ;
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
Whiles glow'riiig round wi' prudeut cares,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ;
Lest bogles catch him unawares ;
That at the I — d's house, ev'n on Sundav,
kirk-Allowat/ was drawing nigh.
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till .Monday.
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry —
She prophesy 'd, that late or soon.
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ;
By this time he was cross the ford.
Or cateh'd wi' warlocks in t'le mirk,
Whaie in the sn iw the chapman smoor'd ;
By AUvway's auld haunted knk.
And past the biiks and meikle stanc.
Whare drunken Cliailie bnk 's neck-bane;
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
And thro' the whins, aud by the cali'n.
To think how mony counsels sweet,
Wliare hunters fand the muider'd bairn;
How nic.ny kngthen'd sage advices,
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
The husband frae the wife despises !
Whare Mantid's niither hanged hersel.—
1
F?efore him Do n pours all his floo<is ;
But to our tale : Ae market night,
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
Tarn had got planted unco right ;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely.
Near and more near the thunders roll ;
V'i' reaming swats, that drank divinely ;
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
.\nd at his elbow, soiiter Johnny,
Kirh-Alloicit'j seem'd in a bleeze ;
His ancient, trusty, droiithy crony ;
Thro' ilka bore the beams were alancinsr.
Tarn lo'ed him like a vera hrither ;
And loud resounded mirth and dancing—
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ;
Inspirinjf bold Ji.hn Jiarleycorn !
And aye the ale was growing better :
What dangers thou canst make us scorn !
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious,
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ;
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious ;
Wi' uscpiebae we'll fu'e the devil
The souter taulil his queerest stories ;
The swats sae ream'd in Tanimits noddlt.
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus :
Fair play, he cared n a deils a boddle.
The storm without might rair and rustle.
But Mnyri'te stood right sair astouish'd.
Tain did na mind the storm a whistle.
Fill, by the heel and hand adnionish'd,
She ventured forward on the light ;
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
And, vow ! Titm saw an unco sight I
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ;
Warlocks and witches in a dance ;
As l)ees flee hame wi' lades o' treasuie.
Nae cotillion brent new frae France,
The minutes wiii.;'d their way wi' pleasure:
Hut hornpipes, jigs, str.ithspcys, and reels,
Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious,
I'ut life anil mettle m their heel.i.
•J'er a' the ills o' life victorious !
A winiiock-bunker in the east.
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ;
But pleasures are like poppies spread.
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
Von seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed !
To gie them niu^ic was his charge :
Or like the snow-falls in the river.
He si-rew'il his pipes and gart them skirL
\ moment wil■^J' — then melt- for ever;
L_ \
Till roof and rafters a' did dlrL— •
b*
BURNS' WORKS.
Coflins stnnd rnund like open presses.
That sliawM tliy <leail in their list dresses ;
And liy some devilish cantrip siip;ht,
Each in its cauld h;md held a light, —
By which heroic Tarn was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ;
Twa span-lang, wee, unehristen'd bairus :
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last g isp his gab did gape ;
Five tomahawks, wi' bliide rcd-riisted ;
Five sevmltars wi' murder crusted ;
A garter, which a babe had strangled ;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled^
Whom his ain son o' life bereft.
The grey hairs vet stack to the heft ;
V/i' niair o' hoirible and awfu'
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.
As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fist and furious :
The piper loud and louder blew ;
The dancers quick and quicker flew ;
Thev reel'd, thev set, they cross'd, tl-.ey cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and leekit.
And ciiost her duddies to the wark,
And linket at it in her sark !
^mv Tarn, O Tnm ! had they been queans
A' plump an' strapping, in their teens ;
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,
Been snaw- white seventeen hnniler bnen '
Thir breeks o' mine, my (miy pair,
That ance were plush, o' giiid blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them aff my luirdies !
For ae blink o' tiie bonnie burdi-es !
B\it witberM beldams, auld and droll,
Rig wood ie hags wad spean a foal,
Low|)iiig and flinging on a crunimock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.
But Turn kenn'd what was what fu' brawlle,
There was ae winsume wenidi and walie,
That niijlit enl sted in the core,
(Lang after kenn'd on Currick shore !
For mony a heust to dead she shot,
And perlsh'd niony a bonnie boat.
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the countty side in fear),
Her cutty-sarii, o' Paisley ham,
That whi'e a Ijssie she had worn.
In longitude though sorely scanty.
It was her best, and she w^'S vauntie. — •
Ah ! little kenn'rl thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nwinic,
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('tw.is a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches !
Hut nere my muse her wing matin cour ;
fs'r llit^ht-* are l.ir beyond her pow'r ;
To sing how I\'ii7iiiii- lap and H irig,
(A souplt? i irle she was and Strang)
And how Tiim stooil, like uiie bewitch 'd,
Knd thought his Very een enricli'd •
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and maia .
Till first ae caper, syne anitl.er.
Tarn tint his reason a' thegither.
And roars out. " Weel done, Cutty-sara !
And in an instant all was dark ;
And scarcely had he Maagie rallied,
Wh.en out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees hizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke ;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ;
As eager runs the market crowd.
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud (
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' r.ionie an eldritch screech and hollovr.
Ah, Tarn' Ah, Tarn! thon'll get thy fa'ri*
In hell tl'.ey'll roast thee like a herrin ;
In vain thy Kdte awaits thy comin !
Ktite soon will be a woefu' woman !
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane * of the brig ,
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na crass.
But ere the key-stane she could make.
The fient a tale she had to shake '
For Nannie, far before the rest.
Hard upon noble Maggie prest.
And flew at T(un wi' furious ettle ,
But little wist she Maggie's mettle^
Ae spring brousjlit aff her master hale.
But left behind her ain grey tail :
The carlin claught her by the rump.
And left poor Maggie scaice a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son take heed :
Whene'er to diink you are inclin'd.
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear.
Remember Tain o' S/iantcrs mare.
ON SEEING A WOUNDED
HARE LIMP BY ME,
WHICH A FELLOW HAD J U.ST SHOT AT.
Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous ait.
And blasted be thy murdi'i-ainiing eye :
IMay never pity soothe thee with a sigh.
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart !
Go live, poiM- wanilerer of the wood and field.
The bitter little that of hfe remains :
• It is a •ell known fact, that witches, or any evi"
pri<'its, h.wv no power f() fnlhuv a poor »^'iRht aiiv fir
thcr than tl\e nii.lille of the next ruMiiliiij stream. — It
may l)e proper likewise in menlinn to the heiiiRhlcd
traveller, that wliin he tails in with l'iii.'/f<, wl 4tivei
danijer may li • in his (joiiii; torwatd, tiiere is nm;:S
more hazard in tuniiii)^ Ijack.
POEMS.
5a
No more tlie tliickcniiig lir.ikes and verumt
plains.
To tLce sliall home, or food, or p i-tinie yield.
Seek, inanglod u-rotcli, s:)nie place of wonted
rc'<t,
No nuire of rest, lint now tliy rlyins; bed !
The slu'lteiing rnslu's whistliMg oVr thy head,
The cold i-ai th with thy hlooily bosom prest.
Oft a>i by winding Nllh, 1 mnsinsr wait
T!r' sober eve, or h lil the elu'erf'ul d.nvn,
I'll miss tliee sjiiiitinir o'er the dewy l.iwn,
And curse the ruffiiu's aim, and inuuni thy
hapless fate.
ON A NOISY POLEMIC.
Dki.ow thir stanes lie Jamie's b.mes :
O Death, its my opinion,
Thmi ne'er took ^.UL•h a bletli'rin bitch
Into thy dark doiuinioa !
ADDRESS TO THE SHADE
OF THOMSON,
ON CROWNINT. HIS B'JST AT F.llSAM, ROX-
BUKGUSHIILE, WITH BAVS.
While virgin Spring, by Eden's (lood,
Unfolds iier tenlei- mintle green,
Or pranks the sod in frolic m"od.
Or tuues Eohiin strains between :
\Vliile Summer, witli a matron grace.
Retreats to Drylui. gli's cooling shade,
Yet (,ft, (ielighred. sfops to trace
Tiie progress of the spiky blade ;
While Autumn, I)enefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his aged head,
And sees, with self-approving mind,
liach creature on his bounty feed:
While maniac \Vin;>r rises o'er
The bills whence classii- Yarrow flows,
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar.
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows :
&•) long, sweet Poet of the year.
Shall bloom that wreath thon well hast won ;
While Scotia, wirli exulting t.-ar,
Proclaims that Thomson was her son.
EPITAPHS.
ON A CELEBRATED RULING
ELDER.
Here sok'er John iti death does icep ;
To hi-:l, if he's ij.iiie thither,
8atin, ^le him thy '^lar to keep,
He'll baud it weel thegitjer.
ON WEE JOHNNY.
Uicjacet wee Johnny,
Whoe'er thou art, O re-nler, know.
That death has murder'd Johnny !
An' here his bi.dij lies fu' low
For saul, he ne'er had ony.
FOR THE AUTHOR S FATHER
O YE whose cheek the tear of pitv stains,
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend !
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains.
The tender father and the gen'rous friend.
The pitying heart that felt for human woe ;
The dauntless heart that fear'd no human
pride ;
The friend of man, to vice ahine a foe ;
" For ev'n his failings leaned to virtue'*
side."*
FOR R. A. Esq.
Know thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lov'd, much honjur'd nxxrn
(For none that knew him need he to'd)
A warmer heait death ne'er made cold.
FOR G. H. Esq.
The ])oor man we?ps — heie G n slcep«,
W)om canting wretches blam'd :
But witli audi lis he, where'er he be,
May I be saved or / d f
A BARD'S EPITAPH.
Is tliere a whim-inspired fool,
Owie fast for thought, owre hot for ru'e,
Owj e blate to seek, owre jiroud to snool,
Let him diaw near ;
And owre this grasgy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.
Is there a barti of rustic song.
Who, noteless, steals the crowcFs among,
• Goldsmith.
56
BURNS' WORIvS.
Tbat weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by !
But, with a fratei-feeliiig strong,
Here heave a sigh.
la there a man, whose jurlgment clear,
Cm nthers teai-h the couise to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,
Vild as the wave ;
litre pause — and, through the starting tear,
Survey this grave.
Tlie poor inhabitant below.
Was <)iiiik to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
^nd nofter fume,
But thoughtless follies laid him low.
And stain'd his name !
Reader, attend — whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pule,
Or darkling gru!)S this earthly hole,
In low pursuit ;
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control.
Is wisdom's root.
ON THE LATE
CAPTAIN GROSE'a
PEREGRINATIONS THKO'UOH SCOTLAND, COL-
LECTING THE ANTIUL'ITIES OF THAT K1NGU0.-.L
Heau, Land o' Cakes, and brither Siots,
Fiae Maidenkiik to Johnny Groat's ;
If there's a hole in a' your coats,
I rede you tent it :
A chield's amang you, taking note*.
And, faith, he'll prent it.
If in vnur biunds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,
O' stature short, but genius bright.
That's he, mark weel —
And wow ! he has an unco slight
O' cauk ami keel.
Bv some aiild, houlet-haunted biggin,"
Or kirk, dLsertnl by its liggin.
It's ten to ane ye'll liiid Inm snug in
Some eldritch part,
Wi' deils, they say, L— d safe's ! colleaguin'
At some black art. —
Ilk ghaist that haunts auld hi* or chamer,
Ye gip-ey-gang tluit deal in glamor.
And you die[i -read in hell's black grammar,
W'.iilocks and witcbcs ;
Ye'll qiia];e at his conjuiing hammer,
Ye mlcliiight bitches.
It's tauid h.c was a siidgpr bred.
And ane w,id rather fa'ii than fleil ;
But now be'* quat the sjiurtle blada,
And ilog-skin wall**,
And ta'en the — Afiti'i'inrian trade,
I think they call it.
He has a fouth o' auM nick nackets :
Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets,*
Wdd had the Lothians three in ta.kets,
A towmont guiil :
And parritch pats, and auld sjut-ba.-keta,
Before the Flood.
Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ;
Auld Tubal Cain's tire->hool and fender ;
That which distinguished the gender
C Halaiui's ass ;
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor,
Weel shod wi" brass.
Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg,
The cut of Adam's pliililn-g ;
The knife that uicket Abel's craig.
He'll prove you fully,
It was a faulding jocteleg.
Or lang-kail gullie.—
But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,
Then set him down, and twa or three
Guid fellows wi' hjin ,
And port, O port ! Shine thou a wee.
And then ye'll see him j
Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose !
Thou art a dainty chiel, O (Jiose . —
Whae'er o' thee shall ill su])pose.
They salt misca' thee;
I'd take the rascal bv the nose,
'Wad sav, Shame fa' thee !
• ViJc his Anlin lilies of Scoiliiid.
TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS,
A VJUV YOUNG LADY, WUITTHNON THE BlANl
LEAF OK A BOOK, l-KEsENTZl) lO HER Bl
THE AUTHOR.
Beauttous rose-bud, young and gay,
lilooming on thy early .May,
Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r,
Cliilly shrink in sleety show'r :
Never Boreas* hoary patli,
Never Euru-.' pois'nou> breath,
Never baleful stellar li;;ht->.
Taint thee with untimely blights!
Never, never reptde thiet
Riot on thy virgin leaf!
Nor even Sol too fiercely view
Thy bosuin blushing still with dew '
May'st thou long, sweet crimson gera,
Richly deck thy native stem ;
• ViJo his treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapon*
POEBIS.
6-?
rill •'ome ev'ninsr siilior, csim,
|)Tii]iliiiii; (li'u-^, .uni oiciitliiiii; balm,
W'liilo all aiiHiml till' wiiocll, 111(1 lings,
Ami t'v'iy l:iiil thy I'Mjiiiriii sings;
Tlioii, iiiitiil tile (lii'^t'tiil sound,
Slicd tliy ilyini; hutiDiirs rotiiHl,
Anil ifsiilii ti) |)an'iit eaitli
'1 lit' lovfliot foiiii she u'lt gave birth.
ON RKAIUNO IN A N KUSPA PKR, THE DEATH OF
JOHN M'LEOD, Esq.
BKOTIIr.ll TO A VOIINO I.AnV, A PAKTICULAK
KRIK.M) OKTUl': AUTHOtt's.
Sad tliv talc, tliiui idle page,
And iiii'I'id tliy aianns :
Death tears the liiotiier of her love
From Isabella's arms.
Sivcelly deek'd with pearly dew
The moriiiii;; rii^e iniy liKnv ;
Diit, cdlil siieecsvive nunntide blasts
M.iy lay its beauties low.
Fiiir Oil Isabel 'a's morn
The sun propitious siiiliM ;
But, hmg ere nnoti, succeeding clouds
Suceeeiling hupes beguil'd.
Fate oft tears the bosom i-hords
That nature Hnest sirunjr :
So Isabella's heai t was fonu'd,
And bO that heart was rung.
Dread Oinnipotenee, alone,
Can heal the Wdiirid he gave ;
Can [Point the biinitiil grief-worn eyes
To scenes beyond the grave.
Virtuous blossoms there shall blow.
And fear no withering blast ;
There Isabella's spotless worth
Shall liappy be at last.
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF
BliUAR-WATER.*
TO THE NOLLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.
Mr Lord, I kriov>' ycmr noble ear
^^oe ne'er a-sai|s in vain ;
Endiuhlen'd thus. I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,
ilow saiicy I'hu'biis' sciirchitig beams,
III f.aming suniiner-pride,
• nniar Falls, iy Athole, arecxcerilingly picturesque
snd tjcautii'iil ; bi.i ihcir elU-ci. isinuch mi|iaire(l by lIio
wuit of trees auii shrubs.
Dry-withering, waste niy foaiTiing s^rcanil.
Anil drink my crystal tide
The lightly-jumpin glowrin trouts,
That thro' my waters play.
If, in their random, w.intoii spouts.
They near the margin stray ;
If, hapless chance ! tli.'y linger lang,
I'm scorching up so shallow,
They le left the whitening staiies amixtg.
In gasping death to walow.
Last day I grat, wi' spite and teen,
As poet B came by,
That, to a bard I should be seen,
Wi' half my channel dry :
A jianegyric rhyme, I ween.
Even as I was he slu'i'd me:
But had I in my glory been,
He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.
Ilcro, foaming down the slulvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rio ;
There, high my boiling tin rent smokee,
Wdd-roaring o'er a linn :
Enjoying large each spring and well
As nature gave them me,
I am, although I say't mysel.
Worth gaun a mile to see.
Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wis!;es.
He'll shade my banks wi' fow'ring trees
And boni-.ie spieadiiig bushes ;
Delighted doubly then, mv Lord,
\'ou'll wander on my banks,
And listen mony a gratel'nl bird
Return you tuneful thanks.
Tiie sober laverock, waibling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire ;
The gowdspink, music's gayest child.
Shall sweetly join the choir :
The blackbird strong, the lintv,'hite clear.
The mavis wild and mellow ;
The robin pensive autumn cheer,
In all her locks of jellow.
This too, a covert shall ensure,
To shield them from the storm ;
And coward niaukin sleep secure.
Low in her gras-^y form.
Here shall the shepheid make his seat,
To weave his crown of (lowers ;
Or find a shelt'iing sale retreat,
From prone descending showers.
And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the lovitig pair,
Despising worlds with all their wealth
As empty idle care :
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charmi
The hour of heav'n to grace,
And birks extend their fru^r:int arms
To screen the dear embrace.
ja
J
»8
BURNS' WORKS.
Here, haply ton, at vernal d.iwn.
Some musiag bird may stray.
And eye the sm()king,'dewy lawn,
And misty mduiit.ila, grey ;
Or, l)y the reaper's nightly beam,
Mild fhequeririj; through the trees,
Rave to my d irkly dashing stream,
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks oVrspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their sh;idows' watery bed !
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest,
Mv craggy cliffs adorn ;
And, for the little simgster's nest,
The close embow'ring thorn.
So may old Scotia's darling Lope,
Your little angel band.
Spring, like their fithers, up to prop
Their hnnour'd native land !
So may thru' Aliiion's farthest ken,
To social-Hciwuig glasses.
The grace i)e — ■' Athole's honest men,
And Athole's bonnie lasses !"
ON SCARING SOME WATER-
FOWL,
IN LOCH-TUKIT ;
A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF
OCHTEKTVRE.
Why, ye tenints of the lake.
For me your waturv haunt forsake?
Tell me, fi'llow-cre.ituies, why
At my presence thus you fly ?
Why disturb your social joys.
Parent, filial, kindred ties i~—
Common fri..'nd to you and me,
Nature's gifrs to ail are free :
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton I ive ;
Or, beneath the slu-lt. ring rock,
Cide the surging bilio.v's shock.
Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
Man, your prou'l usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below ;
Plumes himst'if lu Freedom's prlJe,
Tyrant st<'rn to all In-side.
The eagle, from the cliflfy lirow,
Ikfarking you his prey below,
In his breast no pit) dwells,
Strong neces-itv ciiiii]iels.
liut man. I<> vi houi a'ooe is giv'a
A ray direct fi^'m |iit\'ni; heav'n,
3I0110UH in his litM?t liuuiane —
nd creatures for iiiit pleasure slain>
In these savage, liquid plains.
Only known to wand'ring swiins,
Wiere the mossy riv'let strays ;
Far from human haunts and ways ;
All on nacure you depend.
And life's poor season peaeefu] ^pend.
Or, if man's superior might.
Dare invade your native rijht,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn:
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings.
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave.
Scorn at least to be his slave.
^VRITTEN WITH A PENCIL
jveh the chimney-piece ix the parloub
of the inn at kenmoue, taymouth,
Admiring Nature in her wildest grace,
These nojthern scenes with weary feet I trace ;
O'er many a winding da'e and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep.
My savage journey, curious, I pursue.
Till fam'd Breadalbane ojjens to my view —
The meeting clifs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample
sides ;
Th' outstretching lake, einbosom'd 'mong the
hills.
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ;
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride.
The palace rising on his verdant side.
The lawns wood-fringed in Natures native taste;
The hillocks diopt in Nature's careless haste !
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream
The village, glittering in the moontide beam-
Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell :
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ;
The incessant roar of headlong tumbling
floods —
Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
And look through nature with crejtive fire;
Here, to the wrongs of fite half lecoricil'd,
Misfortune'f lighten'd steps might wandel
wild ;
And di-appoiufment, in 'hese lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds
Here heart-struck Grief might heaven-ware
stretch her scan.
And injur'd worth forget ar-' nardon man.
FORMS.
^KITTEN WITH A PENCIL,
STANDING UV THE FAI.l. OF KVEKS, N KA 11
LOCll-NESS.
59
Among tlie heatiiy hills ami raijgeJ woods
The roiiring Fytrs pmirs his m()>sy flouds ;
Fdl t'lill he ilaslies on the rocky mounds,
Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream
resounds.
As hii;li in air the bursting torrents flow,
As deep recoiling surges fuam below,
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de-
scends,
And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends.
Dim-seen, through rising niisti and ceaseless
showers,
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding lowers,
Stil. rnro toe gap tlie strug^liiiij river toils.
Anil still below, the horrid caldron boils —
ox THE PIUTI! OF A
POSTHUMOUS CHILD,
BOKN IN PECUI.IAIl CIRCUJISTANCES OF
FAJULY DISTRESS.
Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,
And ward o' nioiiy a prayer,
What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae lielj)less, sweet, and fair !
November hirples o'er the lea,
Chill on thy lovely iorni ;
And gme, alas! the >helt"i'ing tree,
Should shield thee trae the storm.
May He who gives the rain to pour.
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving shower^
The bitter frost and suaw !
May IIe, the friend of woe and want,
AVho heals life's varioiis stounds.
Protect and guaril the imither plant,
And heal her cruel wounds !
But late she flourish'd, rooted fast.
Fair on the summer morn :
Now feebly bends she in the blast,
UDshelter'd and foilorn.
Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gaci,
Unscath'd liy ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land !
THE WHISTLE
A BALLAD.
As tlic authentic ;)rn.tc history of tlic Whistle Is CB-
tioiis, I shall here Rive it. — In tlie train nf \ iiic o(
Dcnniark, when she viw.e to Scotl.inil wicli oiir J:inip«
the •'ixlh, tluie came over also a Danish ^eiulcmaii of
pipantu' stature and great prowess, and a inatchUvis
ihanipion of Haii'hus. lie had a little elxiiiy Whi-iie
whuh at the CDininenceincnt of the orjji s he laid on
the table, aiut whoever was last able to blow It, every
body else beiiip; ilisaliled by the luitency of the bniilc,
was to carry nfl' ihe Whistle as a trojibv of viciory.
The Dane produeid crt'deiitials of his victories withoul
a siii;;le <lrfeat, at the courts of Oipcnhaijeii, Sioi'k-
holm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several <if the petty
courts in Germany; and ehnllcnj;cd ihe Scots I5i;ciha-
naliaiis to the aUcnialive of trying his prowess, or el>c
of aeUnowlcilijinij their infeiiority. After in.iiiy over-
throws on the part of the Scots, ilic n.aiie was eiiei>im-
tered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Si ixwcUon, ancestor of
tlx" present worthy baronet of tli.it name; r.ho, jifter
tliree days and three iiichts' h.ird contest, left the
Scandinavian under the table.
And bten on the }yhisltf hit requiem thrill.
Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mon'ioned, af.
tcrwards lost the Whistle to Waller Riddel, of Clin,
riddel, who had iiirirried a sister of ."sir U a.'i r's. — Oi
Friday, the lC:h of October I7;*l). at Kriars-Carse, the
Whittle vvas once more eontemled for, as relaiid in the
ballad, by the present Sir Itobert I.awrie of M.ixwil.
ton; Robert Ridilel, Ksq. of ('ilenriildel, liacal de-
seciidant ami representative of W.ilter Riddel, who
won the Whistle, and ill whose family it h.id eonii-
iiiied ; and .•\lexaiidcr Kergusoii, Ksi]. of t'raiudMrroeh,
likewise descended of the great Sir Ro'xTt; vvhie'i ;.asl
gentleman carried oft' the hard- won .'lonmirsof me field.
I SING of a \Vhistle, a H'histl' of worth,
I sing of a Whistle, the uride of the Norfli,
Was brought to tlie court of our good t^cottisb
king,
And loUjj; with this Whistle a'l Scotland shal.
ring.
Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fing.i],
The god of the bottle sends down from his
hall—
" This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland
get o'er,
And drink them to hell. Sir ' or ne'er see roe
more !"
Old poets have sung, and old chroniclei tell
What champions veutur'd, whit champions
fell ;
The son of great Loda was comnieior still,
And blew on the Wlii.stle his reijuiem shrill.
Till Robert, the lord of the Caitn and tlu
SiMur,
I'nmatch'd at the bottle, imconqner'd in war,
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea.
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than 1 e.
Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy Lai
gain'd ;
Which now in his house has lir ages remain'd
60
BURNS' WORKS.
Till three noWc chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have lenew'd.
Three ioyous good fellows, with hearts clear
of fi.wv ;
Craigdanoch, bo famous for wit, worth, and
law ;
4nd trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ;
\nii gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines.
Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth
as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ;
Or el>e he would muster the heads of the clan.
And once more, in claret, try which was the
man.
" By the gods of the ancients," Glenriddel
rejiHes,
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize,
I'll ccinjure the ghost of the great Roiie More,'
And bun. per his horn with him twenty tmies
o er.
Sir Robert, a soldier, ao speech would pre-
tend,
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his
friend.
Said, Toss down the \^Tiistle, the prize of the
field.
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or lie'd yield.
To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ;
But for \vU\f and for welcome not more know:i
to fame,
Than the sertse, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovelv
dunie.
A bard was -elected to witness the fray,
And tell future ages the feats of tlie day ;
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard hail
been.
The dinner being over, the claret they jdy.
And every new cork is a new spring ot joy ;
In the bands of old friendship and kindred sc
set.
And the bands grew the tighter the more they
weie wet.
Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ;
Bright I'hu'lms ne'er witness'd so joyous a core,
And vowed that to leave them he was quiti
forlorn.
Till Cynthia liinteil he'd sec them next morn.
Six bottles a-piece had well wore out tli.
ni^ht,
WTjen gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
• See Johnsou'i Tout to llie Hebrides.
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a battle of red,
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor*
did.
Then worthy GlenrldJel, so cautious and
sage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ;
A high-rulinr JJder to wallow in wine I
He left the foul business to folks less divine.
The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the
end ;
But who can with fate and quart bumpers con-
tend ?
Though fate said— a hero should perish in light ;
So uprose blight Phttbus — and down fell the
knight.
Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in
drink : —
" Craigdarroch, thou'It soar when creation
shall sink ;
But if thou would flourish immort<il in rhyme,
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sub-
lime !
" Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom
with Bruce,
.shall heroes and patriots ever produce ;
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ;
The field thou luust won, by yon bright god of
day I"
SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE,
A BROTHER rOET. f
A'.ir.n NEFBOR,
I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,
l^ir your auld-far rent, frien'ly letter ;
I'ho' I maun say't, I doubt ye Hatter,
Ye speak so fair :
For my puir, silly, rhymm' clatter.
Some less maun sair.
Hale be your heart, hile be your fidiUe ;
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
Co cheer you through the weary widdle
O' war'ly cares,
rill bairns' bairns kindly ciuldlc
Your auld grey hairs.
But Davie, lad, I'm red ye'ie glaikit ;
I'm taulfl the Muse ye bae uei!;leckit ;
An' gif it's sae, ye sod lie lickit
Until ye fyke ;
Sic bans as you sud ne'er be faikit.
Be hain't wha like.
t lliis is jirofixeil to llic poems of David Sillar, pu>
lishcil at Kiliiiariiofk, 1 .S|), and lias U( t l<clore apiieir
ud ui our author's pnuted poems.
r-'T.^s
m
/■'■■■
V >., I
POEMS.
61
Pii me, 'm on Parnassus brink,
Rivin' tr ; worils to £:;ar tlu'iii clJiik ;
Wlivlc^i il ic7.'t vvi' love, wtiyli's dacz't wi' I'link
M'i' j ids or masons ;
All' wliyles, hut aye ovvie late, I think,
Braw sober lessons.
'K"a' the fhou!;litles<i sons o' man,
(.'onimen' me to the bardic clan;
Except It be some idle plan
O' rhymin' clink.
The devil-haet, that I siui ban,
They ever think.
Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme of livin' ;
^iaj cares to gie us joy or jjrieviu' :
But just the pouchie put the nievc in.
An' while ought's ther?,
Then, hihie, skiltie, we gae scrievin'.
An' fash nae niair.
Lvt-ze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my oidy pleasure,
At hame, a-fiel', at waik or leisure.
The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,
She's seldom lazy.
Hau.l to tlie Mus.;, my dainty Davie :
'I'he war!' may play you mony a shavie ;
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye,
Tho' e'er sae poor,
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the sjjuvie
Frae door tac Goor.
ON MY EARLY DAYS.
I.
I MIND it wcel in early date.
When I was beardless, young, and blate,
An' first could thresh the barn.
Or hand a y(]kin o' the pleugh.
An' tho' furfnughten sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn —
Wh^n first amang the yellow corn
A man I reikon'd was.
And wi' the lave ilk merry ir.crn
Could rank my rig and lass-
Still shearing, and clearing
The tither stooked raw,
Wi' claivers, an' haivers,
Wearing the day awa.
II.
E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'r,
A wish that to my latest hour
Shall strongly heave my breast,
Th? ■ I for poor auld Scotland's sake.
Some usefu' plan or book could make,
Or sing a sang, at least.
The rough burr-thistle, spreading vi'J*
Amaiv^ the beardnl bear.
I tiirn'd the woi'rhr vlips it-side,
An' spirrd the syinhul dear;
So nation, no stafion.
My envy e'er could raisei
A Scot still, but blot still,
1 knew nae higher praise.
III.
Rut still the elements o' sung
In formless jumble, right an' rang,
Wild floated in mv brain :
'Till on that har'bt I said before,
-My partner in the merry core,
She lous'd the forming strain •
I see her yet, the sonsie (juean.
That lighted up l;er jingle.
Her witching smile, her jiauky e'en
Tl; It g II t my heart-strings tingle »
I filed, inspiied,
.'\t every kindling keck,
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to sj)e,ik.*
ON THE DE.\TH OK
SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR
The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare.
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave,
Th' ii'.constaut blast howl'd thro' the darkeuing
air.
And hullow whistled in the rocky cave.
Lo'it as I wander'd by each cliflfand dell,
OiiCe the loved haunts of Scotia's royal
train;!
Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd
well.t
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. §
Th* increasing blast roar'd round the beetling
rocks.
The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry
sky.
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks.
And shooting meteors caught thii startled eye-
The paly moon rose in the livid east.
And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately fjrnx.
In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast.
And mix'd her wailings with the raving
storm.
Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,
Twas Caledonia's tiophicd shield I view'il *
Her form majestic droo;)'d in pensive woe.
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.
• 'Itie reader will find some explanation of tlii*
poem in p. viii.
t Tlic Kinij's F'ark at Ilolyrood-houje.
± St. Anthony's Well.
I St. Aniiioiiv's Cliaiiul.
62
BURNS' WORKS.
Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war,
Reelii:ed tliat binner, erst in fields iinfurl'd,
That like a deatliful meU'or gleam'd afar,
And braved the mighty raonarchs of the
world. —
" My pitriot son fills an untimely grave !'*
With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ;
" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to
save,
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest
pride !
* A weeping country joins a widow's tear.
The helpless poor mix with theoi-phan's cry ;
The drooping arts around their patron's bier,
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh.
" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ;
I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow !
But, ah ! how hope is born hut to e.xpirc !
Relentless fate has lai^ the guardian low
" IVIy patriot fails, but shall he lie unsung,
Wh'.le empty greatness saves a worthless
name !
No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue,
And future ages hear bis growing fame.
" And I will join a mother's tender cares,
Thro' future times to make his virtues ]:t«t,
That distant years may boast of other Blairs"
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping
blast.
WRITTEN
ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE POEMS,
fRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN
SIAttRIEB.*
Once Tondly lov'd, and still remeraber'd dear,
Sweet early object of my youthful vows,
Accept this mark of fi iendship, warm, sincere.
Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty aow allows. —
And when you read the sim])!e artless rhymes,
Ooe friendly sigh for him, he asks no more.
Who flistant burns in flaming torrid climes,
C.< haiily lies beneath th' Atlantic roar.
THE JOLLY BEGGARS:
A CANTATA.
HECITATIVO.
VViiEN lyart leaves bestrew the yird.
Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird.f
liedini cauld Borexs* blast ;
Thcpirl mentioned in the letter to Dr. Moore,
i The old .ScotcJ iiunie lor tlic 3at.
Wien hailstaiies d.ive wi' bitter skytCt
And infant frosts begin to bite.
In boat y crarueuch drest ;
Ae night at e'en a merry core,
O' randie, gangrel bodies.
In Poosie-Niuisie's held the splore,
To diink their orra duddies :
Wi' quaffing and laughing,
They ranted and they sing ;
Wr jiunping and thumpiug,
The very girdle rang.
First, niest the fire, in aidd red rags,
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags,
And knapsack a' in order;
Ris doxy lay within his asm,
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm-
She blinket on her sodser :
An aye he gies the tousie drab
The tither skelpin' kiss.
While she held up her greedy gab
Just like an a'mmis dish.
Ilk smack did crack still,
Just like a cadger's whip,
Then staggering and swaggerJEg
He roar'd this ditty up —
AlK.
Tunc— " Soldiefi Joj. '
I.
I AM a son of Mars who have been in
mscf
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ;
This here was for a wench, and that other in a
trench.
When welcoming the French at the sound of
the drum.
Lai de daudle. Sec.
IT.
My 'prenticeship I past where my leader
breath'd his last,
Wl-.en the bloody die v.-as 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.
III.
I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating
batt'ries,
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb :
Yet let my countiy need me, with Elliot to
head me,
Fd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum.
Lai de daudle, &c.
IV,
And now tho' I must beg «-ith a wooden aria
and leg.
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bun
POEMS.
63
Tm u happy with iry wallet, my i ottlo and
my cdUot,
K* when I usM in scarlot to follow a drum.
Lai cle daud.e, &c.
Vl.at tho' with hnaiy lucks, I must stand the
Winter shocks,
beneath the woods and rocks often times for a
home,
Wicu the totlipr bag I sell, and the tother
hottle tL'll,
1 tould meet a trsop of hell, at the soimd of
the drum.
Lai de daudlc, &c.
RECITATIVO.
He ended ; and the kebars sheuk,
Aboon the chorus roar ;
■While frighted rattans backward leuk, f
Ami seek the benmost bore ;
A fiiry fiddler frae the neuk,
He skirl'd out encore !
But up arose the martial chuck,
And laid the loud uproar,
AIR.
Tunt—" Soldier Laddie."
I ONCE was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when,
And still my delight is in proper young men ;
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie.
Sing, Lai de lal, &c.
n.
The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,
To rattle the thundering drum was his traile ;
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so
ruddy,
1 ransporttd 1 was with my sodger laddie.
Sing, Lal de lal, &c.
in.
Rut the godly old chaplain left him in the Vnrch,
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church,
He venttir'd the >:onl, and I risked the botli/,
TwMs then 1 prov'd false to my sodger laddie.
Sing, Lal de lal, &c.
IV.
Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,
Tiie regiment at large for a husband I got ;
Fro:n tlie gilded spontooii to the fife I was
ready.
^ asked r.o uKjre but a sodger laddie.
Sinsr, Lal de lal, &c.
V.
H^!t the peice it ri-duc'd me to l)eg in despair,
T\\\ I met iin' uiii l).)v at Cunningham fair ;
His rdii reffi menial they flntter'd so gaudy,
?ily heart it rejoic'd at my sodger l.iddie.
- ■ ■ • lal, &c.
Sing, Lal lie
VI.
And now I havt liv'n — I know not liow long.
Anil still I can join in a cup or a snng ;
Ihit whilst with both hands I can hold the glisc
steady.
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.
Sing, Lal de lal, &c
KECITATIVO.
Then niest outspak a raucle carlin,
\Mia kent sae weel to cleek the sterling
For monie a pur&ie she had hooked.
And had in mony a well been ducked.
Her dove had been a Highland laddie,
I?ut weary fa' the waefu' woodic !
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began
To wail her bruw John Highlandraaa.
A I It.
T^jie " O an' ye were dead, GudeauB."
I,
A HIGH I. AND lad my love was born.
The Lalland laws he held in scorn ; ^
liut he still was faithfu* to his clan,
IVIy gallant braw John Highlaudmaa.
CHORUS.
Sing, hey my braw John Highlandmaa I
Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman!
There's not a lad in a' the Ian'
Vas match for my John Highlandmaa.
n.
With his philibeg an* tartan plaid.
An' gude claymore down by liis side,
The ladies hearts he did trepan.
My galla'-t braw John Highlandman.
Sing, hey, kc.
in.
We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey,
An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay ;
F(U- a Lalland face he feared none,
My gallant braw John Highlandmaa.
Sing, hey, kc.
IV.
They banish'd him beyond the sea.
Hut ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran.
Embracing my John Highlandman.
Sing hty, &c.
V.
B'lt, oh ! they fatch'd him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast ;
64
BURNS WORKS.
TMy ?ur8e tipon them eveiy one,
rhey've liaug'J my hnnv John Iliglandnian.
Sing, hey, &c.
VI,
And now a widnw, T must mourn
The pleasures that will ne'er return ;
No comfort but a Iie.irty c.in.
When I think on John Mighlandman,
Sing, hey, &c.
RECITATIVO.
* pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle,
Wha us'd at trysts atid fairs to driddle,
Her strappiu hnib and gaiisy middle
lie reach'd uae higher,
^aCl hoi'd his heartie hke a riddle.
An' blawn't on fire.
Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e.
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three.
Then in an Arioso key,
Tl;e wee Apollo
Set off wi' Allegretto glee
His giga solo.
Air
IVn#— " Whist! owre the lave o't,"
I.
Let me ryke up to d!i;lit that tear,
An' go wi me to be my dear,
An' then your every cire and fear
Way whistle owre the lave o't.
CHORUS.
I am a fiddler to my trade,
An' a' the tunes that e'er I pliy'd.
The sweetest still to wife or maid,
Was whittle owre the lave o't.
H.
At kirns and weddings we'se be there,
An' 0 ! sae nicelj's we will fare;
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care
Sings wliistle owie the lave o't.
I am, he,
HI.
Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke,
An' sun oursels about the dyke,
An' at our leisure, when we like,
We'll wliistle owre the lave o't.
1 am, &c.
IV.
But bless me wi' your heaven o' charms
And while I kittle hair on thairms,
Hunger, cauld, an a sick harms,
May whistle owre the lave o't.
I am, &:c.
RECITATIVO.
Her charms had struck a iiturd) Cair^
As wcel as poor Guts>.raper i
He taku the fid<ller by the beard,
And draws a rusty rapier —
He swoor by a' was swearing worth>
To speet him like a pliver,
Unless he would from that time forth.
Relinquish her for ever.
Wi' ghastly e'e, poor twccdle dee
Upon his hunkers bend;»d,
And pray'd for grace wi' r.iefu' face.
And sae the quarrel end.-d.
But though his littl; hea:t dici grl&ve,
When round the tinkler jirest her,
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve.
When thus the caird address'd her
Tunt—" Clout the Caldron."
I,
iMv bnnnie lass, I work in brass,
A tinkler is mv station ;
I've traveli'd round all Christian groucd
In this my occupation.
I've ta'eu the gold, I've been enroll'J
In many a noble squadron :
But vain they search'd, when off I march'fc
To go and clout the cauldron.
I've ta'ec the gold, &>•,
II.
D.^spise that shrimp, ti'.at wither'd imp,
Wi' a his noise an' ca])rin',
An' tak' a share wi' those that bear
The budget an' the ajinnt.
An' li!/ that stowp, my faith and houp,
An' b>/ that dear Keilbagie,*
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant,
]\lay I ne'er weet my craigie.
An' by thai stowp fee
RECITATIVO.
The caird prevail'd — the unblushing fair
In his embraces sunk,
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair,
An' partly she was druuk.
Sir Violino, with an air
Th it show'd a man of spunk,
Wish'd tniison between the pair,
Aa' made the bottle clunk
To their health that nigit
But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft
That play'd a dame a shavie.
The fiddler rak'd her fore an aft,
Behint the chicken cavie.
Her lord, a wight o' Hornet's * firaft,
Tho' limping with the spavie,
• A jipailiarsort of whisky so called, agrcat favour-
ite with I'oosicNancic's iliibs.
* Homer U allowed to be the oldest balled-singer uB
recurU.
"
6:,
ni hirpl'd »]), and 1 1|) WU: ditt,
They toom'd their pock-*, an' pawn'd t'u;."'' dudi.
An* sUor'd thcin D.iiiitie D.ivie
They scarcely left »o uo'er their fuds,
0 boot that night.
To quench tneir lowan diouth.
He \v,is a carc-dtfying I)laile
Then nwre again, tlie jovial thrang.
As I'ViT Hai'ctuis listed,
The poet (lid reipiest,
Tliouyli Foitutic siir ii|M)n liim laid,
To loose his pack an' wale a sang,
His heart she ever inis^M it.
A 1) iHad o' the best :
He l\ail III) wlsli but — tn be glad,
He rising, it'ioicing.
Niir want but — when lie thirsted ;
Between his twa Dvhornlit,
He hated nmip;ht but — to be sad,
Looks round bin., an' found thein
And thus the JMuse siig,'ested.
Impatient for the chorus.
His sung that night.
AlK.
AIR.
Tune—" Jolly Mortals fill your GlaM*.
Tune—" For »' that, an' a' that."
I
See ! the smoking bowl before us,
I.
I AM a baid of no rejjaid.
Mark our jovial ragged ring !
Wi' {•etitle fdllis, an' a' tliat ;
Round and round take up the chorus,
And in raptures let us sing.
But Hmiur-like, tlie gliuvian byke.
Frae town to town 1 liiaw that.
CHORUS.
CHORUS.
A fig for those by law protected'
For a' that, an' a that ;
Liberty's a glorious least !
An' twice as nieikle's a' that ;
Courts for cowards were erected,
I've lost luit ane, I've t'.va hehia",
Cbundies built to please the priest
I've wife enoujrh for a' that.
O
IL
II.
What is title ? what is treasure ?
I never drank the Muse's stank.
What is reputation's care ?
Cavtalia's burn, an' a' that ;
If we lead a life of pleasure.
But tliere it streams, and richly reams,
'Tis no matter how or where !
Wy Hdicon I ca' that.
A fig, &c.
Tor a' that, fee.
in.
III.
With the ready trick and fable,
Great love I bear to a' the fair.
Round we wander all the day ;
Tlieir humble slave, an' a' that ;
And at night, in barn or srable.
Hut lordly will, I ho!d it still
Hug our doxies on the hay.
.\ mortal sin to thraw that.
A fig, &c.
For a' that, &c.
IV.
IV.
Does the train-attended carriage
In raptures sweet, this lionr we meet,
Through the country lighter rove ?
Wi' mutual love an' a' that ;
Does the sober bed of marriage
But for how lang the Jfie ma^ stang.
Witness brighter scenes of love ?
Let inclination law that.
A fig. &c.
For a' that, &c.
V.
V.
Life is all a variorum,
Their tricks and craft have put me daft.
We regard not how it goes ;
They've ta'en me in, an' a' that ;
Let them cant about decorum
But clear your decks, ar.ii here's the sex 1
Who have characteis to lose.
I like the jads I'or a* that.
A fig, &c.
" For a' that, an' a' that.
VI.
• An" twice a< nieikle's a' that;
Here's to the bmlgets, bags, and waJIets*
My dearest bluid, to do them guid,
Here's to all the wandering train !
They're welcome till't for a' that.
Here's our ragged hrals and culltts 1
One and all cry out. Amen !
RECITATIVa
A fig for those by law protected !
So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's
Libei .y's a glorious feist '
Shook with a thunder of applause,
Courts for cowards were erected.
Re-echo'd from each mouth ;
Churches built to please the p''<«t.
6b BURNS' WORKS.
THE KIRK'S ALARM:*
A SATIRE.
Ortiioiiox, orthodox, wlia believe in Julin
Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ;
There's a heretic h'ast lias been blawn in the
wasf,
That what is no sense must be nonsense.
Dr. Mac, f Dr. Mac, you siiould stretch on a
rack,
To strike evil doers wi' terror ;
To jiiin faith and scn-^e upon ony pretence,
Is heretic, daninaljje en or.
Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de-
clare,
To meddle wl' mischief a-brcwing ;
Prov()^t John is still deaf to the church's relief.
And orator Dob \ is its ruin.
D'rymjde mild, § D'ryniple mild, tho* your
heart's like a child,
And your life like the new driven snaw,
Y<:t that wlnna save ye, auld Satan must have
ye,
For preaching that three's ane an' twa.
Rumble John,^ Rumble John, mount the steps
wi' a groan,
Crv the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ;
Then hi," out vour ladl-*, deal brimstone like
adle,
And roar every note of the damn'd.
Sim])er James, || Simper James, leave the fair
Killie danu-s.
There's a holier chace in your view ;
I'll lav on vour head, that the pack ye'll sooa
lead,
For puppies like you there's but few.
Singct Sawney,*' Singet Sawney, are ye herd-
ing the ])cnny,
IIncon>icious what evils await ;
Wi' a juiii]), yi'li, and liowl, alarm every soul.
For the foul thief is just at your gate.
Daddy Aulil.f f Daddy Auld, there's a tod in
the fluid,
A tod melkle waur th in the clerk ;
Tho' ye can do little .rkaith, ye'll be in at tlic
death.
And if ve canna bite vc mav bark.
• This ivicm w.ns written a short time after the piib-
iczlton of Mr. M'dill i E!is;iy.
\ M.. M' U. 1 l( 1 A n.
f Dr. I) - e. •! Mr. R- 11.
i( .Ml. M- V. •• Mr. M y.
i| Mr. A d.
Davie Bluster,' Davie Bluster, if for a Mint
ye do muster,
The corps is no nice of recruits ;
Yet to worth lets be just, royal blood ye mighj
boast.
If the ass was the king of the brutes.
Jamie Goose,-}- Jamie Goose, ye ha'e made but
toom roose,
In hunting the wicked lieutenant ;
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d'»
haly ark ;
He has cooper'd and cav.-d a wrang pin in t.
Poet Willie, \ Poet Willie, gie the Doctor »
volley,
Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit ;
O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride,
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t.
Andro Gouk, *i Andro Gouk, ye may slander
the book.
And the book not the waur let me tell ye ;
Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and
wig.
And ye'll hae a calf's head o' snia' value.
Barr Steenie, || Barr Steenie, what mean ye ?
what mean ye ?
If ye'll meddle nae inair wi' the matter.
Ye may ha'e some pretence to bavins and sense,
AVi' people wlia ken ye nae better.
Irvine side,'* Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock
pride.
Of niiinliood but sma' is your share ;
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes wiB
allow,
And your friends they dare grant you nae
niair.
Muirland Jock, -j-f IMuirland Jock, when the
L — d makes a rock
To crush Common Sense for her sins.
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit
'i'o confound the poor Doctor at aiice.
Hi>ly Will, \\ Holy Will, there was wit i' you."
skull.
When ye pilfer'd tlie alms o' the poor ;
The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'eii for J
saint,
M'ha should swing in a rape for an hour.
Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual
guns.
Ammunition yc never can need ;
Your hearts are the stuff, will be jiowther
enough,
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.
• >Tr. O , O c. \ Mr. V R, C K.
J Mr. I' s, :\-r. H Dr. .\. M 11.
II Mr. .'' S' , U— r. ••Mr, S li, t; n.
ft Mr. b il. - -
POEMS.
6^
Poet BitmH, Pi'Pt Burns, vn' yciir pricst-sla'!])-
iiig turns,
Why ilfsiTt VL' yiiiir ,■ ulj native shire ;
Ymir must' is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tip-io,
She coulJ ea' us luio waur thiin we are.
'JHE TWA HERDS.*
0 a' ye pious godly flocks,
Weci fed on pasture's oitliodox,
Wha now will keep you iVae the fox,
Or wotryiiiir tykes,
Or wlia will tent the wail's aiul cnieks,
About tiie dykes ?
The twa best Iierds in a' the wast,
Tiiat e'er ga'e g:o^pel horn a blast.
These five-and-tweiitv sinimei-s past,
6 ! noul to tell,
Ha'e had a bitter blaek out-cast
Atweeu themsel.
O, M y, man, and worthy R 11,
How could you raise so vile a bustle,
Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle,
An' think it fine !
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle,
Sin' I ha'e min'.
O, Sirs ! whae'er wad hae expeckit,
Your duty ye wad sae negletkit.
Ye wha \Yt:ie ne'er by laird respeckit,
To wear the plaid,
Dut by the 'unites themselves eleckit.
To be their guide.
What flock wi" M y's flock could rank,
Sae hale and hearty every shank,
Nae poisun'd soor Arminian stank.
He let them taste,
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear they drank,
O sic a feast !
The thummart, wil'-cat, lirock, and tod,
Weel kend his voice tliio' a the wood.
He smelt their ilka hole and road,
Baith out and in.
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid.
And sell their skin.
WTiat herd like R 11 tell'd his t^Je,
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale.
He keud the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,
O'er a' the height,
And saw gin they were sick or hale.
At the first sight.
He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,
Or nobly fling the gospel club.
Thi« piece was among the first of our Author's pro-
ductions which he subiniitod lo the |iubiic; and was
oc(-nsionc<l by a dispute between two eerfivmen, near
»ulma«nock.
Aad new-light herds cowlil nicely drub.
Or pay their skin;
Could shake them o'er the burning dub,
Or heave them ia.
Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't,
Sic famous twa should disagreet,
An' names, like villain, hy|)ocrite.
Ilk ither gl'en,
VHiile new-light herds wi' lau!;liin' spice,
Siy neither's lieiw' !
A' ye wha tent the gos[)el faiiUi,
There's D n, deep, and P s, shauly
But chiefly thou, ajxistle A — d
Vv'e trust in thee.
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld,
Till they agieiw
Consider, Sirs, how we're beset,
There's siaree a new herd that we get,
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set,
I wiiina name,
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet
In liery flame.
D e has been lansj our fae,
M' II has wr.iught us meikle wae.
And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' e.
And baith the S B,
That aft ha'e made us black and blae,
Wi' veugefu' paws.
Aul.l W w lang has hatch'd mischief.
We thou;;ht aye death wad hring relief.
But he ho-s gotten, to our grief,
Ane to succeed hira,
A chield wha'll soundly buif our beef;
I meikle dread hini.
And mony a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel,
Forby turn-coats amang oursel.
There S — h for anCi
I djubt he's but a grey nick quill.
And that ye'il fin'.
O ! a' ye flocks o'er a' tho hills.
By mosses, me allows, moors, and fells.
Come join your counsel and your skills.
To cow the lairds.
And get the brutes the power themsels.
To choose their lierd»
Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
And leari>ing in a woody dance,
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,
That Ijites sae sair,
Be banbh'd o'er the sea to France :
Let liiin bark t'ticre.
Then Shaw's and Doliymple's eloquence,
i^P U's close nervous excellence.
68
JI'Q — e's pathetic manly sense,
And guid iSI'-
BURNS WORKS.
-h,
Wi S — th, wta iLro' the lieait can glance,
JNIay a' pack ait
THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND.
Cuks'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vii.'^sal to the tyrant wife,
Who has no w ill but by her high permission ;
"Who has not sixpence but in her possession ;
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ;
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell.
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart ;
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h
ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788,
For lords or kings I dinna mourn,
E'en let them die — for th.it they're born !
But, (di, prodigious to reflect,
A Tvwiiiont, Sirs, is gane to wreck !
O Ei(iltt7j-ei'j)it. in thy sma* space
What dire events ha'e taken place !
Of what enjovments thou hast reft us .'
In what a pickle tliou hasf lett us !
The Spanish empire's tint uhead.
An' my auld teetldcss Bawtle's dead ;
The to'olzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox,
An' our guiihvift's wee birdy cocks ;
The taiie is game, a bhiidy devil.
But to the hen-Lirfls unco civd ;
The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin',
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden !
Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit,
An' cry till ye be heaise an' rupit ;
For E'KjIity-iujht he wish'd you weel.
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ;
E'en mony a plack, an' mimy a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for l.ttle feck !
Ye bonnie lasses dight your een,
For some o' you hae tint a fiien' :
In Eliihty-dylit, ye ken, was ta'en
\\'hat ye'll ne'er hae to gi'e again.
0')servc the very nowt an' sheep.
How dowtf an' dowie now tliey creep t
Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry.
For Einbio' wells are grutten dry.
O Eiyhfij-uine thou's but a liairn.
An' no owre auld, 1 hope, to leain !
Tliou beanlless boy, 1 piuy tak' care.
Thou now has got thv daddy's chair.
Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, haff-stackl'd Regenti
But, like himsel', a full free agent.
Be sure ye follow out the plan
Nae waur than he did, honest man '
As meikle better as you can.
January 1, 1"S9.
VERSES
WRITTEN ON A WINnOW OF THE INN AT
CARRON.
We cam na here to view your warks
In hopes to be mair wise,
But oidy, lest we gang to hell,
It may be nae surprise :
But when we tirl'd at your door,
Your porter dought na hear us ;
Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come,
Your billy Satan sair us !
LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS,
WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO J N R K N
AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMME-
riATELV AFTER THE POEt's DEATH.
IIe who of R — k — n sang, lies stiff and dead,
And a green grassy hillock hides his head ;
Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed !
At a meeting of the Dumfriesshire Volunteers.
held to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's
victory. April l.th 17>i2, Bcrns was called upon
for a Song, instead of which he delivered tlie follow,
ing Lines:
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 heiv'n ! that we
found.
For their fame it shall last while the world goes
round.
The next in succession, I'll give you the King,
Whoe'er would betray him im high may he swing
And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti-
tution,
As built on the base of the great Revolution ;
And longer with P.ditics not to i)e cramm'd,
lie Anarchy cursM, and be Tyranny damn'd ;
Anil who would to Liiierty e'er ))rove disloyal.
May his son be a hangman, and he Lis firtt trial
1
POEMS. 69
STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT.
The stream adown its hazelly path,
Was iu>hiiig by the riiin'd w I's,
Viii:kest niglit o'cihangs my duelling !
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,*
Ilinvling tenipests o'er ine rave !
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.
Turbid torrents, wintry s\vellin£j,
Still siirrouud my lonely cave !
The cauhl blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ;
Crystal streamlets fjently flowing,
Athort the lilt they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours, tint as win.
Hu-v haunts of ba-^e mankind.
VVestern breezes, softly bbwing,
Suit not my di>tracted mind.
By heedless ehirire I tnrn'd mine eves,-!"
And, by the moon-beam, shook, to MK
In the cause of right engaged,
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Wrongs injurious to redress,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.
Honour's war we strongly waged.
But the heavens deny'd success.
Had I a statue been 0' st;ine,
His darin look had daunted me ;
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,
And on his bonnet grav'd was plain,
Not a hope that dare attend,
The sacred posie — Liberty !
The wide world is all before us—
But a world without a friend !•
And frae his harp sic strains did flew.
Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear)
But oh, it was a tale of woe,
As ever met a Briton's ear !
CLARINUA.
He sang wi* joy his former day,
He weeping wail'd his latter times ;
Clarinda, mistress of my soul.
But what he said it was nae play,
The measur'd time is run !
I winna ventur't in my rhymes.^
The wretch beneath the dreary pole,
So marks his latest sua.
To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie ;
COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS
Depriv'd of thte, his life and light.
The sun of all his joy.
TO
We part, — but by these precious drops,
MR. WILLIAM TYTLER,
That fill thy lovely eyes !
No oiher light shall guide my steps,
WITH THE PKKSENT OF THE BARd's PICTURE.
Till thy bright beams arise.
Revered defender of beauteous .^Itiiart,
She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Of Stuart, a name once respected,
His blest my gloi ious day :
A name, which to love was the mark of a tru»
And shall a glimmering planet fix
heart.
My worship to its ray ?
But now 'tis despised and neglected :
• f^iriatinn. To join yon river on the Strath.
f Variation, Now lonl<ini; over firth ami fauld.
A VISION.
Her horn the pale-faced Cvnthia rcar'd;
When, lo, in furm of minstrel atild,
A stern and stalwart phaist appcarM.
As I stood by yon roofless tower,
i Thi'i poem, an imiierfeet eopy of whieh was print
Where the wa' -flower scents the dewy air.
e<i in Johnson's Museum, is here civen from the poet'j
M.S. with h's last eorrcetiiois. The scenery so tinclv
Wliere th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
de.seribed is taken from nature. The piwt is siipposcil
And tells the midnight moon her care.
to be musinc by niijht on the banks of the river Clu.
den, and by the ruins of LiniKiden-Aobey, founded in
the tweiftli century, in the rci^n of Maleoin IV 01
The winds were laid, the air was still,
whose present situation the reader may find some ac-
The stars they shot alang the sky ;
The fox was howling on the hill,
count in Pennant's Tour n .Scotland, or Orose's Anti-
qnities c f that division of the island. Such a time and
sueh a place aie well fiticd for holding converse with
And the distant echoing glens reply.
aerial being's. Though this poem has a political bias,
yet it mav be prcsiiin d that no rca<KT ot taste, what-
ever his opinions may be, would forgive it Ix'iiig omit.
• Strathall.in, it U presumed, was one of the follow-
ted. Our poet's prudrnce suppressed the song of Li-
ers of the ycniiig Clievalier, aii.l !■* siip|ii>seil to Ik- lyi'K
hertij, perhaps fortunately for his repatation. It may
eoiieealfil in some eaie of ihe Higlihincl«, after tlie
be (picstioncd wliether, even in the resources of hii
biittlc of t'uUoJen This song was written before the
genius, a str.iiii of poetry (■.■ii!,| h; e been found A-or-
war 173s
thy Oi' the grandeur and stleinn/*" of this pre atioa
•)
70 BURN'S" WORKS.
Tho' somi'tliing 7ike moisture conglobea in my
To ken what French mistjiief was brewm ,
eye,
Or what the diumlie Dutch were rioia' ;
Let no one misilcem me disloyal ;
That vile doup skelper, Emperor Joseph,
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a
If Venus yet had got his n:ise off;
sigh,
Or how the collies-hankie works
Still more, if that wand'rer v/ere ro\ al.
Atvi een the Russian and the Tuiks ;
Or if the Swede, before he halt.
My fathers, that nnme have rever'd on a throne ;
Would play anither Charles the Twalt !
My fathers have fallen to right it ;
If Denmark, ony body spak o't ;
Those fathers would spurn tlieir degenerate son,
Or Poland, wna had now the tack o't ;
That name should he scoffingly slight it.
How cut-throat Prussian blades wtte hlngia
How libbet Italy was singin ;
Still in prayers for King George I most heartily
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,
join,
Were saying or takin ought amiss:
The Queen and the rest of the gentry,
Or how our merry lads at hame.
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of
In Britain's court kept up the game ;
mine ;
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er lisa'
Their title's avow'd by the country.
Was managing St. Stejihen's quorum ;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livm.
But why of that epochi make such a fuss,
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ;
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin.
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ;
Hov.' cesses, stents, and fees were raxed.
Or if bare a — yet were taxed ;
But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous groimd,
The news o' princes, duics, and earls.
Who knows how the fasliions may alter,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and npera-glris.
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound,
If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales,
To-morrow may bring u« a halter.
M'as threshin still at hizzies' tails.
Or if he was growin o\ightlins douser.
I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
And no a perfect kintra cooser
A tride scarce worthy your care ;
A' this and mair I never heard of;
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard.
And, but for you, 1 might despair'd of.
Sincere .is a saint's dying prayer.
So giatefu', back your news I send you,
And pray, a' guid things may attend you I
Now life's cliilly evening dim shadas on your
eye,
Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1730.
And ushers the long dreary night :
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky.
Your course to the latest is blight.
My muse jilted me here, and turned a cor-
POEM.
ner on me, and I have not got again into her
good graces. Do me the justice to believe me
ON pastorai, poetry.
sincere in my grateful remembrance of the many
civilities you have honoured me v. ith since I
Hail Poesie ! thou nymph reserved !
came to Ediiibur>;h, and in assuring you that I
have the honour to be.
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved
Revered Sir,
Frae common sense, or sunk enerved
Your obliged and very humble Servant,
11. BURNS.
'>Iang heaps o' clavers^
And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starved.
EUINBURGH, 1787.
'Mid a' thy favours !
Say, Lassie, why thy train amang.
While li^l the trump's heroic dang,
And sock or buskin skelp aling
THE FOLLOWING POEM
To death or marriage ;
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang
WAS WIUTTEN TO A CKNTt-EMAN WHO HAD
But wi' miscarriage'
SEMT HIM A NF.WSPArEll, AN» 01'K£H.E0
TO CONTINUR IT IRKE OF EXPENSE.
fn Homer's craft Jo( k .Milton thrives ;
Esihylus' pen Wdl Sluikc-ipeire drives;
Kind sir, I've read your paper through,
Wee Pope, the kuuilin, 'till him rives
And faitl'., to nie, 'twas reallv new !
Hiirati in fame ;
I!,fiw gocKsid ye. sir, what iniisr I wanted?
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
This mony a <iay I've f;raiii'd and gauutcil
Even Sappho's flam*
^ J
POEMh.
n
Hilt t)\n, TMcocntiis. wha matches?
TIci'y're no IutiI's li.ill.its. Miro's cati-lies ;
Siiiiiii- PojR' liiit bii'<k-i his •^kiiilm patfhcs
(V heatluTi tatters ;
I pass liy luiiulers, nairieless wretclu-s,
That aja- their betters.
In this braw ap;o o' wit an lear.
Will naiie the Shepherd's whistle mair
!J.'aw sweetly in its native air
And niial E^race ;
And wi' tiie far-famed Greeian share
A rival
place
• ?
Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan !
There's ane ; coine forrit, hune.-t Allan !
Tliou need na jouk hehint the hallaii,
A ehiel so eiever ;
Tiie teeth o' time may gnaw T.initailan,
But tluiii's for ever.
Thou paints ati1d nature to the nines,
In thy sweet Caledonian lines ;
Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines.
Where i'hilomel,
While nightly breezes sweep the vines,
Her griefs will tell !
In j^owany glens thy burnie stravs.
Where bonnie lassies bleach their claes ;
Or trot'j by hazelly shaws or braes,
Wi" hauthiirns grav.
Where blackbirds join the shepheid's lays
At close o' day.
Thy rural loves are nature's sel ;
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ;
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet sjiell
O* witchiu' love.
That charm tliat can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.
SKETCH.
NEW YEAR'S DAY.
TO MRS. DL'NLOP.
This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain.
To run the twelvemonths' length again ,
I see the old bald-pated fellow.
With ardent eyes, com|)lexion sallow,
Adjust the uninipair'd machine.
To wheel the equal, dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir.
In vain assail him with their jirayer.
Deaf as my friend he sees them press,
N<ir makes the K'Uir one inonient less.
Wdl you (the Major's with the hounds.
The happy tenants share his rouniis ;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,*
And blijoining Keith's engaged with Gray);
* T!iis yoens '•t'V was drawing a picture of Coila
fi'ini ihe V:M()n. see iwge fi9.
Vvnn housewife caiosa tT..niitc borraw— .
— That grandchild's cap will do to-nHiir,» r-
And join with me a nioraiiziri',^.
This day's ])ropitioiis to be wise in.
First, what dill yesternight deliver ;
" Another year is gone for e\er."
And what is this day's strong sng,'cstion ?
" 'Ihe passi'n; moment's all we rest on !"
Rest an — for what ! What do we here?
Or why rcgiid the passing year?
Wdl tiniu, amiis'd with proverb'il lore,
A<ld to our date one minute more ?
A few days may — a few years must —
Repose us in the silent du^t.
Tlien, is it wise to damp m r bliss !
Yes, all such reasonings arc anuss !
The voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies :
That on this frail, uncertain state,
H.mg matters of eternal weight ;
That future-life in woi ids unknowr.
Must tike its hue from tliis alone :
Whether as heaverdy glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woeful night —
Since then, my hononr'd fiist of friendo,
On this poor being all depends :
Let us th' important now emplov,
And live as those who never die.
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd,
Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight ])ale envy to convulse)
Others now claim your chief regard—
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.
EXTEMPORE,
ON TIIE LATE
MR. WILLIAM S.MELLIE,*
/. I'TIIOR OF THK rilll.OSOPIIY OF NATUIi At HI*
TilKV, AM) MEMUF.R OF THE ANTlCiJARIAk
AND KUVaL societies OF EDlNllUKGH.
To Crochallan came
riie old cock'd hat, tlie grey surtout, the same :
His bristling beard just rising in its might,
'Twas four long nights and days to slaving
night,
His uncombed grizzly locks «ild - staring,
thatch'd,
A head for thought profound and clear, ua-
niatch <1 ;
Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude.
His heart was warm, benevolent and good.
» Mr. Smellic, and our poet, were boili mcniljorsoj
f. elubin Edinburgh, under the name of CrucliallaP
i'cnciblei.
72
BURNS' WORKS.
POETICAL INSCRIPTION
FOP.
AN ALTAR TO IXDEPENDENCE,
AT KERROUCIITRy, THE SEAT OF MR. HERON-
WIUTTEN IN SU.M.MER, 1795.
TiTou of an inilependent mind.
With soul resolved, with soul resigned ;
Prepared power's proudest frown to bravet
Wiio wilt not 1)6, nor hive a slave ;
Virtue alone wlio dost revere,
Thy own reproach a!one dost fear,
Approach this siirine, and worship here.
SONNET,
ON
THE DEATH OF MR. RIDDEL.
No more, yi warhiers of the wood, no more,
Nor pou) your descant grating on my ear:
Thou yoiiniT-eyed Spring thy charms I can-
not bear ;
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wild-
est roar.
How can ve please, ye flowers, with all your
ilies .
Ye blosv upon "he sod that wraps my fiiend :
How can I to fhe tuneful strain attend ?
That strain pours round th' untimely tomb
where Uidiiel lies.*
Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe,
Auil soothe the Virtues weeping im this bier ;
The .Man of Worth, and has not left his peer,
Is in his ' nairow house' for ever darkly low
Tliee, Sprinr;. aj^-ain with joy shall others greet ;
We, uiem'ry of uiy loss will oidy meet.
MONODY
A LADY FAMED FOU HER CAPRICE.
How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd.
How pale is that check where the rouge late-
ly glisfeii'd ;
How silent that t(Migue which the echoes oft
tired.
How (lull is that ear which to flattery so
listened.
If sorrow and anguish their exit await.
From friendship ami dearest atftctioa re
moved ;
How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate.
Thou diedst unwept, as tli"u livedst unlcvad
Loves, graces, and virtues. I call not on you ;
So shy, grave, and distant, ye slied not I
tear :
But come, all ye (iffspring of follv so true.
And flowers let us cull for Eliza's ce.i bier.
We'll search tlirough the garden for each silly
flower,
We'll roam througli the forest for each idle
weed ;
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower.
For none e'er approach'd her but rued the
rash deed.
We'll pculjjture the marble, we'll measure the
lay ;
Here Vanity strums on her idiot !\Te ;
There keen iniiiguation shall dart on her prey.
Which sjiiirning contempt shall redeem from
his ire.
THE EPITAPH.
Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglivt.
What once was a butterfly gay in life!
beam :
Want only of wisdom denied her respect.
Want only of goodness denied her esteem.
ANSWER TO A MANDATE
SENT BV THE SIMIVEVOR OK THE WINDOWS,
CARKIAGES, &C. TO EACH KAR.MER, OKIIER-
ING HI.M TO SEND A SIC.NEU LIST OF HIS
HORSES, SERVANTS, WH E.E1.-CA RRl AGKS, &C.
AND WHETHER HE WAS A MAKHIEJ) MAN
OR A BACHEl.Oa, AND WHAT CHlLUKSk
THEV HAD.
Sir, as your mamlate illd request,
1 send you here a fajihfu' li^t,
My horses, servants, carts, aiul graith.
To which I'm free to tak my aith.
Imjjrimis, then, for carri lu'e cattle,
I hae four brutes o" gall int mettle,
As ever drew before a pettle.
i\Iy luuid-iif re,' a guid auld has been,
And wight aiid wiU'u' a' his d.iys seen ;
My h(i>id-ii-liin,\ a guiil brown filly,
Wha art has borne me safe frae Killie •,\
• RoIktI Hiildol, K«|. of Friar's C'arsc. a very wor. I
fh> eharaciiT, riid unc to whom our bard tnoujjhtj
bunself uiiJ'.-r many ubli^atioiLs. j
• The fore-tiorse mi the lori.h:m(t, in tlie ploui?^
t Tlir liiniliiiost on lliu lell-h.ui>l, ni Uie plough.
i Kilnuunoeiv.
POEMS.
73
kni vntir aiilil lini-oiijjh mony a tirnei
In d;iv> wlii'u I idiiiif wis ii;ie crime :
^]v fur-a-/iin,' a ;;iiiil, l^i'i-y IkmsI,
As fV-r ill tiisj or U>\v «ms tiMcciI :
TIr' fi) mil, a Ili^'liliinl D.iMilil hasty,
A rl-iim'il rfii-wiid, KiltmiiiiL' hlastlt,
Fiir-i y a cciHti', nt' cmvlos ilie \i".lle,
As I'vcr r,m lieron- a tail ;
All* he l>f s[i:ucil to he a lieast,
Ile'l. draw me lil'teeii puiid at least.
Wiieel carriages I hae Imt few,
Three carts, and twa are feckly new,
An atild wh;el-l)arii)w, iiiair for token,
4e U'jj and b.iith the trams are broken J
( made a |)(iker o' the spindh-,
\nd my aiiM mither hriint the trundle.
F<ir men, I've three iriisidiievous boys,
Riin-deiK for raiitin and for noise;
\ ijadsman atie, a tiire^her t'other,
Wee D.ivoc hands the nowt in fother.
{ ride their, as I oni^lit, discreetly,
ir.d often ahonr them compl-'tely,
Vnd aye on Sundays duly nightly,
\ on the (|uestioii> taiifje them tightly,
'Till, fiith ; wee Davoc's grown sae gleg,
(Tho' >c:irccly laiiijer than mv leg)
He'll screed yni ,M iffntnul cutting,
As fast as ony in the dwalling.
I've pane in female servant station.
Lord keej) me aje fiae a' temptation !
I lue nae wife, and that my bliss is,
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ;
Flit wtMiis I'm inair thin weel contented,
ll'jiVen sent me aiie mair than I wanted :
My sonsie, siiiirkiiii;, dear-bought Bess,
She St. ires the dad. lie ui her face,
Enough of ought ye like but grace,
liut hei , mv biiiiny. sweet, wee lady,
I've said enough for her already.
And i( ye t.ix her i;r her mither,
IJy the L — d )e'.-e get them a' ihcgither !
And nnw, remember, ]\Ir. Aiken,
N.ie kind of license out Tin taking.
Thro' diit ami club fur life I'll paidle,
Eix- I sae dear jiay f u- a saddle ;
I'vt sturdy stiiiii|)s. the Lord be thankit !
And a' my gates on h>iit I'll shank it.
This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it,
riie d ly anil date i» under nntet ;
Then km 'V all ye whom it concerns,
Subscripsi liuic,
ROBERT BURNS.
• 'jilt hindmist on the right-.'iand, in the plough.
IMPROMPTU^
ON MUS
S lilllTII-DAY,
•1th November, I79.X
Oi.n Winter with his frosty beard.
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd ;
" What have I done of all the vear.
To bear this h ited doom severe ?
My cheerless sons no jiJcisiiie know;
Xiglit's hoi rid car ilra;;-. ibeirv, slinv :
My dismal month-, no joys are crowning,
But sjileeny English hanging, drowning.
Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil ;
To counterbal ince all this evil ;
Give me, and I've no more to say.
Give me Maria's n.ital day !
That brilliant gift will so enrich nic.
Spring, Summer, Autumn cannot iii.itrh me :*
" 'Tis done !" says Jnve ; so ends my story.
And Winter oace itjoiced in glory.
ADDRESS TO A LADY.
Oh wert thou in the caiiM bl.ist,
On yimder lea, on voniler lea,
.My plaidie to the ani^ry alrt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee;
Or did misfortunes bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee biaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom.
To share it a', to share it a'.
and bare.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, s,n; Id u k
The desert were a paradise.
If thou wert tiiere. if tluMi wert tiiere.
Or were 1 -nonarch o' the globe,
M'i' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ;
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my ijueen, wad be my queen
TO A YOUNG LADY,
MISS JESSV L-
, OF DUMFUIES ;
WITH BOOKS WHICH THE llAlll; PKESENIED HKI.
Thine be the volumes. Jessy fair,
And with them take the poet's prayer ;
That fate may in her f.iirest p'^e,
With every kindliist, best presage
Of future bliss, enrol tby name :
With native worth, and sputJess fame,
And wakeful caution, still aware
Of ill — but chief, man's felnn snare;
All blameless joys on earth we find.
And all the treasures of the mind
These be thy giiaidian ,ind irwaid ,
So prays thy faithf al friend, tha bxrd.
u
BURNS' WORKS.
SONNET,
WRITTEN OS IHE 25tH JANUARY, 179.3 THE
illUTH-DAY OK THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A
THU'ISH SING IN A JIORNING WALK.
Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless Lough,
Sing on, su'tet biril, I listen to thy strain,
See agetl Winter 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow.
60 in lone poverty's dominion drear,
Sits meek content with light unanxious heart.
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if tlicy bring aught to hope or fear.
I thank thee. Author of this opening day !
Tliou whose bright sun now gilds von orient
skies !
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,
What wealth could never give nor take away !
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care.
The mite high heaven bestowed, that mite with
thee I'll share.
EXTEMPORE,
TO MR. S E;
OK KETUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAV-
ING BEEN PROMISED THE FIEST OF COM-
PANY, AMI THE KIRST OF COOKERY, 17th
DECEMBER, 1795.
No more of your guests, be they titled or not,
And cookery tiie tiist in the nation ;
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit.
Is proof to all other temptation.
TO MR. S— E.
WITH A PRESENT OF A HOZEN OF PORTER.
O HAD the malt thy strength of mind^
Or iiops the (l.ivoui of tliy wit ;
Twere ihiiik for first of human kind,
A gift that e'en for S — e were fit.
ifssusAi.niii Tavern, Dumfries.
I, modestly, fu' fain wad nint it,
That one pound one, I sairly want it;
If wi' the hizzie down ye send it.
It would be kind ;
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted
I'd bcar't in mind.
So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi' double plenty o'er the loaning
To thee and thine ;
Domestic peace and comforts crowning
The hail desiirn.
o
POSTSCRIPT.
Ye've heard this while how I've been licket
And by fell death was nearly nicket :
Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket.
And sair me sheuk ;
But, by guid luck, I Ij)) a wicket,
And turn'd a neuk.
But by that health, I've got a share o't,
And by that life I'm promised mair o't,
My hale and weel I'll tak' a care o't
A tentier way :
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't,
For ance and aye.
SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WIIOJI HE HAD
OFFENDED.
Thp. friend whom wild from wisdom's way,
The fumes of wine infui iate send ;
(Not moony madness more astray)
Who but deplores that hapless friend ?
Wine was th' insensate frenzieil part,
Ah why should I such scenes outlive!
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart !
'Tis thine to pity and forgive.
POEM,
audhessed TO MIX. MiTCHii.r,, roLLECTOK. 01
EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796.
ruiEND of the iJO>t, tried and leal,
Wha, wantii.g thee, n.iglit bi>g or steal ;
Alake, alakc, the meilJi' dell,
^\'I' a' liis witches
4re at h, skelpin' ! ji.; and nel,
In mv pool pouches.
POEM ON LIFE,
ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PETSIK*,
DUMFRIES, IyOG.
My honoured colonvl, deep I feel
Your iatrrest in the poet's weal ;
I All ! how sma' heart Lie J to specl
The steep Parnassut,
Surrounded thus by IkiIus pill,
And potion glasses.
O what a canty world were it,
Woulil p.un and cue, aucl sickness spare it t
And fortune, fav(jur, worth, and merit,
As thi-y di sei ve ;
(And aye a* rowth, roa-t bee and claret ;
Syne wha would sta'^e);
POEMS.
U
Dame life, tho' fiction out may trick lier,
Anil in piste pein-; anil fiippeiy deck her;
Oh ! flickering, feel)le, ami unsicker
I've fimnd her still,
Ave \vaverii}g like tlie willow wicker,
'Tween good and ill.
Then that curst oarmasjnole, auld Satan,
Watclies like baudrcins by a rattan,
Our siiifu' saul to get a cl.uit on
Wi' felon ire ;
Syne, whip ! bis tail ye'U ne'er cast saut on,
He's aif like fire.
Ah Nick ! ah Nick, it is na fair,
Fir^t showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines auu honnie l.isses rare.
To put us d.ift ;
Syne weave unseen thy s))idir's snare
0 hell s danin'd waft.
Poor man, the flie, aft hizzes hy.
And uft as chance he conies thee nigh.
Thy aiild danin'd elbow yenks wi' joy.
An I hellish pleasure ;
Already in thy fancy's eye.
Thy sicker treasure.
Soon heels o'er gowdie ! in he gangs,
And like a slieep-4iead on a tan;js,
Tliy girning laugh enjoys his pings
And iiiiiiiiering wrestle,
As dangling in the wind he hangs
A gibbet's tassel
But lest you think I am uncivil.
To plague you with this drauiiting drivel,
Abjuring a' inteatiims evil,
1 ipiat my pen ;
The Lord preserve us Irae the devil !
Amen ! amen !
ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE.
Mr curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots niv tortur'd gums alang ;
And thru' my lugs gifs muny a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance;
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines !
When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or chnlic s()ueezes ;
Our neighbour's sympathy m ly ease us,
\Vi' pitying moan ;
But thee — thou hell o' a" diseases,
Aye mocks our groan !
Adown my beard the slavers trickle ;
I throw the wee stools o'er the meikle,
.\3 round the fire the giglets keckle,
To see me loup ;
While raving mad, 1 wi-h a heckle
Were in their doup.
O' a' the num'rous hjman dools,
111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stooh.
Or worthy friends raked i' the mools,
S.id sight to sec !
The tricks o' knaves or fash o* fouls.
Thou bear'st the gre«.
Where'er that place be, priests ca* hell,
Wlience a* the tones o' mis'ry yell,
And ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfii' raw.
Thou, TooTii-ACllE, surely bear'st the hcH,
Amang them a' !
O thou grim mischief-making chiel.
That gars the notes o' discord Kijneel,
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel
In gore a shoe-thick ;—
Gie a' the faes o' Scori.ASD's wecl
A towmond's Tooth- Aciia
TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esu
OF IINTIIV,
ON IlECLIVING A FAVOUR.
I CALi, no goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Mu^e may suit a bard th it feigns ;
P'riend of my life ! my ardent spirit bunig.
And all the tribute of my heart returns.
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gift still deader as the giver you.
Thou orb of day ! thou other ])aler light !
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ;
If anght that giver fniin my mind efface j
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ;
Tl^n roll to me, along your wandering sphereSk
Only to number out a villain's years!
EPITAPH ON A FPJEND.
An honest man here lies at rest,
As e'er God with his image blest,
The friend of man, the friend of truth ;
The friend of age, and guide of yuutli :
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm 'J,
Vi:\v heads with kmiwltdge s.> inform'd :
If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is nunc, he made the best of this.
A GRACE BEFORE DINNER
O Tnoii, who kindly dost ]irovide
For ev'ry creature's want !
We bUs> tlico, God of nature w'de.
For ail thy goodness leut ;
76
BURNS' WORKS.
And if it please tliee, heavenly guide,
Miiy nc'VLT worse be sent ;
But A'hether granted, or denied,
Lord bless us with content !
Amen !
TO MY DEAR AKl) MUCH HONOURED FRIEND,
MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP,
ON SENSIBILITY.
Sensibility liow charming,
Thau, my friend^ canst truly tell ;
But distress, with horrors arminj^.
Thou hast also known too well !
Fairest flower, beliold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray ;
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley.
See it prostrate ou the clay.
Hear the wood-lark charm the f'lil^
Telling o'er his little joys :
Ha|)less bira ! a prey the sure»5,
To each pirate of the skies.
Dearly bought the hidden treasure,
Finer feelings can bestow ;
Chiirds that vibrate sweetest pleasujyj,
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
A VERSE,
COMPOSED AND REPEAtEia BY BURNS, TO THB
MAST2R OF THE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEATl
AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS VVHERK UK
HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED.
When death's dark stream 1 ferry o'l
A time that surely shall come ;
In heaven itself, I'll ask no more.
Than just a Highland welcome.
er;
ADDITIONAL PIECES OF POETRY,
From the Reliques, Published in 1808,
BY MR. CRO.AIEK.
The contributions were poured so copiously upon Dr. Currie that sele-'tion became a duty, and ai
])ut aside several interesting pieces both in prose and verse, which would have done honour to
the Poet 8 memory : But besides these there were other pieces extant, which did not come
under the Doctoi's notice: All of them, both of the rejected and iTiscuvered description, have
since been collected and published by Mr. Cromck, whose personal devotion to the Poet, and
generally to the poetry of his country, rendered him a most assiduous collector. The additiona]
pieces of iioutry so collected and published by Cromek, are given here. The additional songs
and correspondence, tiken from the Reliques and his more recent publication, " Select Scot-
tish Songs," will each appear in the proper place.]
ELEGY
OK
MR. "WILLIAM CREECH,
BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH.
I.
Ari.D chuekie Reekie's • sair distrest,
Down droojis her ance weel burnish't crest,
Kae joy her bonie bii»kit nest
Can yirld .iva,
Her dirling bird that bhe lue's best,
Willie's dwa !
• Edintiureh.
IL
O Willie was a wittv wight.
And had o' things an unco' slight;
Auld Reekie ay he kee;)it tight.
And trig an* braw;
But now they'll busk her like a fright,
Willie's awa '
in.
The stlffest o' them a' he bow'd.
The bauldest o' thtMU a' hecow'd ;
They durst nae nialr than he allow'd,
That was a law :
We've lost » biikie wecl woi'h gowd,
Willie's awa '
POEMS.
77
IV.
Now gawlxic'S, taw pies, gowks and fuols,
Frao r(i!l<'i;;os and Ixj.inlinc; .-I'lmols,
May sprout like simmer piuldoi-k- stools
In glen or shaw ;
He wha cimld brush them flown to mools
Willie's awa !
The hrefli'ren o' the Coinmerce-Chaumer *
May muiiin their lo'^s wi" doolfu* clamjur ;
He was adictionar and grammar
Amatig tliem a' ;
I fear they'll now mak mony a st immer
Willie's awa !
VI.
Nae niair we see his levee door
Pliilos,)j)lieis and Poets poiir,f
And toothy critics by the score
In bloody raw !
The adjutant o' a' tlie core
Willie's awa '
Now worthy G—
T r's and G-
M'K e, S —
VII.
-y's latin face,
's m<i<lest grace ;
-t, such a brace
As Rome ne'er saw ;
They a' maun meet some ither place,
Willie's awa !
VIII.
Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken,
He cheeps like some bewildered chicken,
Scar'd frae it's miunie and the deckia
By hoodie-craw ;
Criers gicn his heart aa unco kickin',
Willie's awa !
IX.
Now ev'ry sour-mou'<l grinin' blellum.
And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him ;
And self-conceited critic skellum
His quill m-iy draw ;
He wha could brawlie ward their helium
Willie's awa !
Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped.
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,
And Ettrick banks now roaring red
While tempests blaw ;
Rut every joy and pleasure's fled
Willie's awa !
XL
May I be slander's common speech ;
A text for infamy to preach ;
And lastly, streekit out to bleach
In winter snaw ;
WI.ou I f„iget tiiee I V.'ii.i.i/i Cukkoh,
Tho' far awa '
XII.
I\Iay never wicked fortune touzle him !
May never wicked men 1) nnlHiozle him '
Untd a ])ow as auld's iMetliusalem !
He canty claw !
Then to the blessed, New Joiusalem
Fleet wing awal
ELEG\
OS
PEG NICHOLSON.*
Pkg Nicholson was a good bav mare.
As ever trode on airn ;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And past the iNIouth o' Cairn.
Peg Nicholson wa^ a good b;iy mare,
And rode thro' thick and thin ;
But now she's lloating down tlie Nitb,
And wanting even the skin.
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And anoe she bore :i priest ;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
For Sol way lish a feast.
Peg NichoNon was a good bay mare,
Anil the priest he rode her sair :
And much op|)ressed and bruised she waa i
—As priest-rid cattle are, &c. Sec.
ODE TO LIBERTY.
(Imperfict).
[In a letter to Mrs. Dwnlop, the poet s.iys:— The sutv
jcct is iiuKiti V : Vou know, my hoiioiirt-il fr enii
how dear the iheme is to me. 1 ilcsi^i) it an iiieiiii
lar Oiie for Ceneral Washington's biilli-day. Auel
having mcntioneil theilcijciieracy of other kingdoms
1 come to Scotland thus] :
Thee, Caledonia, thy w-ild heaths among,
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes ;
Where is that soul of freedom (led ?'
Immingled with the mi:;lity dead !
Beneath that hallowed turf wnere WaL«-ACK
lies !
• Marporct Nicholson, flic maniac, whose visitationi
very much alarmed fieorKC the Tliiril for his life. In
• The Chamber of Commerce of Edinburgh of which
Mr. C. was Secretary *i.ry imicii aiarmeu i.eorKC tlie riiir<l for his life. In
t Many literary Rcntlemen were accustomed to meet na-Jiig their steels, ,he ,,oet and his friend Nicol sec "
at Mr. Creech's house at breaknist. Hums often met to have had a ,.r ference, in ihL- w.,v of d,.in.' lu iioVr
with them there, when he c-vled. and hence the name of course, for the worthies who hadused freedom witl-'
a Levee. boih jinest ami kum
r8
BURNS' WORKS.
H<;ar it not, WAi.tAcr, in t>iy hod of death !
Ye babblin'j winds, in silence sweep ;
Disriirl) not ye the hero's sleep,
Nor i^'ive the coward secret bre;ith. —
Is this the power in freedom's war
That wont to bid the battle rage ?
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate.
Crushing the despot's proudest bearing,
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate,
Biaved ii>^urpation's boldest daring !
One quenched in dirkness like the sinking star,
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless
aue.
A PRAYER— IN DISTRESS.
O THOU Great Being ! what thou art
Surpasses me to know ;
Yet sure I *m, that known to thee
Are aJl thy works below.
Thv 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 ;
O, free my weary eyes from tears.
Or close them fast in death !
But if I must afflicted bo,
To suit some wise design ;
riien man mv soal with firm resolves
To bear and not rejjme !
A PRAYER,
Do Thou, AH Good ! for such Thou art
In shades of larkness hide.
Where with intention I ha^'e err'd,
No other plea I have,
But, Thou art good ; and goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.
WHEN FAINTING KITS. AND OTIIEll ALARMING
SYMPTOMS OF A I'LKUI'.ISY OR SOME OTHER
DANGEROITS nlSORIM:!l, WHICH INDEED
STII.I. THREATENS JIE, FKiST VUT NATURE
ON THE ALARM.
O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all mv hope and fear !
In v/liose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I nmst appear.
If I hav<" "-"ndcr'd in those patlis
Of liie I oup:ht to shun ;
AS something, loudly, in my breast,
Remonstrates 1 have dime ;
Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me
M'iih passions wild and strong ;
And list'ning to their witching voice
Ii;is often led ine wrong.
VtHioro human n-eiiimess has come short,
Or fruilCg stept aside,
DESPONDENCY:
A HYMN.
Wiir am I loth to leave this earthly scene
Have 1 so found it full ci pleasing charms '.
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill b*s
tween :
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing
storms :
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?
Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ;
1 tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart neatli his sin-avenging rod.
Fain would I say, * Forgive my foul offence !'
Fain promise never more to disobey ;
But, should my author health again dispense,
Again I mij.-ht desert fair virtue's way ;
Again in folly's path might go astray ;
Again exalt the brute and sink the man ;
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,
Whi act so counter heavenly i.iercy's plan ?
Wlio sin so oft have mourn'd yet to temptatioc
ran ?
O Thou, great governor of all below !
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Tliv nod can make the tenijjest cease to blow,
Or still the tumult of the raging sea ;
With that controling pow'r assist ev'n me.
Those headlong furious passions to confine ;
For all unfit I feel my fiowers to be.
To rule their torrent in th' allowed line,
O, aid me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine I
LINES ON RELIGION.
" 'Tis this, my frienl, that streaks our morning
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 ])ursue;
'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart,
Di'^anns affliction, or repels its dart :
Witipin the brent bids purest raptures rise,
ni<ls smiling conscience spread her cloudlcRS
skies "
?OEMS.
79
EPISTLES IN VERSE
TO J. LAPllAIK.
Sept. \:lth, \7S:>.
flvn speed an' furrier to you Joliny,
fiuiil liealtli, hale luiti's, an' weather bony ;
Now ivhen ye" re nickan down fii' canny
The staff o' bread,
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany
To clear your head.
May TJoreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Seiulin' the stuff o'er niui:s an' haggs
Like drivin' wrack ;
But may the tapmast grain that wags
Come to the sack.
I'm bizzie too, an' skelpiri' at it.
But bitter, daudin showers hue wat it,
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it
Wi' muekle wark,
An' took my jocteleg » a:i' whatt it,
Like ony claik.
It's now twa month that I'm your debtor,
For vour braw, nameless, dateless letter,
Abusin' me for harsh ill nature
On hiilv men.
While deil a hair yoursel ye' re better.
But mair profane.
But let the kirk-folk ring their beils,
Let's sing about our noble sels ;
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills
To help, or roose us.
But browster wives f an whisky stills,
Thet/ are the muses.
Ymir friendship Sir, I winna quat it.
An' if ye niak' objections at it.
Then ban' in nieve some day we'll knot it,
An' witness take,
An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it
It wiuna break.
But if the bca«t and branks he fpar'd
Till kve be gaun without the herd,
An' a' the vittel in the yard.
An' theekit right,
I mean your ingle-side to guard
Ae winter night.
Then mu«e-inspirin' aqua-vita;
Shall make u> baith sae blythe an' witty,
Till ye forget ye" re auld an' gatty.
An' be as canty
A» ye were nine year less than thretty,
Sweet ane-an'-twentv.
But stooks are cow()et * Tvi' the blast,
Au' now the sinn keeks vn the wot
Then 1 maun rin amang the rest
An' quat my chanter;
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste,
Your's, Rab the Ranter.
• Jnctt!ec — a knife.
♦ B'owslfr uives — Alehouse wives.
REV. JOHN M'-AIATH,
INCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WII.LIK's HI A VE B.
WHICH Uli HAD llEUUESTEI).
Sept. Mth, 1785.
WuiLE at the stook the shearers cow'r
To shun the bitter blaudiu' show'r.
Or in gulravagef rinnin scow'r
To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the hour
I.i idle rhyme.
IMy musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet
On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet.
Is grown right eerie now she's done it.
Lest they shou'd blame her,
An' rouse their holy thunder on it
And aiiathem her.
I own 'tv.-as rash, an' rather hardy.
That I, a simple, countra bardie,
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,
Wha, if 'hey ken me.
Can easy, wi' a single wordie.
Louse h-11 upou me.
But I gae mad at their grimaces,
Their sighan, cantan, gra^e-proud faces,
Their three-mile prayers, an hauf-mile graces,
Their raxan conscience,
Whaws greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces
Waur nor their nonsense.
There's Guiin, \ miska't waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honor in his breast
Than mony scores as guid's the pi iest
Wha sae abiis't him.
Aa' may a bard no crack his je>t
What way they've use't hini>
See him, |i the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word an' deed.
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed
By worthless skellunos.
An' not a muse erect her l.»ad
To cowe the blellums .
• Cmt'pet — Tuml)Iei1 over.
t Vn-'rcia^f — Iluniiinii in a confused, disorderly
manner, like boys when leaving school.
t r.avin Hamilton, Kscj.
II '(lie )ioet lias iiitrotliiced the two first lines of thit
stanza inio the detlieaUon of tiis woriis to Mr. Haniil
luiu
80
BURNS' WORKS.
O Pope, had I thy satire's darts
To g.e the rascals their deserts,
I'd rip their rotten, huliow iiearts,
An' tell aloud
Their jugglin' hocus pocus arts
To c'leat the crowd.
God knows, I'm no the thing I shnu'd be,
Nor am I ev'n the thing I cou'd i)e.
But twenty times, I rather wuu'd be
An atheist clean,
Than under gospel colours hid be
Just lor a screen.
An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man ni..y like a lass,
But mean revenge, an' malice fause
He'll still disdain,
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws,
Like some we ken.
They take religion in their mouth ;
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth.
For what ? to gie their malace skouth
On some ]iuir wight,
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth,
To ruin streight.
All hail, religion ! maid divine!
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line
Thus daurs to name thee ;
To stigmatize false friends of thine
Can ne'er defame thee.
Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' monv a stain.
An' far urnvortliy of thy train.
With trembling voice I tune my strain
To join with those,
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain
In spite of foes :
In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,
In spite of unciermining jobs,
In spite o' dark banditti stabs
At woi th an' 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
An* manly preachers.
Sir, in that circ'c you are nam'd ;
Sir, in that circle you are fain'd ;
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd,
(Which gies you honor)
Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd.
An' winuing-nianner.
Pardon this freedom I have ti'en,
An' if inipertiucut I've been
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane
Wha^e heart ne'er wrang'd fn
But to l»s utmost would befriend
Ought that belang'd J J.
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esa
.MAt;CIll,lNfc.
(recommending a buv).
Moxgaville, Matj 3, I79G.
I HOLD it. Sir, my bounden duty
To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird M'Gaun,*
Was hero to hire yon lad away
'Bout whom ye spak the tithcr day.
An' wad hae don't aff han' '
But lest he learn the callan tricks,
As faith I nnickle doubt him.
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks.
An' tellin' lies about them ;
As lieve thcri I'd have then,
Your clerkship he should sair,
If sae be, ye may be
Not 6ttud otherwhere.
Altlio' I say't, he's gleg enough.
An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough.
The boy inight learn to $iceat
But then wi' j/oit, he'll be sae tauyht.
An' get sic fair ejrnihjile straught,
I hae na ony fear,
Ye'll cateidiise him every quiik,
An' shore him weel wi' hell ;
An' gar him follow to the kirk
— Ay when ye gang yoursel.
If ye then, maun be then
Frae hame this comin Friday,
Then please Sir, to lea'e Sir,
The orders wi' your lady.
My word of honour I hae gien.
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en,
To meet the WarldCs wona ;
To try to get the twa to gree.
An' name the airles f an' the fee.
In legal mode an' form :
I ken he weel a Snic/t can draw,
When simple bodies let him ;
An' if a Devil be at a',
In faith he's sure to get hilT^
To ])hrase you an' praise you.
Ye ken your Laureat scorns :
The pray'r still, you share still,
Of grateful iMinstkkl Bukns.
• Master Tootle then lived in Maucliliiie; a dealer
In Cows. It was his cDmiiiiin iiraeliee to rut the oiekj
or markings from tin- hums uf f.mle, to ili»i,niise iheir
aKC. — He was an artful iripk-eoiiirivuig character;
hence he is called a S'i'uk-ilr,iurr. In the iMX't'i
*■ Address to th.' Ihil^' lie styles tliat august persouagt
an anid, suick-drdwiii); do^j !
t The Airles — luirnest niouev.
POEMS
TO MR. IM'ADAiVI, My goose-qulU too mdi' is t o tt-ll al] your good-
or C 11 A K". K X-O I I.LA N,
IN ANSWKIl TO AN OIlI.IC I NO LETTEIl HE StNT
IN THE CO.MJlENCt.MEST OF >IY POETIC
C AliKEll.
■SlR; e'er a pill I g.it yoiir cinl,
I trow it luado me |>i<iu(l ;
See « iia tiks ti(iti<'e o' tlii.' biird !
I lap and cry'd fu' loud.
Now dcil-nia care about tbeir jaw,
The senseless, pawky iiiillion ;
I'll cock my nose ahoi.u thcin a',
I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan !
'Twas noble, Sir, 'twas like yoursel,
To graut youi lii;;li protection :
A great man's smile, ye ken In' well,
Is ay a blest iufectiou.
Thu', by bis o Iwnes wlia in a tub
Match'd Macedonian Sandy !
On my uin 1l'l;s tliro' dirt and dub,
I indepenilent stand ay
And wlien those legs to gud;, warm kailj
Wi' welcome canna bear me ;
A Ice dvke-side, a sybmv-tail,
And barley-scone shall cheer me.
Heaven spare you lang to kiss tlic breath
O' inony flow'ry simmers !
And bless your bonie la>s-es baith,
I'm tald they're loosome kimmers !
And God h\e:-? young Dunaskin's laird,
The blossoiii of our gentry !
And may he wear an auld man's beard,
A credit to his countiy.
TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL,
GLENRlllDhL,
(extempore LINES ON RETURING A
newspaper).
EUhlaiid, Monday Evening.
Your news and review. Sir, I've read tlirough
and through, Sir,
With little admiring or blaming :
Tlie papers are barren of home-news or foreign,
^^o murders or rapes worth the naming.
Oir friends the reviewers, those chippcrs and
hewers,
Are judges of mortar and storie. Sir ;
But of meet, or unniett, in a. fabric comphfe^
I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir.
IJestowed on your servant, the Poet ;
Would to Ciod I had one like a beam of the 8un,
And then all the worM, Sir, should know itl
TO TERRAUGIITY,*
ON HIS BIRTM-DAV.
Hkai.tm to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief!
Health, ay unsour'd by can? or grief;
Insj)ir'd, 1 turn'd Tate's sybil leaf,
'lljis natal morn,
I see thy life is stuff o' priet.
Scarce ijuite lialf wc 0.-«
This day thou metes threescore eleven.
And 1 can tell that bouiitemis llcavea
(The second sight, ye ken, is piven
To ilka Poet)
Oa thee a tack o' seven times seven
Will )et bestow it.
If envious buckles view wi' sorrow
Thy Itngthen'd days on this l>le~t morro'je,
ftiay desolation's laiig-teuth'd harrow,
Nine mdes an hour,
Rake them, like Sodom and (joinuirali,
In brunstane st'iure—
But for thy friends, and they are inony,
H.iith honest men and lasses biinie,
i\Iay couthie fortune, kind and cannie,
In social glee,
Wi' mornings biytlie and c'euings funny
Bless them aiid thee.
Farweel, auld liirkie ! Lord be near ye,
And then the Deii he daurna steer ye
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye.
For me, shame fa' mc,
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye
While Burns they ca m«
• Diogenps.
THE VOWELS:
A TALE.
'TwAS where the birch and sounding thong
are ply'd.
The noisy (hiniicile of pe<lant pride ;
Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws,
.\nd crueltv directs the tlnckening blows;
• Mr. Maxwell, of TcrrauRhty, near Dionfrie*
This is the J. I*, who, at the Kxeiso Coiirts, e.illfd Ibi
Burns'* reports : tliey »heiviil thai Ac, «hile he aete4
U|) to the law, cimlil remiii'ilc his duly »:lh liiillUiUlt
tv- ' Aitho' an fclxi'iseinaii he hail a liearl.'
tv ^
82
BURNS' WORKS.
Upon a time, Sir Ahecf ilie great,
In all his ])c'ila?o>;ic powers elate,
His awAil cl'.air of state re>olvcs to mount,
And call the trtuihling vowels to account. —
First cnterM A, a 2:raYC, broad, solemn wight,
But ah ! defi rniM, dishonest to the sii;ht !
iiis twisted head look'd backward on his way.
And flagrant fioiii the scourge he grunted ai I
Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race
The justling tears ran down his honest face !
That name, that well-worn came, and all his
own.
Pale he suuenders at the tyrant's throne.'
The pcdact stifles keen the Roman sound,
Not all his monjrel diphthongs can compound ;
And next the title following close behind,
Ut to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd.
The cobweb'd gothic dome rosnurdcd, Y !
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply :
The jiedant swung his felon cudgel round.
And kuock'd the groaning vowel to the ground !
In rueful apprehension cnter'd O,
Tne wailing minstrel of despairing woe;
Th' Inquisitor of Sjiain, the most expert.
Might there have learnt new my-teries of hi« art:
So grim, deforni'd, with horrors entering U,
His dearest friend and biother scarcely knew !
As trembling U stood staring all aghast.
The pedant in hi* left hand clutchM him fist,
In heljiless infants' tears he dipp'd his right,
Baptiz'd him ew, and kick'd bim from his sight.
Is it some blast that gathers in the north,
Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r'
Is it, sad owl, that autumn strips the shade,
And leaves thee h.ere, unshclterM and forlorn ?
Or fear that winter will thy nest Invade ?
Or friendless melancholy bids thee mouiu r
Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather'd tra'.o,
To tell thy sorrows to th' unheeding gloom
No friend to pity when thou dost complain.
Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home
Sins
ad mourner ! I will bless thy strain,
A SKETCH.
A LlTTl.E, upright, pert, tirt, tripping wight,
And still his precious self his dear delight .
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets,
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets.
.A man of fashion too, he made his tour,
Learn'd rice la brii/nitHe, ct vivc V aminir ;
So travell'd nionkics their grimace improve,
Polish their grin, nay sigh for ladies' love.
>Juch specious lore but little understood ;
Finceriiig oft outshlucs the solid wood :
His solid sen.-ie — liy inches you must t»ll,
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend.
Still making work his selfish craft must mend.
TO THE OWL:
BY JOHN m'CIIEDDIE,
Sao bird of night, wh.it sorrow calU thee forth.
To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight
hour •■
And pleas'd in sorrow listen m thy song
Sing on sad mourner ! to the night complain,
While the lone echo wafts thy notes along.
Is beauty less, when down the glowing chf-elt
Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall ?
Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break.'
Less hajipy he who lists to pity's call ?
Ah no, sad owl ' nor is thy voice less sweet.
That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there;
That spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou canst
repeat ;
That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair :
Nor that the treble songsters of the day.
Are quite estranged, sad bird of night ! from
thee ;
Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray.
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie.—
From some old tow'r, thy melanc'nnly dome,
While the gray walls and desalt solitudes
Return each note, responsive to ine gloom
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods ;
There hooting; I will list more pleas'd to the«,
Than ever lover to the nightingale ;
Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery,
Lending his ear to some condoling tale.
EXTEMPORE,
IK THE COURT OF SESSlOtf.
TufW — " Gillicrankie."
Lord Advocate, Robert Dunda>.
He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist.
He quoted and he hinted,
Till in a declamation-mis%
His argument he tint it :
He ga];c(l for't, he graped for't,
He faiid it was awa, man ;
But what his common sense came short*
He eked out wi' law, man.
£OEMS.
V.R. riKNIlY ErsKINK.
CoIli'Cti'd riariy stood auve,
Then (ipen'd out liis arm, man ;
His lordship sat \vi' niefu' c'e,
And cy'd the £;atherin<r storm, mam
Liko wind-driv'n hail it did assail.
Or torrents owre a lia, man ;
The nenc/i sae wise lift uj) their eyes,
Ilulf-wauken'd wi" the din, man.
BS
Then let us fi<jht about, Dumourier ;
Then let us fij^ht about, Dumourier;
Then let us fi^rl,t al,„„t,
'Till freedom's spark is out,
Then we'll be d-mned no doubt — Dumouner •
ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN
THE REV. DR. B 's VERV LOOKS.
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.
ADDRESS
TO GENERAL DUMOURIER.
(a PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIIl).
Vou're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ;
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier
How does Danipiere do ?
Aye, and Bournonville too?
Why did they not come along with you, Du-
mourier?
I will fiirlit France with you, Dumourier,
I will fight France with you, Dumourier :
I will fight France with you,
1 will take my chance with you ;
Bj my soul I'll dance a dauce with you, Dumou-
r .
EXTEMPORE EFFUSIONS.
[The Poet paid a visit on horseback to Cnrlislo: whi.
lie was at table hn steed was turned out to Rraze in
nil enelosiire, but wandeved, probably in iiiiest oj
better pasture, into an adJDiiiin;; one: it was Im.
pounded by order of the Mayor— whose tern of of-
fiec expired next day :_rhe Muse thus delivered
licrselt on the oceasion] :
Was e'er puir poet sae befitted,
The m;:;*^ fbuiik — the horse committed ;
Puir harmless beas, ; takf thei naj care,
Thou'it he a horse, when he's nae mair-(mayoi'^
TO A FRIEND,
%V1TH A POUND OF SNUFF.
O could I give thee India's wealth,
As I this trifle send ;
Wliy then the joy of both would be,
To share it with ^ friend.
But golden sands ne'er yet have graced
The Heliconian stream ;
Then take what gold can never buy,
An honest Baid's esteem.
« It is almost needless to observe that the Rem. of
H:^in Ail.it \ begins thus :— '
Vou're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair;
\ oil re welcome to I'axton, Robin Aaair
How does J,.bnnv Mackerel! do?
Aye, and Luke Gardener too?
V\ hy did tb»y not come along with vow «tobin
Adaiv?
f^
ESSAY
UPON
SCOTTISH POETRY,
INCLUDING THE POETRY OF BURNS,
BY DR. CURRIE
9
That Burns hiM not the advanta^^es of a d.is-
sieal educatinn, or of any ilfgree of acijuaiiitance
with the Gieek or Roman writers in thfir oii-
l^inal dress, has appeared in the history of liis
life. He acquired itideeil some knowledjje of the
Freiieli lanfruacje, hut it does not appear that he
was ever much conversant in French literature,
nnr is there any evidence of his having; deriveil
any of his poetical stories from that source.
With the English classics he became well ac-
quainted in the course of his life, and the eff^'cts
of this acquaintance are ohservalJe in his latter
prodnctioos ; liut the character ami stv'e of his
poetry were formed very early, and the moilel
which he followed, in as far as he can lie said to
have had one, is to be sought for in the works
of the poets who have written in the Sc{)ttish
dialect — in the works of such of them more es-
pecially, as are familiar to the peasantrv of Scot-
land. Some obseivations on these may form a
proper iutniduction to a more ])artlcular exami-
nation of the poetry of Burns. Tlie studies of
the editor in this direction are indeed verv re-
cent and very imperfect. It woulil have i)een
imprudent for him to have entered on this sub-
ject at all, but for the kinilness of Rlr. Uamsav
of Ochtertyre, whose assistance he is proud to
acknowledge, and to whom the reailcr must as-
<rribe whatever is of any value in the folluv.'iiig
im|)ertect sketch of literary coinpusitijiis in the
Scottish idiom.
It is a circumstance not a little curious, ami
which does not seem to be satisfactorily explain-
ed, that in the thirteenth century the laiiyuag:'
of the two British nations, if at all different,
differed only in dialect, the Gaelic in the one,
like the Welch and Armoric in the ether, being
conlineil to the moimtainotis districts.* The
English under the Edwards, and the Scots under
Wallace and Kruce. sjioke the same language.
We may observe also, that in Scotland the his-
tory ascends to a jieriod nearly as remote as in
England. Barbour and Blind Harry, James the
First, Dunbar, Douglas, and Lindsay, who liv-
• HUto'-ical Esuys on Scottish Son^, p. "0, by .Mr.
Ritson.
ed in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sisteewth c«a-
tiiries, were coeval with the fathers of poetry il
England ; and in the opinion of Mr. Wharton,
not inferior to them in genius or in composition.
Tlough the language of the two countries gra-
dually deviated from each other during this pe-
riod, yet the difference on the whole was not
considerable ; nor perhaps greater than between
the different dialects of the different parts oi
England in our own time.
At the death of James the Fifth, in 15 i2, the
language of Scotliml was in a flourishing condi-
tion, wanting only writers in prose equal to thoji'
in verse. Two circumstances, propitious on the
whole, operated to prevent this. The first was
tlie passion of t!;e Scots for composition in Li-
lin ; and the second, the accession of James the
Sixth to the Eiislish throne. It may easily b«
imagined, that if Buchanan had devoted his ad-
mirable talents, even in |)art, to the cultivation of
his native tongue, aa was done by the revivers of
letters in Italy, he would have left compositions
in that langu iL;e which might have exciteil other
men of genius to have foili.wed lus example.f
and give dui.itinn to the l.uiguage itself. The
union of the two crowns in the person of James,
overthrew all reasonable exjiectation of this kind.
That monarch, seated on the English throne,
would mi h)i«er be addressed in the rude dia-
lect in whi. h the Scotti-h <leigy had so often
insulted his dignity. He encouraged Latin or
Eiigl.sh iiiily, both of which be prided himself
cm wr.ting with purity, though he himself never
could acquire the English pronunciation, but
spoke with a Scottish idiom and intonation to
the last. Scotsmen of talents declineil writing ia
their native language, which they knew was not
accejitible to their learned and pedantic mo-
naich ; and at a time whe'i national prejudic*
and enmity prevailed to a great degree, they dis-
d. lined to study the nicities oi'tlie Engliih tongue,
though of so much easier acquisition than a
dead language. Lord Stirling and DrummonJ
of llawthornden, the only Scotsmen who wiota
t '■ C- The -^uthurseTtUc Vflicice I'oelarum Scuta
rum. Ac.
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY.
85
pootrv in tliose times, were exceptions. Tlioy
jtiidli'il tl.c lanjjiia^'e nf En;,'l.inil, ami i-oinixifiiMl
in it with pri'i-iNion ami elejj.ince, Tlu'V \v«ie
liinvevfr the last <if lliiir countrymen w!io de-
soi-vcil ti) he c'onsiiieied as pnets in th it century.
The muses of Scotlai;(l sunk iito silonre, anil
dill not asjiiin raise thoir voices tor a p'-riotl of
fif;lity years.
To what causes arc wc to attribute this ex-
treme depression amonjj a people comparatively
»?arneii, enter]. rising, and ingenious? Shall
sre impute it ti the fanatiei^ni of the covenan-
tors, vf to the ivranny of the house of Stuart
after their restoration to the throne ? Doubt-
U*9 these causes o|'eratcd, hut they seem un-
fqiial tn account fi;i tlie effect. In England si-
milar distractions and oppressions took place, yet
poetrv flourished there in a remarkable degree.
During this period, Cowley, and Waller, and
Dryden sung, and Milton raised his strain of un-
paralleled grandeur. To the causes already
mentioned, another must be added, in account-
ing fur the torpor of Scottish literature — the
want of a proper vehicle for men of genius to
emidoy. The civil wars had frightened away
the Latin muses, and no standard had been es-
tablished of the Scottish tongue, whieh was de-
viating still farther from the pure English idiom.
The revival of literature in Scotland may be
dated from the establishment of the union, or
rather from the extinction of the rebellion in
171.5. The nations being finally incorporated,
it was cleajly seen that their tongues must in
the end incorporate aJso ; or rather indeed that
the Scottish language must degenerate iuto a
provincial idiom, to be avoided by tliose who
would aim at distinction in letters, or rise to
eminence in the united legislature.*
Soon after this, a band of men of genius ap-
peared, who studied the English classics, and
imitated their beauties in the same manner as
they studied the classics of Greece and Rome.
They had admirable models of com|)ijsition late-
ly presented to them by the writers of the reign
uf Queen Anne ; particularly in the periodical
papers published by Steele, Ad lison, and their
associated friends, which circulated widely
through Scotland, and diffused every where a
taste for |)urity of style and sentiment, and for
r"itical disquisition. At length, the Scottish
ivritt-rs succeeded in English composition, anil a
Ui;ioii was formed of the literary talents, as well
83 of the legi-<Iatures of the two nations. On
thii occasion the poets took the lead. While
Henry Home,' Dr. Wallace, and their learned
a.'isociates, were only laying in their intellectual
ttores. and studying to 'dear themselves of their
Scottish iihoms, Thomson, Mallet, and Haniil-
lon of Bangour, hail made their appearance be-
fore the public, and been enrolled on the list of
English poets. The writers in prose followed
— a numtrous and powerful band, and poured
their ample stores into the genera! stream of Bri-
• I»rrt Kaim«
tish iiteritinc. Scotland possessed her fon.' unu
veisities before the aceessitin of James to the
English tlinnie. In.mediately before the union,
she ncnuiied her |)aniehial s< hools. These e»-
tabHshmeiits combining happily together, made
the elements of knowledge of easy acipiisition
and presented a direct path, by which the ar-
dent student might be carrieil along into the re-
cesses of science or Icarniiuj. As civil broils
ceased, and faction and jnejiidice gradually died
away, a wider field was opeiieil to literary ambi-
tion, and the iiiiluence of the Scottish institu
tions for instruction, on the pi'odiiclions of the
press, became mote and more apparent.
It seems indeed piobable, that the establish-
ment of the par-ochial schools produced effectn
on the rural muse of Scotlanil also, which have
not hitherto been suspected, and which, though
less s])lendid in trieir nature, arc not however
to be iTgarded as trivial, whether we consider
the happiness or the morals of the peopA;.
There is some reason to believe, that the
original inhabitants of the British isles posses^itl
a peculiar and interesting species of music,
which being banished from the plains by the
successive invasions of the Saxons, D ines, and
Normans, was preserved with the native race,
in the wilds of Iiel.md and in the mountains of
Scotland and Wales. The Iri>h, the Scottish,
and the Welsh music, differ indeed from each
other, but the ililference in iv be considered as
in dialect only, and ])ro!)ilily produced by th.e
influence of time, like the difl"crent dialects of
their common language. If this coi.jecture be
true, the Scottish music must be more imme-
diately of a Highland origin, and the Lowland
tunes, though now of a character somewhat dis-
tinct, must have descended from the mountains
in remote ages. Whatever credit may be given
to conjectures, evidently involved in great nn-
certainty, there can be no doubt that the Scot-
tish peasantry have been long in posses-ion of a
nuinber of songs and ballads composed in their
native dialect, and sung to their native music.
The subjects of these compositions were such as
most interested the simple inhabitants, and in
the succession of time varied probably as the
condition of society varied. During the sepa-
ration and the hosti.ity of tiie two nations, these
songs and ballads, as far as our impert'ect docu-
ments enable us to judge, were chiefly warlike ;
such as the Ilutitis of Clieviut, and the liutlle
nf Harlaw. After the union of the two crowns
when a certain degree of peace and tranquillity
took place, the lural muse of Scotland breathed
in softer accents. " In the want of real evi-
dence respecting the history of our songs," says
Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " recourse may be had
to conjecture. One woiilil be dis])osed to think,
that the most beautiful of the Scottish tunea
were clothed with new words after the union
of the crowns. The inhabit ir.ts of the border*,
who had fiuinerly been warriors from choice,
and husbandmen fiom necessity, cither quitted
the country, or were tratisronned iato real .shep-
dG
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY.
Leriis, easy in their c rcumi>-tances, and satisfied
with their lot. Some sparks of that spirit of
chivalry for which they are celebrated by Frois-
fcart, remained suflicient to ins|)ire elevation of
sentiment and gallantry towards the fair sex.
The familiarity and kindness which had long
Bubsisted between the gentry and the peasantry,
could not all at once be obliterated, and this
:onnexi(in tended to sweeten rural life. In this
state of innocence, ease, and tranquillity of
jjiiad, the love of poetry and music would still
maintain its ground, though it would naturally
assume a form congenial to the more peaceful
state of society. The minstrels, whose metrical
tales used on^-e to rouse the borderers like the
trumpet's sound, had been, by an order of the
Lei^islature (1579), classed with rogues and va-
gabonds, and attempted tu be sujipiessed. Knox
And his discij)les influenced the Scottish parlia-
ment, but contended in vain with her rural
nmse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, probably
on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its tri-
butary streams, one or more original geniuses
may have arisen who were destined to give a
«ew turn to the taite of their countrymen.
They would see that the events and pursuits
which chequer private life were the proper sub-
jects f . r popular poetry. Love, which had for-
merly held a divided sway with gloiy and am-
bition, became now the masrer-passion ot the
foul. To |iortray in lively and delicate colours,
thiiUgh with a hasty hand, the hojies and fears
that agitate the breast of the h.ve-suk swain,
or forlorn maiden, alford ample scope to the
rural poet. Love-songs, of which Tibullus
himself would not have been ashamed, might
he composed bv an uneducated rustic with a
tlight tincture of letters; or if in these songs
the character of the lustic be sometimes assum-
ed, the truth of character, and tlie language of
nature, are preserved. With niiatfected sim-
plicity and tenderness, topics are urged, most
likely to soften the heart of a cruel ai;il coy
mistress, or to regain a tickle lover. Even in
such as are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope
breaks through, and dispels the deep and settled
gloom which characterizes the swee'.ist ot tlie
Highland luiiiaiji, or vocal airs. Nor are tlie>e
songs all jilaintive ; many of them are lively
and bumorous-, and some appear to us coarse
and indelicate. They seem, however, genuine
descrijitions of the manners of an energetic and
Bequestered people in their hours of mirth and
festiv ty, though in their portraits some objects
are brought into o|)en view, whieli more fasti-
dious painters would have thrown into sh.ide.
" As those nuai poets Ming tor amusLiuent,
n:t for gain, their eliusions sehlimi exceeded a
lov?-song, or a billad of satire or hiimour,
whitl., like the words of the elder minstre s,
were seldom coramitied to writing, but tiea-
tured up in the memory of tht^ir friend, and
aeighl.o jrs. Neither known to the learne(i nor
patii'iilzeil by tlie great, tlie-e ru>lic bards lived
»ud Jied 111 obscurity ; aud by a sti.(nge latahty,
their story, and even their very rwrnes havi
been forgotten. When proper models for pas-
toral songs were produced, there would be nc
want of imitators. To succeed in this specie!
of composition, soundness of understanding and
sensibility of heart were more requisite thas
flights of imagination or pomp of numl>e:-v
Great changes have certainly taken place 13
Scottish song- writing, though we cannot tracs
the steps of this chant;e ; and few of the pieces
admired in Queen Mary's time are now to be
discovered in modern collections. It is possible,
though not proiiahle, that the music may have
remained neaily the same, though the words to
the tunes were entirely new-modelled."
These conjectures are highly ingenious. Ic
cannot, however, be presumed, that the state of
ease and tranquillity described by Mr. Ramsay
took place among the Scottish peasantry iniine-
diately on the union of the crowns, or indeed
during the greater part of the seventeenth cen-
tury. The Scottish nation, through all ranks,
was deeply agitated by the civil wars, and the
religious petsecutions which succeeded each
other in that disastrous period ; it was not til)
after the revolution in IGSS, and the subsequent
establishment of their beloved form of church
government, that the peasantry of the Lowlandi
enjoyed comparative repose ; and it is since that
period that a great number of the most admireij
."Scottish songs have been produced, though tht
tunes to which they are sung, are in general of
n:uch greater antiquity. It is not unreasonab'e
to suppose, that the jieace and security derived
from the Revolution, and the Union, produced
a favourable change on the rustic poetry of
Scotland ; and it can scarcely be doubted, that
the institution of parish schools in 1696, by
which a certain degree of instruction was dif-
fused universally among the peasantry, contii-
buted to this happy cH'ect.
Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the
S>-ottish Theociitus. He was born on the high
mountains that divide Clydesdale and Annan-
dale, in a small hamlet by the banks of Gleni,'o-
uar, a stieam which descends i .to the Clyde.
The ruins of this hamlet are still shown to the
inquir.ng traveller. He was the son of a pea-
sant, and piob lb y received such instruction as
Ins parish-school bestowed, and the poverty of
his parents admitted. Ramsay ma .e his ap-
pearance in Edii. burgh, in the beginning of the
present century, in tlie humble character of an
apprentice to a barber ; he was then fouiteen or
litteen years of age. By degrees he acquired
notice for his social disposition, and his tal'.-ct
I for the composition of verses in the Scot'ish
idiom ; anil, changing his profession for that of
a bookseller, he became i.timate with many of
the literarv, as well as the gay and fashionable
characters' of his time.* Hiving published a
• " He was coeval wilh Joseiili Mitchell, luvl hn
club of '"►« wits, who, alioii i7 9, |ui'.ih»!Hil a verj
l.oor miSLLllaiii, to wlu-»^ Dr Yoiin;j, tl- •utlloi ul
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY.
rotiime of poems of liis own ii\ 1751, wliicli
K'as f.ivoiiralilv ivi-oivL-il, he iindLTtonli to make
t (•(illcctioii of iiiicioiit Scottish poems, iitider the
title of tlie Ercr-dretii, and was afterwards
>m'imra;^'.il to pieseiit to tile world a oolleetioii
of Scc.rti-h siiiii;s. " From what soiiices he
proriirrd tliein," says Ramsay of Oihteityre,
" whither from tradition or maiiuscii)it, is iin-
rertiiti. As in the I^twr- Green he made some
pi-h attempts to improve on the originals of his
aneieiit |)oems. he iiLohahly used still [greater
freedom with the sontjs and hallaiis. The truth
cannot, however, he known on tlils jioint, till
niamiseripts of the son;;s piinted hy him, more
sne'ent tli in the present eentury, shall be pro-
d leeii, or aceess lie oiitained to his own papers,
if they are sti I in existence. To several tunes
whieh either wanted words, or had words that
weie impro| er or iinperlect, he or his friends
adaptfil verses worthy of the melodies they ac-
ronipanied, wi'itliy indeed of the sjolden ii<re.
These verses were perfectly intellii^ihle to everv
rustic, yet justly admired hy jiersons of taste,
who regarded them as the fienuine otFspriiig of
the pastoral muse. In some respects Ranisav
liad advintaifcs not possessed hy poets writini;
in the Scottish dl ilect in our davs. Songs in
the dialect of Cunihcrland or Lancasliiie, could
never iie popular, liecinse these dialects hive
never l.'cen s|i()keii hy persons of fashion. But
till the middle of the present century, every
Scotsman, from the peer to the jieasant, spnke
a truly Doric iani^uage. It is true the English
moralists and pnefs were hy this time read hv
every person of condition, ami considered as the
standards for polite composition, iiut, us na-
tional prejuilices were still strong, the hi:sv, the
learned, the gay, and the fair continued to speak
their native dialect, and that with an elegance
and poignancy of whieh Scotsmen of the present
day can h.ive no jiist notion. I am (dd enough
to have conversed with Mr. Spittal, of Lenchat,
a schol.ir and a man of fashion, wlio survived
a!i the menihers of the I'nic ii Parliament, in
which he had a seat. His pronuiiciation and
phraseidogy differed as mueli fiiiiii tlie common
dialect, as the language of St. James's fr<mi that
ijf Thames Street. Had we letained a court
and parliament of our own, the tongues of the
two sister kingdoms would indeed lune diifered
like the Castilian and Portuguese ; hut each
would have its own c'assics, not in a siugle
branch, hut in the whole circle of literature.
" Ran\say associated with the men of wit
and fashion of his dav, and several of tliem at-
tempted to write poetry in his manner. Per-
rons too idle oi too dissipatid to think of com-
positions that required mu.h cXirtion, succeeded
vciy h.ippily in miikini; tender sonnets to fa-
vourite tunes in conipliiiupt to their mistresses,
«nd transfoiming tl.einsei\es into impassioned
shepherds, cauglit the language o. .ne chnractc;'
they assnmed. Thus, ahont the year I7."il,
Kohert Crawfurd of Auchinames, wrote tlf
morlern song of Tircflxii/e,' whieh has heer
so much admired. In 1713, Sir (iilhert Klliot,
the first of our liwyeis who both spoke and
wrote English ehgantly, composed, in the cha-
racter ot a love- sick swain, a beautiful song,
beginning, jyji/ sla<ep I veijlcctcil, I lust inif
fliii'f)-lini,k, on the inarria_'e (d" his mislress,
Miss Foihcs, with Ron dd Crawfurd. And
ahont twilve years aftei wards, tit sister of Sir
(iilheit wrote the uiicicnt words to the tune oi
the I'liiwers (^f the FtTC^t.-f and supposed to al-
lude to the battle of Fluwilen. In spite of tlio
liouhle rhyme, it is a sweet, and tiiongh in some
parts allegorical, a natural expression of national
sorrow. The more nhilir/i words to the same
tune, beginning, I liave scm the xmUiiifj iffr-
tiiiie ii-(jiiilijif/, w ere written long before by Mrs.
Cockhuin, i Woman of great wit, who outlived
all the first group vi literati .if the present cen-
ttiiy, all of whom were very fond of her. I was
flelighted with her company, tiiougn when I saw
her, she was very old. iMu.h did she know
that is now lost. "
In addition to these instrnees of Scoitish
songs, produced in tlie earlier pait of the pie-
sent century, may he menti.'iied the ballad ol
Iliirilikniitt, by Lady Wanilaw ; the ballad o(
WiUinm (intl Margarit ; and the song entitled
the Jiiiks iif Invermrnj, by Mallet; the love-
song, beginning, Fi.r tver. Fortune, wilt tlimt
pnivt; jirodiiced hy the youthful muse of Thom-
son ; and the ex(|nisite pathetic ball, id, tltt JJnus
of Yarrow, by Hamilton of H.ingour. On tlie
revival of letters in Seotlauil, sul^eijuerit to tii6
Union, a very general taste seems to have pre-
vailed for the national songs and music. " For
many years," says Mr. Ramsay, " the singing
of songs was tlie great delight of the higher and
middle order of tlie |)eojile, as well as of the
peasantry ; and tin. ugh a taste for It.ilian mus c
has intertercd with this amusement, it is still
very prevalent. Between forty and fjt'ty vears
ago, tlie common people weie not only exceed-
ingly fond of songs aiid baihids. hut ol metrical
h. story. Olten have 1, in mv eheerhil inoin of
youth, listened to tliem with deli-l.t, win n
leading or reciting the exploits of U'.dUee and
Bruce agiiust the Suiit/iruus. Lord Haile.«
was woiit to call Blind H.iriy their Il.'li/e, he
being their great fav..uiite next the Scriptuies.
When, therefore, one in the v.de of life felt the
first emotion of t.enius, he wanted not niodeU
siii ginerii. But though the .secd.s of jvietry
were scattered with a pleniifiil hand a:i;( iig tlie
Scottish peasantry, the ])r (hict was pndiahiy
like that of pears and apples — of a thousand
that sjirung up, nine Iiui.divd and fifty are sa
bad as to set the teeth on edge ; foity-iive oi
r/zo /:,'//,'.■», prefixed o copy of verses."
fa Itl'.trf om Mr liamaay oj Ochtcrli/t :
itur.
* Be/jinnin?, \W>at beauliex dees Flora disclose
t Begji ling, I have heard a lilting at ou-J cwn*
mil/c'iije
88
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY.
Hiore S-'e passsMe and ii'^eful ; and tKe re«t of
an exquisite fl.ivnur. Allan Rams;iy and Birns
are tfildiiips of t\us ]a.st dcsfriijtion. They hud
the example of the elder Scotti'^h poets ; they
were not without the aid of ^he bist English
writers ; and, what \\ as of still more import-
ance, they were no strangers to the book of na-
ture, and to the book of God,"
From this general view, it is apparent that
Allin Riims.iy may be considered as in a great
measure the reviver of the rural poetry of his
countiy. His collection of ancient Scottish
poems under the name of Tlie £cer-);recn, his
collection cf Scottish pcn,;;s, and his own poems,
the principal of which is the Gentle S/tep/ierd,
have been universally read among the peasantry
of his country, and have in some degiee super-
seded the adventures of I3ruce and Wallace, as
recorded by Bart)our and Blind Harry. Bums
was well acquainted with all of these. He had
a'.so before him the poems of Fergusson in the
ftcottisli dialect, which have been produced in
our own times, and of which it will be neces-
sary to give a short account.
Fergusson was born of parents who had it in
their power to procure him a liberal education,
a circumstance, however, which in Scotland,
implies no very high rank in societv. From a
Well written and app irently authentic account
of his life, we learn that he spent six years at
tile schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and se-
veral years at the universities of Edinburgh and
St. Andrew's. It appears that he was at one
time destined for the Scottish church ; but as
he advanced towards manhood, he renounced
that intention, and at Edinburgh entered the
oftice of an attorney, Fergiisson hail sensibility
of mind, a waim and generous heart, and ta-
lents for society, of the most attractive kind.
To such a man no situati(m could be more ilan-
gerous than that in wliich he was placed. The
excesses into which he was led, impaired his
feeble coiisti'iition, and he sunk uniler tlieni in
the month of October, 1774, in his '2:3d or24tli
year. Burns was not acipiaiiited with the
jsocms of tlii> yonthfiil genius when he himself
began to write jioetry ; and when he first sav>-
them, he had renounced the nnises. But while
he resided in tlie town of Irvine, meeting with
Ferrpissim^s Scottish Paems, he informs us that
he " strung liis lyre anew with enuila'ing vi-
gour. Tdiiched by the svnipathv originating
in kindred genius, and in the forebodings of si-
milar fortune, Buri'.s regarded Fergusson with
a partial and an affectionate admiration. Over;
his grave he erected a monument, as has al-
ready been inentioni-d ; and his poems he has
in sever.J instances nude the subjects of his
imitation.
I'roni this aci ount of the Scottish poems
Vn<iwn to Ihirns, those who are acipiainted
with them will see they are chiefly hiiiUMrous
or jiatbetic ; and under one or oilier of these
■ii'scriptions mo>-t of his own ))oems will cla-s.
Let UA comuiire him with his predecessors un-
der each of th.-M points of view, an^ dose om
examination with a few general observations.
It has frequently been observed, that Scot.
land has produced, cumparatively sjieaking, f.-w
writers who have excelled in humour. But tliis
observation is true only when a]iplied to those
wlio have continued to reside in their own coun-
try, and have confined themselves to coinposi-
tion in pure English ; and in thest circuirs~
stances it admits of an easy explanation. The
Scottish poets, who have written in the dialect
of Scotland, havt been at all times remarkable
for dwelling on subjects of humour, in \"liii;h
indeed some of them have excelled. It would
be easy to show, that the dialect of Scotland
having beciinie provincial, is now scarcely suit-
ed to the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we
may believe that the poem of CItristh Kirk i.j
the Grene was written by James the F.rst of
Scotland, tliis acc(uiipH>hed monarch, who had
received an Engli>h education under Henry the
Fourth, and who bore arms under his gallant
successor, gave the model on which the greater
part of the humorous productions of the rustic
muse of Scotland bad been formed Chiistis
Kiik of the GreTie was leprinted by Ramsay,
somevvhat nuuiernized in the orthography, and
two cantos were added by hiin, in which he at-
tempts to carry on the design. Hence the |)oeni
of King James is usually printed in Ramsay's
works. The royal bard describes, in the first
canto, a rustic dance, and afterwards a cimten-
tion in archery, ending in an aft'iay. Ramsay
relates the restoration of concord, and the re-
newal of the rural s)iorts with the humours of a
countiy wedding. Though e.ich of the poets
describes the mannt is of his respective age, yet
in the whole piece there is a very sufSeiei.t uni-
formity ; a striking proof of the identity of cha-
racter ill the Scottisli ])easantry at the two pe-
riods, distant from each other three hundied
ycar>. It is an hotiourable distinction to this
liody of men, that their character and manneis,
veiy little enibellisli'il, have been fiund to he
susceptible of an amusing and interesting spe-
cies of (loetiy ; and it must appear not a little
curious, that the single n.i>-iot. of modern Eu-
rope which possesses an tiriginal poetry, should
have received the model, followed by their rus-
tic liards, fi'oni the monarch on the throne.
The two additional cantos to Christ/s hirk
of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob-
jectionable in [loint of delicacy, are among the
hajipiest of his productions. H:s duet excel-
lence indeed, lay in the descr ption of rural cha-
racters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did not
possess any very high jiowers either of iniagiuA.
tion or of understanding. He was well ac-
quainted with the peasantry of Scotland, their
lives and opinions. The subject was in a great
measure new ; his talents were etjual to the
subject, and he has shown thai it may >e hai*-
pily ail ipted to pa^tor.il poetry. In his GtiDtU
Shtjihcrd, the characters are delineations from
nature, the descriptive parts are in the geuMin*
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY.
Kty'o of licautifiii simplicity, the jia«^iot.s ami
siK-i (ii [in I't riiial I'tt.' :;ro hndy liortnyril, ;ii:(l
till' lie It is iileiniiiifjlv intiTfstcil in the li.i| pi-
revs ih it is hisrwc' on iMmc-ence and virtue.
TliKHiii'mut tlie u h !e there is iiii air of reality
n li cli t!ie iiidst carele s reader cannot hut jier-
fr'vi- ; a^ul in laet no pooiii ever perhaps ac-
q-jirid -u hiih a r, putation, in v.hieii tiulli le-
c.'ivtti Ml Itt'e enilii llishnieiit fnmi the iii:a;;ina-
tism. la liis |)ivti)ral M)n!;s, and liis rural ta es.
H inisiy app ais to less advantage, indeed, hut
etill wltli Cdiisiihralilc attraetiou. Tlie stiiry ol
the J\l(iiik unit the JMille.r's II {/'', tluniuh siiine-
\v#Mt lieeiit:ous, may raid< with the hap]iiest
jirodui tiiins ot I'rinr or Li Funt.iine. Cut when
he attempts suhjeets from Inghef hfe, and aims
at pure English eonipusitioii, hf is feel.le and
iinintere>tini;, and seldimi even reaches meilio-
ciity. Meither are I'.is f.milli.ir epistles and
elegies in the Scutti-h dialect entltle<i to much
ai)(iri)l)atii;u. Thnugh Fergus>on had higher
powers of imagination than Hanis:iy, his <;enius
was nnt of the higliest order ; nor did his learn-
ing, which was consideiahle, improve his ge-
nius. His poems written in pure Kngli^h, in
wliich he olten tollows classical models, though
K'jpiriir to t!ie I'.n.lish poem- (.1" Ramsay, sel-
dom rise aliove nudiocrity ; l)ut in those com-
posed in the Scottish dialect he is often very
successful. He was, in general^ however, less
hap|iy th.in R.inisay in the suhjects of his muse
A> he sjient the greater part ot his life in Edin-
tiurgli, and wrote for his amusement in the in-
tervals oi Inisiiiess or dissipation, his Scottish
poems aie ehieliy founded on the incidents of a
town life, wnicli, tho\igh they are not suscepti-
hle of huuiour, do not ailiuit of those delinea-
tions of scenery and manneis, which vivify tlie
rural jjoetry of U.inisay, and which so agreeably
amuse the fancy and mterest the heart. The
town eclogues of Fuigusson, it we may so deno-
minate them, are hov.ever faitliful to nature,
and often distinguished hy a very happy vein of
Luniour. Ills poems entitied '1 lie JUuft Days.
'I lie lini/'s lliitli-dny in Kdintxirgh, LellU
liiues, and Tlie Uuihiw Fair, v.il! justify this
character. In tliese. particularly in the last, he
iniit.iied Christis Kirk of the. iiTtne, as Uam-
Kay had done htfore him. His AddTess to the
TiDii-kiik Ucl is an cMjni-ite puce of humour,
which Huiui has scarcely excelled. In ajipre-
ciating tilt genius of Fcrgu.sson, it ought to be
rtcoilected, that his poems are the careless effu-
sions of au irregular thuu;,-h amiable young man,
who wrote for tiie periodical papers of the day,
ai.d who died ill early jou'h. Had his life been
prolonged undir happier Lircuuistances of for-
tune, he wuulil jirob.ibly h.ive risen to much
ciglM r reputation. He might have excelled in
rur.il poetrv, tor though his professed pastorals
CD the estal.lished Sicilian model, are stale and
*niutiTesxin^, J he Fanner's Inyte,' which
• The fat mer's Sre-sidei
mav be cousiilered a« a Scottish pastnial, i.s (.ht
happiest cf all his productiins, iind ctrtiin'y
w,is the aichetj-|)e of the Ciillri's Saturdaf
Aiyht. Fergusscn, and more espicia'lv Durni,
have shown, that the character mid m.itiners (><
the jieas.mtry of Scotland, i.f tlie present times,
are as well adapted to poetry, as in the diys of
Kamsay, or vif the author of Chritis Kirk aj
the limif.
The hoinonr of l^iirns is of a richer vein than
that of IJ.aiisav or Feigusson, bi.tli of whom, s.\
lie himself iutnims us, he had " freipu ntly in hif
eye, but ratlur with a view to kindle at their
iLiine, than to sei vile imitation." His ilescriiK
tive powers, whether the objects on which they
ire employeil be comic or serious, animate, or
inanimate, are of the highest order. — A supe-
liorilv of th.s kind is e«senti.il to every species
of poetical excelli nee. In one of h;s earl. el
poems liis plan seems to be to inculcate a lesson
(if contentment on the lower classes of society,
by showing that their superiors are neituer
much better nor happier than them-elves ; and
this he cliooses to execute in the form of a ilia-
logue between two dogs. He introduces thii
di.ilogue by an aecnnnt of the persons and clia-
racteis of the speakers. The hrst, whom he
has named Coisar, is a dog ol coniiition : —
" His locked, lettir'i, biaw brass collar,
Showed him the gentleman and scholar."
Iligh-bied though he is, he is however full J.
condescension :
" At kitk or market, mill or smiddie,
N.ie tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duililie,
IJut he wail stan't, as glad to see Inm,
Aii" straaii't on .stanes aii ItM.cks w'l fihn."
The other, Liiath. is a " plougman's- collie."
hut a cur of a good heart and a sound uuder-
standing.
" His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Aye gat him frienrls in ilka |ilace ;
His breast was white, his towsie bjck
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ;
IJis gawcie tad, wi' upward curl,
lluny o'er his hurdles wi' a swirL"
Never were tira days so exquisitely delineat-
ed. Their gambols, belore they sit down to
moralize, are desciilted with an equal degree ol
h.i])piness ; and through the whole di,ilo.;ne,
the character, as well as the dil'erLiit condition
of the two speakers, i- kept in view. The
speech of Luath, in which he enumerates tlae
comforts of the poor, gives the following ac-
count of their merriment ou the first day uf tht
year :
" That merry day the year begins.
They bar the duui on .rostj winds.
90
ESSAY UPON^ SCOTTISH POETRY.
The t.;'p]>V ii'ck-! « i' m^intling ream,
And il.fds a he.iit-iMS|iirin' stiMiii ;
The ..intiii |)i|ie, and siieeshiu" mill.
Are handed round «i' riy;':.t ijiii'l-will ;
The canty auld fulks crackin' crou-se.
The young anes rantin' thro' tht- hduse —
Mv heart lias heen sae fiin to we them,
Thai I f'"' j<"J /"'« iarkit wi' i/:ein."
Of al! the animals who have inora'ized on hu-
man afFairs since the days of A'ls.-p, the dog
seems lie-t entitled to this privile,:re. as well from
his superior s.igacitv, as from his hein;:, more
than any other, the friend and associate of man.
The do:is of Ijurns, e.vceptin;j; in their talent for
moralizing, are ilou-nright dogs. The " twa
dogs" are constantly kept before our eyes, and
the contnist between their form and character
as dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation,
heightens the humour, and deepens the impiei-
sion of the poet's satire. Tliongh in tliis poem
the chief excellence may he <'onsidered as hu-
raour, vet great talents are disjdayed in its com-
position ; the hajipiest jiowers of descript on
and the deepest insight into the human heart.
It is seldom, however, that the humour of Burns .,,.(^..,ondeiates
appears in so simple a form. The liveliness of ,, „ "_
his sensibility fiequently impels him to intro
duce into subjects of humour, emotions of ten.
l-'reedom and WlihJiy ging the^Ither,
Tak affyojr diana !"
Df this union of humour, with the liighe.
powers of imagination, instances may be found
in the poem entitled Death and Dr. Horuboi.k,
and in almost every stanzi of the Address tt
the Dtil, one of the happiest of his productions.
After reproaching this terrible being with all
his "doings" and misileeds, in the course of
which he passes through a series of Scottish
superstitions, anil ri>es at times into a high
strain of poetry ; he concludes this address, de-
livered in a tone of great fimiliarity, nut alto-
gether unmixed with ajipiehension, in the fol.
lowing words ;
" But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben '
O wail ye tak a thought an' men' •
Ye aiblins might — I ilinna ken —
Still ha'e a stake —
I'm wae to think upo' yon den
Ev'n for your sake !
Humour and tenderness are here so happ'.l-/
intermixed, that it is impossible to say wliict
Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the
Causeway am\ the Plainst .nts,* of Edinburgh
This probably suggested to liurns his (lialoa:u»
derness or of pity ; and, where occasion admit<, ^^^^^.^^^ ^^-le Old and New Bridge over the river
he is sometiuiLS earned on to exert the higher, ^._ rj,,^^ ^^^^^^.^ „f g^^,.], subjects requires that
powers of iniaginatiiui. In such instances he j ^j^ ^j^^„ ^^ ^^.^.^j^^j i„„„orously, and Fergusson
leaves the society of R.msay and of Fergusson, j^^^ attempted nothing bevond this. Though
and associates himself with the masters of Eng
lish poetry, whose language he frequently as.
sumes.
Of the union of tenderness and humour, ex-
the Causticay and the Plaiiutmies talk to-
gether, no attempt is made to personify the
speakers.
In the dialogue between the Briqs of A)/r,
amjiles may be found in The Death au'JDi/n.;/ ^.^^ .. .^''^^,;| , ^.^;.^._„ ^,,. .. i^.^pHed "by
Wards "fpo T Millie, in The aidd Farmer's
Ntw- Yi-ar's Moraiiii/ Sulutaliori tu his Mare
M'lqgie, and in many other of his ])oeuis. The
praise of whisky is a favourite subject with
Burns. To this he dedicates his i)oem of
Sc'ilch Drink. After mentioning its cheering
ii.fliience in a variety of situations, he describes,
with singular liveiiuess and power of fancy, it.s
Etimulating effects on the blacksmith working
at his forge :
' Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ;
The brawnie, hiinie, ploughman chiel.
Brings hard owre-hip, wi" sturdy wheel.
The strong lore-hammer,
Till !)lock an* stu.lilie ring and reel
Wi' diusome clamour."
Again, however, he sinks into humour, and
toncludes the poem with the tVllowlng most
Uughdble, but must irreverent apostrophe;
"* Scotland, my auld, respected mither !
yiiiMigh 'vhyles yt •.^ol^t;'y V"J'' le.ilher,
"I'ili where j'ou sit, on er.ips o' heatJiur,
Ye tine your dam
whim," had left his bed in the town of Ayr,
and wandered out a!one in the darkness anil so-
litude of a winter night, to the mouth of the
river, where tlie stillness was interrupted only
by the rushing sound of the influx of the tide.
It was after miilnight. The Di.tigeoii-clock
had struck two, ami the sound had heen re-
peated by Wallace Tower. All eUe was husheiL
The moon shone brightly, and
" The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam,
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er theglittering stream."
In this situation, the listening bard hears the
" clanging sugh" of wings moving through the
air, and spi-eilily he perceives two be iigs. reaied,
tlie one on the Old, the other on the New liriilge,
whose form and attire he describes, and whos«
conveisation with each other he reheaiseii.
These genii cuter into a comp.irlsoa of the re-
spective edifices over wh'ch they preside, and af-
terwards, as is usual bi'tween the old and young,
compare modern characters and maiir.ers with
th-jse of •'i.-t t.mes.
The
liliei
l>e <:i-
• I'UiiiiS 3 a'.— iilc-iiavuiueiit.
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY.
9i
pci'ted, ami ts4Jt and scold each otlior in liroad
8i-(iti-h. Tliis c'onver-atlon, whlcli is corfaiiily
hui;;cirou5, may l)t' consldciLiI as a propL'r l)rl^i-
ness of the poein. As the debate i iiii<! hitjh, and
tiireateiis serious cdiisocjueiiccs, all at once it is
interrupted by a new scene of wonders :
;ill before their si;;ht
A fiii V train appcar'd in order bri;fht ;
Arlown the !;litterin!; stream they fiMtly danced ;
Firiiiht to the moon thoir vaiioiis dres<es glanced ;
ThfV 'iKiti'd o'er the wat'ry i;I.iss so neat,
The inf int ice scarce l)Liit beneath thuir feet ;
Willie arts of minstrelsy anions; them rung,
Ami siiul-ennoliled Bards heroic, ditties sung,"
* The Genius of the Strciim in front appears,
A venerable chief, advMnce(l in years;
Ills lio.irv head wltli water-lilies crown'd.
Ills manly 'eg with girter tan^de bound."
Next follow a number of other allegorical be-
ings, among whom are the four seasons, Rural
Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage.
" Benevolence, with mllil Iienignaiit air,
A female form, c ime from the tow'is of Stair :
Learnin;j and Worth in etjual measures trode,
Fiom simple Catrine, theU' iong-luved abode:
Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd with a hazci
wreath.
To rustle Agriculture did befpieath
The broken iron in^ti iimenr of Death ;
At sight of whom our Sprites forgit their kin-
dlmg wrath."
This poem, iriegul ir and imperfect as it is,
displays various and powerful talents, and may
gerve to illustrate th.euenius of Burns. In par-
ticular, it affords a striking instance of his being
carried beyond bis original purpose by the pow-
ets of imaglnaticm.
In Fergnsson's poem, the Pluhisianes and
Caiisewny contrast the churrctei's of the rilffer-
ent persons who walked upon them Burns
probably conceived, that, by a dlah'gue lictween
the Old anil New Bridge, he might form a hu-
morous contrast between ancient and modern
manners in the town of Avr. Such a dialogue
could only be sujiposed to pass in the stillness of
nlgiit ; and this led our poet into a description
of a midnight scene, which excited in a high
degree the powers of his imagination. During
tl.o whole dialogue the scenery is present to his
fancy, and at length it sug.;ests to him a fairy
dance of aerial beings, under the beams of the
noon, by which the wrath of the Genii of the
Briijs of Ayr is appeased.
Incongruous as the different parts of this poem
are, it is not an incom.;ruity that displeises ; and
«'e have only to regret tiia' tne poet did not be-
Uow a little pains in making the figures more
correct, and in smoothing the veisitidtiim.
The ei^istlei* of Burns, in which may be in-
cludeil his Dcilicnt'ion to G. H. Hs:^ discover
like his other writings, the powers of i superiol
understanding. Tliey display deep insight into
human nature, a gay ami happy strain of rellec-
turn, great indepenLence of sentiment, and ge-
nerosity of heart. The Jlul/owcen of linnis i]
free from every objecti in. It is interesting n^it
merely from its humorous description of miniiers,
but as it records the spells and charms used oa
the celebration of a festival, now, even in Scot-
land, filling into neglect, but which was once
observed over the greater jiart of ]?ritain and
Irelanil. These charms are siip))oscd to alT.ini
an insight into futurity, especially on the sub-
ject of marriage, the most interesting event of
rural life. In the Hnllmucen, a female, in |)er-
forminr one of the spells, has occasion to go out
by mnonllght to dip her shift-slccve into a stieain
rniinitKj townril.-i the South. It was not ne-
cessary for Burns to give a description of this
stream. But it was the character of his ardent
mind to pour forth not merely what the occasion
required, but what it admitted ; and the teinj)-
tatlon to describe so beautiful a natural object
by moonlight, was not to be resisted —
" Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,
As through the glen it wimpi't ;
Wliyles round the rocky scar it strays;
\VliyIes in a wlel it diuipl't ;
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays,
\Vi' bickering ilincing (hizzle ;
Whyles cookit unilerneith the braes,
Beneath the spreading hazel.
Unseen that nigl'.t.
Those who understand tlie Scottish dialect
will allow this to be one of the finest instances
of description which the records of poetry atF():d.
In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, In
rural poetry of a serious nature. Burns excelled
eqii..*y as i:i that of a humorMus kind, and, using
less of the Scottish dialect in his serious poems,
be becomes moie generally intelligible It is dif-
ficult to decide whether the .idJic^s to a Muuse
whose nest was turned up with //ieju/o'//,//, should
be considered as serious or comic. Be this as
it may, the pnein is one of the ha 'piest anl
most finished of his productions. If we smile
at the '• bickering brattle" of this little flying
aniiiial, it is a smile of tendei iiess and pity.
The descriptive part is admirable : tlie iiioi jl re-
flections beautiful, and aiising dliectly out of the
'occasion; and iri the cuncluslmi there is a deep
■ melancholy, a sentiment of doubt and dread,
that arises to the suliliine. The A<l,ircss to a
I Jiloiiiit'iin Dnisy, turned il'iK'n with the pfouiih,
is a poem of the same nature, tlioi,,li somewhat
inferior in poiiit of originality, as well as in the
interest produced. To extract our of incideiiU
so common, and .seemingly so trivial as thi-se,
>.o tine J tran; of M;i:*imei:* <trid iuiagcry. i> th«
surest proof, as well as the nnst brilliant triumph,
of origin il genius. The Vision, in two tanto-i
, from which a beautiful e.vtract ii taken bv .Mr
92
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY.
Mackenzie, '/n the 9''tli numbcT of tlie Latinner,
is a pnein of gre.it anil various excelli-nce. The
orienin<j, in which the poet describes his own
stiti; of minil, retiriiis; ia the evening, wearied,
from the labours of the day, to moralize on his
conduct and prospects, is truly interestins;. The
ch:inil)er, if we may so term it, in which he sits
down to muse, is an exqui-ite painting: —
" ll:cre, lanely. by tlie infjJe cheek,
I sat and eyed the spewinLj reek.
That fill'd wi' hoasr-prov king sme k
That auld clay biggin ;
An' heard the restless rations squeak
About the riggiu. "
To reconcile to our imagination the entrance
of an aerial being into a mansion of this kind,
required the powers of Burns — he, however, suc-
ceeds. Coi'.a enters, and her countenance, atti-
tude, and dress, unlike those of other spiritual
oeings, are distinctly portrayed. To the painting
Dn her mantle, on which is depicted the most
strikitig scenery, as well as the nu)>t distinguished
cliariclt-rs, of his nttive country, some exceptions
may be mide. The mantle of Coda, like the cup
of Tiiyrsis, * and the shield of Achilles, is too
murli crowded with figures, and some of the ob-
jects represented upon it are scarcely admissible,
according to the principles of design. The ge-
nerous temperament of Burns led him into these
exulicrances. In his second edition he enlarged
the nuiidier of figures originally introduced, that
he might include objects to wiiiih he was at-
tached by senf. meats of affection, giit tude, (U'
pati iotisin. The second Diian, or canto of this
poem, in which Coila describes her own nature
and occupations, pai ticularly her superintendence
of his infant genius, and in which she reconciles
him to the character of a bard, is un elevated and
solenm strain ol poetry, ranking in all respects,
excepting the harmony of nuud»ers, with the
higher productim.s of tlie English muse. The
concluding stauz.i, comp ired with that already
quoteii, will show to what a height Burns rises
in this puein, from the uoint at wliich he set
out —
" And irear thmi thi^ — she solemn said,
And bound the holly round my head ;
The poli.sh'd leaves, and berries red,
iJld rustling play ;
And, like a passing thougnt, she fled
Id light away."
In various poems Burns has exhibited the pic-
ture of a mind
th.
e deep impressKMis of
real sorrow. Tlic I.iiinenf, the O'le to Jiniti,
Drxjmndtiirii, .ind Winter, a Dinje, are of this
character. In the first of these poems the eighth
*tanz.i, which describes a Bleepless night from
ftiinuisli (.f mind, is particularly striking. Burns
often indulgui in those luelancliolv views of the
• Sec the lirtt hli/Hlum of Theocritus. I
nature anil condition of man, which are so ron.
genial to the temperament of sensibility. Th»
])oeni entitled Munu-as made to Movrn, a/Totdt
an instance of this kind, and The Wnler Niuht
is of the same description. The laii ; is highly
characteristic, both of the temper of mind, and
of the condition of Burns. It begins with a
descri])tion of a dreiidful stiuni on a niglit in
v.'in'er. The poet represents himself as lying in
bed, and listening to its howling. In this situ-
atiun, he naturally turns his thoughts to lh«
nurie * Cuttle, dnd the mlli/f S/ieep. exposed to
all the violence uf the tempest. Having lament-
ed their fate, he proceeds in thi; following : —
" Ilk happing bird — wee helpless thing !
That in the mei ry months o' spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What coines o' thee ."'
Wharc wilt thou cow'r thy chittei ing wing,
An' close thy e'e ?
Other reflections of the same nature occur to
his mind ; and as the midnight moon, " muf-
fled with clouds," casts her dreary light on his
window, thoughts of a darker and moie me-
lundiidy nature crowd upon hlni. In this state
of mind, he hears a voice pouring through the
gloom, a solemn and plaintive strain of reflec-
tion. The mourner compares the fury of the
elements v.'ith that of man to his brotht r ma"l,
and finds the former light in the balance.
" See stern Oppressicm's iron gitp,
Or ma<l Ainbitiou's gory hand.
Sending, like bluoil-houiids from the slip.
Woe, want, and inuider, o'er the laud."
He pursues this train of reflection through £
vaiiity of )) irtiiulars, in the course uf which he
introduces the following animated apostrophe :— -
" O ye ! who sunk in beds of down,
Feel not a want but what yourselves create.
Think, for a moiiient, on his wretched fate,
Whom friends and ftirtiine quite disown !
Ill-satisfy'd keen Niiture's dain'rous call,
Strett h'd on his straw be lays him down tc
sleep,
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wail.
Chill o'er his sluinbeis jiiles the drifty heap.*
The strain of sentiment which runs through
this poem is noble, thounh the execution is un-
equal, and the versification is defective.
Among the serious poems of Burns, Tf'i
Ciittcr'x Satiirdai/ Nit/fil is perhaps entitled to
the first rank. 77/e I'urnier's /n;,le of Feigui
son evidently suggested the plan of this poem,
as has been already mentioui rl ; but alter the
))l.in was formed, Burns trusted entirely to his
• Oi.ijc, out-lying. Ourif Cd///r, Cattle that arc un.
housed all wniter.
1 Sill;/ is in ilus, as ir olnor pheei, a term of con*
passion and eiiileariiu'nL
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY.
92
own jinwcrs for flie t-xociitioii. !■"( rpjiKsoii's
]ioi'iii is i-iTtainlv very licMiitifiil. It lias all tlie
Ehatiiis wliiih Hepi'inl on rural cliaractrrs and
inainiLTS liappily portrayed, and exhibited under
ciii'unistiiiiees highly £);rateful to the imagination.
Tlia Ftirnur'a Ini/le liegins with describing the
return of evening. The toils of the day are over,
and the farmer retires to his comfortable fire-
giJe. The reception which he and his men-ser-
vants receive from the carefid hotise-wife, is
jileasiiigly described. After *heir supper is over,
they begin to talk on the rural events of the day.
" 'Rout kirk and market eke tlieir tales gae on,
How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride ;
And there how Marian for a bastard son,
l^pon the cutty-f-tool was forced to ride.
The waefu' scauld o' our Jilcss John to bide.
The " Guidamc" is next introduced as forming
a circle round the fire, in the midst of her grand-
children, and while she spins from the rock,
and the spindle ]ilays on btr " russet lap," she
is relating to the ) oung ones tales of witches and
ghosts. The poet exclaims,
*' O mock na this my friends ! but rather mourn.
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear,
VVi' eild our idle fancies a' return.
And dim our dolef':' days wi' bairnly foar ;
The mind's aye cradl'd when the grave is near."
In the meantime the farmer, wearied with the
fatigues of the day, stretches himself at length
on the sett!e, a sort of rustic couch, which ex-
tends on one side of the fire, and the cat and
house-dog leap upon it to receive his caresses.
Here, resting at his ease, he gives liis directions
to his men-servants for the succeeding day.
The house-wife follows his example, and gives
her orders to the maidens. By degrees the oil
in the cruise begins to fail ; the fire runs low ;
bleep steals on his rustic group ; and they move
off to enjoy their peaceful slumbers. The poet
concludes by bestowing his blessing on the
" h'jsbandman and all his tribe."
This is an original and truly interesting pas-
toral. It possesses every thing required in this
species of composition. We might have perhaps
eaid, every thing that it admits, had not Bums
written his Cotter's Saturday N'lylit.
The cottager returning fiom his labours, has
ao servants to accompany him, to partake of liis
fare, or to receive his instructions. The circle
wliich le joins, is composed of his wife and chil-
dren only ; and if it admits of less variety, it af-
fortls an opportunity for representing scenes that
more strongly interest the affections. The
roungcr children running to meet him, and
llanibering round his knee ; the elder, returning
from their weekly labours with the neighbouring
fanners, dutifully depositing their little gains
hlth their parents, and receiving theii fatlier's
Dlessing and instructions ; the incidents of \he
courtship of Jenny, their eldest daughce! , " wo-
man grown," are circuiustapces of the most in,
terestiiig kind, w hicli are most ha))pily di-lijieat-
ed ; and after their fi i)(^,il supper, the represeri-
tati.in of these humbler cottagers foruiing a wider
circle round their litirth, and uniting in the
worship of God, is a picture the mo^t dceiily af-
fecting of any which the rural muse has ever
presented to the view. Burns was admiiably
adapted to this delineation. Like all men of
genius he was of the tenipeiament of devotion,
and the powers of memory co-o|)eraied in thi»
instance with the sensibility of his heart, and
the fervour of his iniagination. The Colter's
Saturday Night is tender and moral, it is so-
lemn and devotional, and rises at length in a
strain of grandeur and sublimity, which modern
Iioetry has not surpassed. The noble sentiments
of patriotism with which it concludes, corres-
pond with the rest of the poem. In no age or
country have the pastoral muses breathed such
elevittd accents, if the Messiah of Pope be ex-
cepted, which is indeed a pastoral in form onlv.
It is to he regretted that Burns did nut em])loy
his genius on other subjects of the same nature,
which the manners and customs of the Scottish
peasantry would have amiily su])])Iied. Such
poetry is not to be estimated by the degree of
pleasure which it bestows ; it sinks deeply into
the heart, and is calculated, fir beyond any otluT
human means, for giving ]iermanenre to the
scenes and the chaiactets it so exiiulsitcly de-
sciibes.
Before we conclude, it will be proper to of-
fer a few observations on the lyric proiluctions
of Burns. His compositions of this kind are
chiefly songs, generally in the Scottish dialect,
and always after the model of the Scottish songs,
on the general character and moral infiiience of
which, some observations have ulreadv been of-
fered. We may hazard a few moie ]iarticular
remarks.
Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scotland
it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has no where
imitated them, a circumstance to be regretted,
since in this species of composition, from its ad-
mitting the more' terrible, as well as the softer
graces of poetry, he was eminently (pialilicd to
have excelled. The Scottish songs which ser-
ved as a model to Burns, are almost without
exception pastoral, or rather rural. Such of
them as are comic, fiequently treat of a rustic
courtship, or a country wedding; or they de-
scribe the differences of opinion which arise in
married life. Burns has imitated this species,
and surpassed his models. The song beginning
" Husband, husband, cease your strife," may !«
cited in support of this observation. * His other
» The (lialo£jurs between husbands anil their wives
wliieli form tlie subjects of the Scotlisli sonj^s, are al
most all ludicrous and s;itirjcal, and in llicse ci>iitest«
the lady is generjlly viclorious. From the <'ollcetioni
of Mr. Pnikerton, we finil that tlieioinie muse of Scot'
land ilcli^htcd in such reiirescntations from very early
times, in her rude dramatic eli'orts, as well as'inhel
rustic son^s.
i)4
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY.
comic soni^s are of equal merit. In the rural
songs of Scotland, whether humorous or ten-
der, the sentiments are given to particular cha-
racters, and very generally, the incidents are
referred to particular scenery. This last cir-
cumstance may be considered as a distinguish-
ing feature of the Scottish scngs, and on it a
cousiHerable part of their attraction depends.
On all occasions the sentiments, of whatever
nature, are delivered in the character of the per-
son ])rincipa.ly interested. If love be described,
it is not as it is observed, but as it is felt; and
the passion is delineated under a particular as-
pect. Neither is it the fiercer impulses of de-
sire that are expressed, as in the celebrated ode
of Sappho, the model of so many modern songs ;
but those gentler emotions of tenrlerness and af-
fect'on, which do not entirely absorb the lover;
but permit him to associate his emotions with
the charms of external nature, and breathe the
accents of purity and innocence, as well as of
love. In these respects the love-songs of Scot-
land are honourably di^tinguished from the
most admired classical compositions of the same
kiml ; and by such associations, a variety as
well as Iivelines.s, is given to the representation
of this passion, which are not to be found in
the poetry of Greece or Rome, or perhaps of
any other nation. Many of the love-songs of
Scotland describe scenes of rural courtship ;
many may be considered as invocations from
lovers to their mistresses. On such occasions
a degree of interest and realily is given to the
Reiitiment, by the spot destined to these happy
interviews being particularized. The lovers
perhaps meet at the liunh aboon. Traquair, or
on the Slinks of Elirick ; the nymphs are in-
voice:! to wander among the wilds of Jioslin or
trie Woofls of Invcrmay. Nor is the spot mere-
ly pointed out ; the scenery is often described
as well as the character, so as to represent a
complete picture to the fancy. * Thus the
» One or two examples may illustrate this observa-
tion. A Scottish song, wriiten about a hundred years
ago, begins thus: —
" On Ettrick Banks, on a summer's night
At gluaiiiing, when the sheep drove harne
1 met iTiy lassie, braw and tiplH,
Come wading baretbot a' her lane.
Mv Heart prow lisht, I ran, T flang
My .irms about her Ijly-neck,
All! kissed and ela-ipcd there fu' lang—
.My words they were na mouy feck."
The lover, who is a Highlander, Roes on to relate
the language he employrd with his Lowland maid to
win her hrart, and to persuade her to fly with him to
Ihf lligl laud hills Ihire to share his fortune. The
sc'iriinents are in thMnsehcs beaiiiiiul. U;it we feel
tluni "lib double force, while we coneiive ijiat they
Wire ;iildre>sed by a lover to his mistress, whom he
■iifjt all alniic- on a summer's evening, by the banks of
a beautiful stream, which some of us have nciiirdly
Been, and which all of us can paint to our hr.aglnaiion.
Let u~ take annilier exauijile. It is now a nymph that
ipeaks. Mere how she expresses herself—
" How hlyihe each mom was I to sec '
Mv twain come o'er thi- lull I
maxim of Horace, ut pi'cfurri pnesix, is faithfnt>
ly observed by these rustic bards, who are guid-
ed by the same impulse of nature and sensibility
which influenced the fatliLT of epic poetry, on
whose example the precept of the Roman post
was perhaps founded. Bv this means the ima-
gination is employed to interest tluj feelingn.
When v.'e do not conceive distinctly, we do not
sympathize deeply in any human affection ; and
we conceive nothing in th.e abstract. Abstrac-
tion, so useful in morals, and so essential in
science, mu^t be ab.indoned when the heart is
to be subdued by the powers of poetry or of
eloquence. The bards of a ruder condition of
society paint individual objects ; and hence,
among other causes, the easy access they obtain
to the heart. Generalization is the voice of
poets, whose learning overpov/ers their genius ;
of poets of a relined and scientific age.
The dramatic style which prevails so much
in the Scottish songs, whne it contributes great-
ly to the interest they excite, also shows that
they have originated among a people in the ear»
lier stages of society. Where this form of com-
position appears in songs of a modern date, it
indicates that they have been written after the
ancient model. *
The Scottish songs are of verv unequal poe
tical merit, and this inequality often extends to
the different parts of the same song. Those that
are humorous, or characteristic of manners,
have in general the merit of copying nature ;
those that are serious are tender and often
sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit luL^h
powers of imagination, which indeed do nut
He skipt the bum, and flew to me,
I met him with good will."
Here is another picture drav.Ti by the pencil of Na-
ture. \V see a shepherdess standing by the side of a
brook, watching her lover, .as he deseenils the opposite
hill. He bounds lighly along; he appro -chs nearer
and nearer; he leaps tlie brook, and flies into her
arms. In the recollection of these circumstances, the
surrounding scenery becomes endeared to the fair
mourner, and she bursts into the following exclama-
tion :—
" O the broom, the bonnie bonnie broom.
The broom of the Cowden-knowes !
I wish I were with mv dear swain,
Witli his pipe and his ewes;"
Thus the individual spot of this happy interview i>
pointed out, and the picture is completed,
* Tliat the dramatic form of writing charactrrizci
productions of an early, or what amounts to the same,
of a rude st.ige of society, may be illustrated by a re-
ference to the most ancient coiniiositions that wc know
of, the Hebrew scriptures, and ihe writings of Homer.
The form of dialogue is adopted in the old Scottish
ballads, even in nariation, whi nwcr Ihe situations do.
scribed become interes;ing This sometimes pnxliiios
a very striking ctlcet, of which an instance may be
given from the ballad of Edoiit o' Conion, a compor.i-
tion aiirarently of the sixteenih eeutiirv. The s;o:y
of t":c ballad is shortly this:— Ihe Cxstle of liholts
in tie absence of its lord, is aiiaeked by the robber
I'llom Gordon. 1 he lady stands in her deltuce, beats
oil' the assailants, and wounds liordon, wlio in his ra.;e
orders the ciistle to be set on fire. Tli;it his orders are
CMiried into eti'eet, we learn from the expostulation ol
Uiu Luly, uIk> is reprck'Utud as stajidini; on the lulllti
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY.
95
easily finil a pl.ire in this species of composition.
The alliance of the Wdiils of the Scottish soiijjs
witii the iiuisic has in some inst.incos sjiven to
the fiiiiier a pi)piil;irity, which otherwise they
would iiev'cr h;ive obtained.
Tl'.e a;<sociation of the words and the music
of these songs with the more beaiitiful parts of
the scenery of Scotland, contrihutes to the same
I'ffi'ct. It lias 1,'iven them not merely popularity,
but pormineiice ; it has imparted to tlie works
of mm some portion of the durability of the
works of nature. If, from our imperfect expe-
rience of the ])ast, we may judge with any con-
fidence respecting the future, songs of this de-
scription are of all others the least likely to die.
In the changes of language they may no doubt
Bufler change ; but the associated strain of sen-
timent and of music will perhaps survive, while
the clear stream sweeps down the vale of Yar-
1 o\v, or the yellow broom waves on the Cowden-
Knowes.
The first attempts of Burns in song-writing
were not very successful. His habitual inatten-
tion to the exactness of rhymes, and to the har-
mony of numbers, arising probably from the
models on which his versification was formtd,
were fiults likely to appear to moie advantage
ill this species of composition, than in any
other ; and we may al>o remark, that the
strength of his imagination, and the exuberance
of his sensibility, were with difficulty restrained
within the limits of gentleness, delicacy and
tenderne-s, which seem to be assitrned to the
love-songs of his nation. Burns was better
adapted iiy nature fur following in such compo-
sitions the model of the Grecian than of the
Scottish muse. By study and practice he how-
ever surmounted all these obstacles. In his
earlier songs there is some ruggedness ; but this
gra<lually disappears in his successive efforts ;
and some of his later compositions of this kind
may be compared, in polished delicacy, with the
finest songs in our language, while in the elo-
ijueiice of sensibility they surpass them all.
The songs of Burns, like the models he fol-
lowed and excelled, are often dramatic, and for
the greater part amatory ; and the beauties of
rural nature are eveiy where associated with
the passions and emotions of the mind, Dis-
ments an I remonstrating on this barbarity. She is in-
terruptcil —
" O tlicn bcspake hnr little son,
!^ate on his nooricc knee;
Says ' [iiitlier Juar, ^i' owre this house,
Kor tlie reik it smiihers me.'
" I wail Kie .a' my go»d, my childc,
Sae wad I .V my tee,
Fir ae hla^l o' the «cstlin wind.
To bldw the re-jk Irae thee."
The rircnmstaiitiality of the Scottish love-songs,
^nd thcdr.iiT'.atie form wliich pre^ailss<) generally in
them, prulxibl) arises from their btiiiji thedesCtmlaiiLs
and suft<.SM)rb of tlie aiicieni ballads. In the beautiful
modern sung of Mary of CasVeCary, ilie dramatic
form has h very happy effect. Tlie same mav l)e said
3t Uututid and Flaiu, ;md Cmne under my Ptuidie, by
the s*ije iiuilior, .Mr. Maemel.
daining to copy the works of others, he has no»,
like some poets of great name, admitted into his
descri|)tions exotic imagery. The landscapes
he has painted, and the objects witli which they
are embellished, are, in every single instancir,
such as are to be found in his own country. la
a mountainous region, especially when it is
comjiaratively rude and naked, the most beauti-
ful scenery will always be found in the valley*,
and on the banks of the wooded streams. Such
scenery is peculiarly interesting at the close of a
summer day. As we advance northwards, the
number of the days of summer, indeed, dimi-
nishes ; but from this cause, as well as from t\:i
mildness of the temperature, the attraction in-
creases, and the suminer night becomes still
more beautiful. The greater obli(iuity of the
sun's path in the ecliptic, prolongs the grateful
season of twilight to the midnight hours, and
the shades of the evening seem to mingle with
the morning's dawn. The rural poets of Scot-
land, as may be eKpected, associate in their
songs the expression of passion, with the most
beautiful of their scenery, in the fairest season
of the year, and generally in those hours of the
evening when the beauties of nature are most
interesting.
To all these adventitious circuinstanccs, on
which so much of the effect of poetry depends,
great attention is paid by Burns. There is
scarcely a single song of his in which particnl ii
scenery is not described, or allusious maHe tr
natural objects, remarkable for beauty or inte-
rest ; and though his descriptions are not so full
as are sometimes met with in the older Scottish
songs, they are in the highest degree appropriate
and interesting. Instances in proof of thi^
might 'oe quoted from the Lea Rig, Highland
Mary, the Soldier's Return, Lugan Water,
from that beautiful pastoral, Ronnie Jean, and
a great number of others. Occasionally the
force of his genius carries him beyond the usjal
boundaries of Scottish song, and the naturil
objects introduced have more of the charactef
of sublimity. An instance of this kind is no-
ticed by Mr. Syme, and many otheis might be
adduced.
" Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the wave'a dashioj
roar ;
There would I weep my woes.
There seek my lost repose,
Till grief my eyes should close
Ne'er to wake more."
In one song, the scene of which is laid in a
winter night, the " wan moou" is described at
" setting behind the white waves ;" in another,
the " storms" are apostrophized, and command-
ed to " rest in the cave of their slumbers." On
several occasions, the genius of Burns loses si"ht
entirely of his archetypes, and rises into a strain
of uniform sub imity. Instances of this kind
appear in L'Mrti/, a Vision, and in Lis two
96
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY
irar-snntjs, Urtice to his troups, and the So>^(f
of Dentil. The-se last are of a description of
whieh we have no other in our lan^.iaf^e. The
martial snngs of our nation are not military, but
naval. If we were to seek a comparison of
these soni^s of Burns with others of a similar
nature, we must have recoiiise to the poetry of
ancient Greece, or of modern Gaul.
Burns has made an important addition to the
gongs of Scotland. In his compositions, the
poetry equals an<l sometimes surpasses the mu-
sic He has enlarged the poetical scenery erf his
country. Many of her rivers and mountains,
formerly unknown to the muse, are now conse-
crated by his immortal verse. The Doon, the
Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and the Cluilen, will
in future, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the
Tay, be considered as classic streams, and their
borders will be trode with new and superior
emotions.
The greater part of the songs of Burns were
written after he removed into the county of
Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, by habits
formed in early life, he usually composed while
walking in the open air. M'hen engaged in
writing these songs, his favourite walks were
in the banks of the Nith, or of the Cluden,
partirularly near the ruins of Lincluden Abbey ;
and this beautiful scenery he has very happily
describeil under various aspects, as it a[ipears
durmg the softness and serenity of evening, and
(luring the stillness and solemnity of the moon-
light night.
There is no species of poetry, the productions
of the drama not excepted, so much calculated
to influence the moials, as well as the happiness
of a people, as those popular verses v,li;ch are
associated with the national airs, and which
being learnt in the years of infmcy, make a
deep impression on the heart before tlie evolu-
.ion of the powers ol the understanding. The
composilicuis of Burns, of this kind, now pre-
sented in a collected form to the world, mike a
most important addition to the popular songs of
his nation. Like all his other writings, they
exhibit independence if sentiment ; they are
peculiarly calculated to increase those ties which
bind generous hearts to their native soil, and to
the domestic circle of their infancy : and to
cherish those sensibilities which, under due re-
striction, form the purest happiness of our na-
ture. If in his unguarded moments he com-
posed some songs on which this praise cannot
be bestowed, let us hope that they will speedily
be hiigotten. In several instances, where Scot-
tish aira were allied to words objectionable in
Doint of delicacy, Burns has substituted others
of a purer character-. On such occasions, %vith-
DWl changing tlie subject, he has changed the
seui.imeuts. A proof of this may be seen in the
»lr of Jolin Aitilerson my Joe, whicl. is now
united to words that breatlie a strain of conjugal
teridernes'", that is as highly moral as it is ex-
quisitely urtcctiiig.
Vu'v circumk'iucea could uflfurd a more strik-
ing proof of the strength of Burns's gcr.ins, that
the general circulation of his poems in England,
notwithstanding the dialect in whic'- the great-
er part are written, and which miiju be sup-
posed to render them here uncouth or obscure.
In some instances he has used this dialect on
subjects of a sublime nature ; but in general be
confines it to sentiments or description of a
tender or humorous kind ; and, where he rises
into elevation of thought, he assumes a purer
English style. The singular faculty he pos-
sessed of mingling in the same poem humorous
sentiments and descriptions, with imagery of a
sublime and terrific nature, enabled biin to use
this variety of dialect on some occasions with
striking effect. His poem of Tnm 6" Shanter
alTords an instance of this. There he passes
from a scene of the lowest hunr.our, to situations
of the most awful and terrible kind. He is a
musician that runs from the lowest to the
highest of his keys; and the u?.e of the Scottish
dialect enables him to add two additional notes
to the bottom of his sca'e.
Great efforts liave been made by the inli.ibi-
tants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to ap-
proximate in their speech to the pure English
standard ; and this has made it difficult to write
in the Scottish dialect, without exciting in them
som.e feelings of di-gust, which in England are
scarcely felt. An l:^ng!islmian who understand*
the meaning of the Scottish words, is not af-
fended, nay, on certain sutijects, he is perhaps
pleased with the rustic dialect, za Im an?\- \is
with the Doric Greek of Theocritus.
But a Scotchman inhabiting his own coub-
try, if a man of education, and more especially
if a literary character, has banis-lied such words
from his writings, and has attempted to banish
them from his s])cech ; and being accusionied
to hear them finm the vulgar daily, does not
easily admit of their use in poetry, which re-
quires a style elevated and ornamental. A dis-
like of this kind is, however, accidental, not na-
tural. It is of the species of disgust which we
feel at seeing a female of high birth in the dress
of a rustic ; which, if she be leally young and
beautiful, a little habit will enalile us to over-
come. A lady wlio assumes such a dress putj
her beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. She re-
jects— she, indeed, opposes the influence of fa-
shion ; she, possibly, abandons the grace of
L'legant and flowing drapery ; but her native
charms remain, the more striking, perhaps, be-
cause the less adorned ; and to these she tiusti
for fixing her emjiire on those afl'rctlons over
which fashion has no sway. If sl.e succeeds, a
new association arises. The dress of the beau-
tiful rustic becomes itself beautiful, and estab-
lishes a new fashion for the young and the gay.
And when, in after ages, the contemplative ob-
server shidi view lier picture in the gallery thai
contains the portraits of the beauties of succes-
sive centuries, each in the dress of her respec-
tive day, her drapery Mill not deviate, mor*
than that of her rivals, fr )in the fitundaid of hk
ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY.
97
teste, anil lie will tjii'e flie |),ilni to her who ex-
Cb>!r in tlic lineiiiiiLMits of n.iturc.
liurns wrote iM-ofesscdly for the peasantry of
hi* coiiiiti V, anil by them their native dialect is
universally reli'^heil. To a numerous class of
the natives of Scotland of another desrrijjtion,
it may nUo I.e eon-^idered as attractive in a dif-
ferent point of view. Estranged from their
native soil, and sjiread over foreii^n lands, the
idiom of their country unites with the senti-
ments and the descripticms on which it is em-
plovtNl, to recall to their minds the interestinp;
scenes of infaiicv anil youth — to awaken many
pleasinc;, niaiiy tender recollections. Literary
men, residing at Edinbnrt;h or Aberdeen, can-
not jiidf{e on this point for one hundred and
fil'tv thousand of their expatriated countrymen.
To the u>e of the Scottish dialect in one spe-
cies of poetrv, tlie composition of songs, the taste
of the public has been for some time reconciled.
The dialect in question excels, as has already
been observed, in tiie copiousness and exactness
of its terms for natural objects ; and in pastoral
or rural songs, it gives a Doric simplicity, which
is very generallv approved. Neither does the
regret seem well founded which some persons of
taste have expressed, that ISurns used this dia-
lect in so many other of his compositions. His
declared purpose was to jjaint the manners of
rustic life aniiuig his " humble compeers," and
it is not easy to conceive, that this could have
been done with eipial humour and effect, if he
had not adopted their idiom. There are some,
indeed, who will think the suliject too low for
poetry. Persons of this sickly taste will find
their delicacies con>ulted in many a polite and
learned author; let them not seek for gratifica-
tion in the rough and vigorous lines, in the ua-
l)ridled humour, or in the overpowering sensi-
bility of this bard of nature.
To determine the comparative merit of Burns
would be no easy task. Many persons after-
warils distinguished in literature, have been
from in as humble a situation of life ; but it
r9u.d be difBcu-t to &utl auy other who while
earning his subsistence by daily ia>"'.ir, has
writteu verses which have attracted tod re-
tained universal attention, and which are likely
to give the author a perniatient .and distinguish-
ed place among the followers of the muses. I|
he is deficient in grace, he is distinguished for
case as well as energy ; and these are indica-
tions of the higher order of genius. The father
of epic poetry exhibits ime of his heroes as ex-
celling in strength, another in swiftness — to
form his perfect warrior, these atfiibutes ire
cond)ined. Every species o' intellectual supe-
riority admits, perhaps, of a limil.ir arrange-
ment. One writer excels in torci.' — another in
ease; he is superior to them both, in whom
both these qualities are united. Of Homer
himself it may be said, that like his own Acliil
les, he sur))asses his competitors iu mobility as
well as strength.
The force of Burns lay in the powers of his
understanding, and in the sei.sibilitv of his
heart; and these will be found to infuse the
living principle into all the works of genius
which seem destined to immortality. His .sen-
sibility had an uncommon range. He was a-
live to every species of emotion. He is one
of the few poets that can be mentioned, who
have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness,
and in sublimity ; a pr.iise iiiiUiunvn to the an-
cients, and which in modern times is only dun
to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps to Vol.
taire. To compare the writings of the Scottish
peasant with tlie works of these giants in liter-
ature, might appear presumiifiions ; yet it may
be asserted that he has dispLiyeil the font <J
Hercules. How near be might have approach-
ed them by proper culture, with lengthened
years, and under happier auspices, it is nut for
us to calcul.ite. But while we run over the
melancholy story of his life, it is impossible not
to heave a sigh at the asperity of his fortune ;
and as we survey tlie records of his mind, it ii
easy to see, that out of such matei iaU ha"e bt-en
reared the fairest and the Uiint durable of tlM
tCr^numeats cf geniuii
»d
THE SONGS.
The poetry of Burns has been referred to as one of the causes which
prevented the Scottish language from falling into disuse. It was beginning
to be disrontinued as vulgar, even as the medium of oral connnunication ;
and an obvious consequence of tliat state jf the public taste was, that the
Scottish songs, sweetly pathetic and expressive as many of them are, were
not fashionable, but rather studiously avoided. The publication of Ina
poetry changed this taste. Burns, followed by Scott, not merely revived
the use of their native tongue in their own country, but gave it a cur-
rency in the polite world generally : an effect which was greatly assisted by
Burns's songs, and not a little by what he did for the songs of his prede-
cessors. He was a most devoted admirer of the Ivrical effusions of the
olden time, and became a diligent collector of the ancient words, as well
as of the sets of the music. His remarks, historical and anecdotic, upon
the se\cral songs, are amusing and instructive; and where there were
blanks to be supplied, he was ready as powerful at a refit. To do all this^
find at same time to double the stock of Scottish songs, was no small task ;
and so well has it been executed, that in place of forming the amusement
and delight of the Scots only, they have become a part, nay, have taken
the lead, of the lyrical compositions used, and in fashion, throughout the
British dominions. It is because of their intrinsic worth, as a branch of
elegant amusement, that we have given the whole here, presented in two
distinct parts : — The first part contains the songs before Burns, with tlie
remarks, by which he has so felicitously illustrated them. — The second
pa/t is formed of his own songs, and which are now Jirought together, in
place of being scattered over, and mixed with the prose pieces, as hereto-
fore — The whole forming a complete collection of select Scolhsh Sotu/s,
such as cannot fail to be acceptable to the lovers of good taste, and inno-
cent amusement in every country.
100
SELECT
SCOTTISH SONGS.
TxK poet thus writes to Mrs. Diinlnp : — • I
cad an old grand- uncle, with whom my mo-
ther lived awhile in her girlish years; the
good old man, for such he was, was long
blind ere he died ; during which time, his
highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry,
while my mother would sing the simple old
song of Tht Life and Age of Man.' The
song, as here given, was taken down from the
recitation of the puet's mother, who had
never seen a printed copy of it, — and had
learned it from Imr mother in early youth.]
THE LIFE AND AGE OF MAN :
Oil,
A SHORT DESCRIPTION OF HIS NATURE, RISE
AND FALL, ACCORDING TO THE TWELVE
MONTHS OF THE YSAR.
ruM— "UleofKell."
Upon the sixteen hunder year,
of God arici tifty three,
Frae Chii>t was horn, that bought us deaii
as writings testitie ;
On January the sixteenth day,
as I did ly alone.
With many a sigh and sob did say.
Ah ! Miu is made tu moan.
Dame Natur, that excellent bride,
did stand up me before.
And said to me, thou must provide
this life for to abhor :
Thou seeit what things are gone before,
experience teaches thee ;
Yet do not miss to remember this,
that one day thiiu must die.
Of all the creatures hearing life
recall back to thy mind,
Consider liow they ehh and flow,
each thing in their own kind ;
Ifet few of tiiem h ive such a strain,
at God hath given to thee ;
Therefore thi> lesson keep in mind,—
lemcmber man tu die.
Man's course on earth ' will repcrb
if I have time and space ;
It may be long, it may be short,
as God hath giv'n him grace.
Ilis natur to the herbs compare,
that in the ground ly dead ;
And to each month add five year,
and so we will procede.
The first five years then of man's life
compare to Januar ;
In all that time but sturt and strife,
he can but greet and roar.
So is the fields of flowers all bare,
by reason of the frnst ;
Kept in the ground both safe and 80ua&.
not one of them is lost.
So to years ten I shall speak then
of Februar but lack ;
The child is meek and weak of spir't,
nothing can unclert;d<e:
So all the flow'rs, for lack of show'rs,
no springing up can make,
Yet birds do sing and praise their king,
and each one choose their inat«.
Then in comes March, tliat noble area,
with wholesome s|)ring and air,
The child doth spring to years fifteen,
with visage fine and fair ;
So do the flow'rs with softening show'r*
ay spring up as .ve see ;
Yet nevertheless remember this,
that one day we must die.
Then brave April doth sweetly sraLft
the flow'rs do fair appear,
The child is then become a man,
to the age of twenty year ;
If he be kind and well imdin'd,
and brought up at the school,
Tlien men may know if he foreshow
a wise maa or a fool.
Then cometh Miy, gallant and gay,
when frao'ant flow'rs do thrive.
SONGS.
101
The child is then become a map,
ot'aije twunty and five ;
And for hir* life dcith sock a wife,
liis life and yeais to sjjL-iid ;
Christ, from above send peare and love,
and grace unto the end !
Then Cometh June with pleasant tune,
when fields with flow'rs are clad,
And I'luelms briu^lit is at his height,
all creatures then are ^lad :
Then he appears of thretty years,
with courage hold and stout ;
His nature so makes him to go,
of death he hath no doubt.
Then July comes with his hot climes,
and constant in his kind,
The man doth thrive to thirty-five,
and sober grows in mind ;
His children small do on him call,
and bi'eed lum stuit aud strife;
Then August old, both stout and bold,
when flow'rs do stoutly stand ;
So man appears to forty years,
with wisdom and command ;
And doth provide his house to guide,
children and familie;
Yet do not miss t' remember this,
that one day thou must die.
September then comes with his train,
and makes the flow'rs to fade ;
Thtn man belyve is forty-five,
grave, constant, wise, and staid.
When he looks on, how youth is gone,
and shall it no more see ;
Then may he say, both night and da •,
have mercy. Lord, on me !
October's blast comes in with boast,
and makes the flow'rs to fall ;
Then man appears to fifty years,
old age doth on him call :
The almond tree doth flourish hie,
and pale grows man we see ;
Then it is time to use this line,
remember, man, to die.
November air maketh fields bare
•if flow'rs, of gra«s, and corn ;
Then man arrives tu fifty-five,
and sick both e'en and morn :
Loins, legs, and thighs, without disease,
makes him to sigh and say.
Ah ! Christ on high have mind on me,
and learn me for to die !
December fell baith sharp and snell,
makes flow'rs creep in the ground ;
Then man's threescore, both sick aud sore,
no soundness in him fouud.
His ears and e'en, and teeth of bane,
all these now do him fiil ;
Then may he say, both night and d.iy,
that death shall him assail.
And if there be, thru* natur stout,
some that live ten years more ;
Or if he eieepeth up and down,
till he comes to fourscore ;
Vet all this time is but a line,
no pleasure can be see :
Then may he say, both night and day,
have mercy, Lord, on me !
Thus have I shown yon as I can,
the course of all mens' life;
We will return where we began,
but either sturt or strife:
Dttme lilemorie doth take her leave,
she'll last no more, we see ;
God grant that I may not you grieve,
Ye'll get nae mair of lue.
BESS THE GAWKIE.
This song shews that the Scottish IVIuses did
not aJI leave us when we lost Ramsay and O9.
wald, * as I have good reason to believe that
the verses and music are both posterior to the
days of these two gentlemen. — It is a beautiful
song, and in the genuine Scots taste. We have
few pastoral compositions, 1 mean the pastora.
uf nature, that are e(iual to this. — Burns.
Blythe young Bess to Jean did say,
Will ye gang to yon sunny brae.
Where flocks do feed and herds do strav.
And sport awhile wi' Jamie ?
Ah na, lass, I'll no gimg there.
Nor about Jamie tak nae care.
Nor about Jamie tik nae care.
For he's taen 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 nuiir to Maggy.
I wat he gae her mony a kiss.
And IMaggy took them ne'er amiss ;
'Tween ilka smack, pleas'd her with this,
That Bess was but a gau'kle.
For when a civil kiss I seek.
She turns her head, and thraws her cheek,
• Oswald was a mnsic-scller in I,nn<!i)n, about tlie
year 17)0. lie pul)!ishcil a larpc collix'tion of Scottiah
tiincs, wliicli liu called The C\i'e<lonliii Pitclcct Cunipa-
nlon. Mr. Tytler ob-crves, that his fjcnius in compo-
sition, joined to his taste in the perlurmance of .Scot-
trsh music, wius natural and patlietic. Thrs sonj^ ha*
t)een imputed to a clergyman — Mr. Morchcad oi" Uil
m Galloway.
J 02 BURNS' WORKS.
And for au liour slio'Il scarcely speak ;
The gladsome waters sung below.
Wlio'd not Call Ikt a gawkie?
And the sweet wind sung above-—
Rut 6uia my I\Iaj(gie has marr sense,
Make way for Annie of Lochroyan, •
She'll gie a score without offence ;
She conies to seek her love.
Now gie me ane unto the mense,
And ye shall be my dawtie.
A gentle wind came with a sweep.
And stretched her silken sail,
O, Jamie, ye ha'e mony tane,
^^^len up there came a reaver rude.
But I will never stand for ane,
With many a shout and hail :
Or twa, when we do meet again ;
0 touch her not, my mariners a*.
Sae ne'er think me a gawkie.
Such loveliness goes free ;
Ah, na, lass, that ne'er can be,
Make way fot- Annie of Lochroyan,
Sic thoughts as these are far from ue,
She seeks Lord Gregorie.
Or ony that sweet face that see,
E'er to think thee a gawkie.
The moon locked out with all her star^
The ship moved merrily on.
Rut whisht ! — nae mair of this we'll speak,
Until she came to a castle high.
Fur yonder Jamie docs us meet ;
That all as diamonds shone :
Instead of Meg he kiss'd sae sweet.
On every tower there streamed a light.
I trow he likes the gawkie.
On the middle tower shone three-
0 dear bess, I hardly knew,
Move for that tower my mariners a',
When I came by, your gown sae new,
IMy love keeps watch for me.
I think you've got it wat wi' dew ;
Quoth she, that's like a gawkie :
She took her young son in her arms,
And on the deck she stood —
It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain,
The wind rose with an angry gust.
And I'll get gowns when it is gane,
1 he sea wave wakened rude.
Sue you may gang the gate you came.
Oh open the door, Lord Gregory, love :
And tell it to your t'awtie.
Oh open and let me in ;
The guilt appear'd in Jamie's check ;
The sea foam hangs in my yellow hair.
He cry'd, 0 cruel maid, but sweet,
The surge dreeps down my chin.
If I should gang anither gate.
I ne'er could me/;t my dawtie.
All for thy sake. Lord Gregory, love,
I have sailed the perilous way,
The las=es fast frae him they flew.
And thy fair son is 'tween my breasts,
And left poor Jamie sair to rue,
And he'll be dead ere day.
That ever IMaggy's face he knew,
The fiiam hangs on the topmost cliff.
Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie.
The fires run on the sky.
As they went o'er the muir they sang ;
And hear you not your true love's voick
The hills and dales with echoes rang,
And her sweet baby's cry ?
The hills and dales with echoes rang,
Gang V°r the muir to Maggy '
Fair Annie turned her round about.
And tears began to flow —
May never a baby suck a breast
\Vi' a heart sae fou of woe.
Take down, take down that silver mar
FAIR ANNIE OF LOCHROYAN.
Set up a mast of tree.
(original song of OH OPEN THE DOCK,
It does nae become a forsaken dame
LORD GREGOUy).
To sail sae royallie.
It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark,
Oh read my dream, my mother, deal
Renfrew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and
I heard a sweet babe greet,
Dumfiies-shires, there is scarcely an old song
And saw fair Annie of Lochroyan
or tune which, from the title, &c. can be gues-
Lie cauld dead at my feer.
sed to belong to, or be the production of these
And loud and loud his mother laugnetf—
counties. This, I conjecture, is one of these
Oh sights mair sure than sleep,
very few ; as the ball.d, which is a long one,
I saw fair Annie, and heard her voice,
is called both by tradition and in printed collec-
And her baby wail and weep.
tions, The Lass o' Lochroijan, which I take to
be Lochroyan in Galloway Burns.
0 he went down to yon sea side
As fast as ho could fare,
Sweet Annie built a bonnie ship,
He saw idK Annie and her sweet babt.
And set her on the sea ;
Rut the wild wind tossed them sair;
Th(! sails were a' of the damask silk,
And hey Annie, and how An:iie,
The mast* vf silver free.
And Annie wiuna ye bidu?
■-■ ' J
>
SONGS 103
But ave the iiiair he called A.mie,
O ! con;?, my love ! thy Colin's lay
'I'he broader grew the tide.
With rapture calls, O come away !
Come, while the Muse this wreath shall twia»
And hey Annie, and how Annie,
.\round that moilest brow of thine ;
Dear Annie speak to me,
O ! hither haste, and with thee bring
But ;:ye the louder he cried Annie,
Thut beauty blooming like the spring ;
Tlie louder roared the sea.
Those graces that divinely shine.
The wind waxed loud, the sea grew rough,
And charm this ravish'd breast of mine !
The slilp sunii nis^li the shore,
Fair Annie floated through the foam,
I3ut the baby rose no more.
0 first lie kissed her cherry cheek,
SAW YE JOHNNIE CUMMIN?
And then he kis^^ed her chin,
QUO' SHE.
And syne he kissed her rosy lips,
But there was nae brtwth within.
This song for genuine humour in the verse*.
0 my love's love was true as light,
and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled
As meek and sweet was she —
I take it to be very old Burns.
RIy mother's hate was sti'ong as death.
And fiercer tlun the sea.
Saw ye Johnnie cummin ? quo' she.
Saw ye Johnnie cummin,
0 saw ye Johnnie cummin, quo' she •
Saw ye Johnnie cummin.
ROSLIN CASTLE.
Wj' his blue bonnet on his head.
And his doggie runnin, quo' she ,
These beautiful verses were the production
And his doggie runnin ?
of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr.
Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anec-
Fee him, f ither, fee him, quo' she •
dote, kept for some years as an amanuensis. 1
Fee him, father, fee him :
do not know who was the author of the second
For he is a gallant lad,
song to the tune. Ti/ller, in his amusing his-
And a weel doin' ;
^ i-y of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald;
And a' the wark about the house
rut in Oswald's own collection of Scots tunes.
Gaes wi' me when I see him, quo' ihs
where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself
Wi' me when I see him.
composed, he does not make the least claim to
the tune. — KuiiNs.
What will I do wi' him, hussy ?
What will I do wi' him ?
'TwAS in that season of the year.
When all things gay and sweet appear.
He's ne'er a sark upon his back.
And I hae nane to gie him.
That Colin, with the morning ray,
Arose and sung his rural lay.
Of Nanny's charms tlie shepherd sung.
I hae twa sarks into my kist.
And ane o' them I'll gie him.
And for a mark of mair fee,
Tile hills and dales with Nanny rung ;
Dinna stand wi' him, quo* sne ;
Wilde Iloslin Castle heard the swain,
Dinna stand wi' him.
And echoed back the cheerful strain.
For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she ;
Awake, sweet Muse ! the breathing sprioj;.
With rapture w.irnis ; awake and sing !
Weel do I lo'e him :
0 fee him, father, fee him, quo' she ;
Awake and join the vocal tlirong,
Willi hail the morning with a song;
Fee him, father, fee him ;
He'll baud the plcugh, thrash i' the bxra,
To Nanny raise the cheerful lay,
And lie wi' me at e'eu, quo' she ;
0! bid her h.iste and come away;
Lie wi' me at e'en.
In swrcti'st sniilss herself adorn,
And add new graces to the morn !
0, hark, my love ! on ev'ry spray.
Each feather'd wai bier tunes his lay ;
CLOUT THE CALDRON.
Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng.
And love inspires the melting song :
A TRAniTios is mentioned in Ojc Bee, that
Then let my raptur'd notes arise,
the second Bishop Chisholm, of Di/nblane, used
I'or beauty darts from Nanny's eyes ;
to say, that if he were going to be lian;.;cd, no-
And love my risinc^ bosom warms.
thing would soothe his mind so much by ths
And fills my soul with sweet alarmsi,
way, as to hear Clout Ike CcUdron played.
1
tui
BURNS' WORKS.
T have met w'ltl another tradition, that the
eld song to this tune,
Hae ye nny pots or pans,
Or onie broken chanlers,
was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in
the Ciivaller times ; ind alluded to an amour he
had, while uniler hidinjr, in the disguise of an
itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the
name of
The Blacksmith and his Apron,
which from the ryihym^ seems to have been a
line of some old song to the tune. — Burns.
Have you any pots or pans,
Or any broken chandlers ?
I am a tinkler to niv trade.
And newly come fiae Flanders,
As scant of siller as of ,^race.
Disbanded, we've a bad run ;
Gar tell the lady of the place,
I'm come to clout her caldron.
Fa aclrie, didle, didle, Uc,
Madam, if ycu have wark for me,
I'll do't to your contentment,
And diiina care a single Sie
Tor anr man's resentment ;
Fur, lidy fail', though I apjjcar
To cv'ry ane a tinkler,
Yet to yoursel I'm bauld to tell,
1 am a gentle jinker.
Fa adiie, didle, didle, &c.
Love .lupiter into a swan
Tiirn'd fur bis lovely Leda ;
lie like a buH o er uicadov/s ran,
To cany aff Europa.
Then may not I, as well as he,
To cheat your Argos blinker,
And win your love, like mighty Jov^
Thus hide me in a tinkler?
Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c.
Sir, yp appear a cunning man,
But this tiue plot you'll fail in,
Fur there is neither pot nor pan
Of mine you'll drive a nail in.
Then bind your budget on your back,
And nails up in your apiou.
For I've a tinkler under tick
That's ns'd to clout my caldron.
Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c.
SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY?
This charming song is much older, and in-
deed superior, to Ramsay's vci-scs, *' The Toast,"
as he calls them. There is another set of the
the original one, hut though it has a very gr?»t
deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' reading.—
BUKNS.
Saw ye nae my Peggy,
Saw ye nae n>y Peggy,
Saw ye nae my Peggy,
Coming o'er the lea ?
Sure a liner creature
Ne'er was furm'd by nature,
So complete each feature.
So divine is she.
O ! how Peggy charms me ;
Every look still warms me ;
Every thought alarms me,
Lest she love nae me.
Peggy doth discover
Nought but charms all over;
Nature bids me love her.
That's a law to me.
WTio would leave a lover,
To become a rover ?
No, I'll ne'er give over,
'Till 1 happy be.
For since love inspires roe,
As her beauty tires me.
Anil her absence tires me.
Nought can please but she.
^^^lcn I hope to gain her.
Fate seems to detain her,
Cou'd I but obtain her,
Happy wou'il I be !
I'll ly down before her.
Bless, sigh, and adore her.
With faint looks implore her,
'Till she pity me.
The original words, for they can scarcely b«
called verses, seem to be as follows ; a song fa-
miliar from the cradle to every Scottish ear.
Saw ye my Jlaggie,
Saw ye my Maggie,
Saw ye my IMaggie,
Linkin o'er the lea?
High kilted was she.
High kilted was she.
High kilted was she,
Her coat aboon her kcec.
\Miat mark has your Magajie,
AVliat mark has your Maggie,
What mark has your Maggie,
That ane may keu l.ct ve 9 {hi/)
Though it by no means follows that the stl-
liest verses to an air must, for that reason, be
the original song ; yet I take this ballad, ol
which I have quoted p irt, to be the old verses.
The two songs in Riimsarj, one of them evi-
words, much older still, and which I take to be Idently his own, are never to be met with in tlia
SONGS.
105
firp-side circle of our piMsmtry ; while that
wliii-li I take to be the olil son'^, is in every
Bli"|)li;ni's nio'.ith, Jtdiiis ly, I suppose, hail
tliiiuylit the tiM ve.'ses uiiwui thy of a place ia
bis collectiua.^IScuNS.
FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER AVI* STRAE.
It is sflf-cviilent that tlie first four lines of
this son? are p irt of a song more ancient than
Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed to
tlieui. As music is the language of nature ; and
poetry, partitiilaily songs, are always less or
more localized (if I may be allowed the verb)
bv some of the modifieatious of time and p'.ace,
this is the reason why so many of our Scots airs
have outlived their original, and perhaps many
subsequent sets of verses ; except a single name,
>r phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply
Ko distinguish the tunes by.
To this day among people who know nothing
af Ramsay's verses, the following is the song,
jod all the song that ever I heard : — Burns.
Gin ye meeS a bonnie lassie,
Gie her a jjss and let her gae ;
But gii. ye meet a dirty hizzie,
Eye, gar lub her o'er wi' strae.
Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her,
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae ;
An' gin ye meet a dirty hizzie,
Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae.
Look up to Pentland's tow'ring tap,
Bury'd beneath great wreaths of snaw,
O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scar, and slap,
As high as ony Roman wa.'
Driving their baws frae whins or tee,
The-e's no nae gowfers to be seen ;
Nor dousser fowk wysing a-jee
The byass- bonis on Taiuson's green.
Then fling on coals, and iij)e the ribs,
And beek the house lialth butt and ben ;
That niotchkin stuwp it hads but dribs,
Then lei's get in the tappit hen.
Good claret best keeps out the cauld.
And drives away the winter soon ;
It makes a mm baith gas' m<l bauld,
And heaves his saul beyond the moon.
Leave to the gods your ilka care.
If that thi-y think us worth their while.
They can a rowth of blessings spare.
Which will our fiishious fears beguile.
For what they hive a mind to do,
That will thc< <o should we gang wood ;
If they command the storms to hlaw,
Then upo' sight the hailst^iins thud
But soon as ere they cry, " Be quiet,*
The blatt'ring winds dare nae mair moVC,
But cour into their caves, and wait
The high command of sujircme Jovjii
Let neist day come as it thinks fit.
The present minute's only ours ;
On pleasure let's employ our ivit,
And laugh at fortune's fickle powers.
Be sure ye dinna quat the grip
Of ilka joy when ye are young,
Before auld age your vitals nip.
And l.iy ye twafald o'er a rung.
Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsoc:c time ;
Then, lails and lasses, while it's 3Iay,
Gae pou the gowan in its prime,
Before it wither and decay.
Watch the saft minutes of delyte.
When Jenny speaks beneath her breath,
And kisses, laying a' the wyte
On you, if she kepp ony skaith.
" Haith, ye' re ill-bred," she'll smiling say •_
" Ye'll worry me, ye gretdy rook;"
Syne frae your arms she'll rin away.
And hide hersell iu some dark nook.
Her laugh will lead you to the place
Where lies the happiness you want,
Ami plainly tells you to your face.
Nineteen nay-says are half a grant.
Now to her heaving bosom cling.
And sweetly toolie for a kiss,
Frae her f.iir finger whop a riug,
As taiken of a, future bless.
These bennisons, I'm very sure.
Are of the gods' indulgent grant ;
Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear
To plague us with your whining cant.
THE LASS O' LIVISTOX.
The old song, in three eight-line stanzas, if
well known, and has merit as to wit and hu-
mour ; but it is rather unfit for insertion. — 1>
begin?,
The bonnie lass o' Liviston,
Her name ye ken, her name ye ken,
And she has written in her contract,
To lie her lane, to lie her 1-iue.
&c. &c.
L3
a06
BURXS' WORKS.
THE LAST TIME I CA.ME O'ER THE
MUIR.
Ramsay found the first liae of this sonj^,
which had been preserved as the title of the
charming air. and then composed the rest of the
verses to suit that line. This has always a finer
vffevX than composing English words, or words
with an idea foreign to the spirit ef the old title.
Where old titles of songs convey any idea at all,
it will generally be found to be quite iu the
spirit of the air. — Burns.
The last time I came o'er the muir,
I left my love behind me ;
Ye pow'rs ! what pain do I endure,
When soft ideas mind me.
Soon as the ruddy morn display 'd
The beaming day ensuing,
I met betimes my lovely maid.
In fit retreats for wooing.
Btne.ith the cooling shade we lay,
Gazing and chastely sporting ;
We kiss'd and promis'd time away,
Till night spread her black curtain :
I pitied all beneath the skies,
Ev'n kings, when she was nigh me;
In raptures I beheld her eyes,
Which could but ill deny me.
Ehould I be call'd where cannons roar.
Where mortal steel may wound me ;
Or cast upon some foreign shore,
Where dangers may surround me ;
Yet licipes again to see my love.
To fea^t on glowing kisses.
Shall make 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 slie excels in ev'ry grace.
In her my love shall centre.
Sooner the seas shall cease to flow.
Their waves the Alps shall cover ;
On Greenland's ice shall roses grow.
Before I cease to love her
The next time I gang o'er the muir,
She shall a lover find me ;
ftnd that my fiith is firm and pure.
Though 1 left her behind me.
Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain
Jly heart to her fair bosom ;
rtwre, while my being does remain,
My love more fresh shall blossom.
JOHNNY'S GRAY BREEKS.
Tuot'oii this has certainly every evidence of
fing a Scottivn air, yet there is a Well-known j
lue and sons in the Noith cf Ireland, called, I
The Weaver and f>'s Shuttle, O, whx
though sung much Quicker, 13 evt y note tin
very tune.
When I was in my se'nteen jivr,
I was baith biythe and bunny,
O the lads loo'd me baith far and near-,
B.-, I loo'd nane but Johnny :
He gain'd my heart in twa three weekS;.
He spake sae biythe and kindly ;
And I made him new gray breeks,
That fitted him most finely.
He was a handsome fellow ;
His humour was baith frauK icd fiiw;.
His bonny Jocks sae yellow,
Like gowd they glitter'd in my ee;—
His dimpl'd chin and rosy cheeks.
And face sae fair and ruddy ;
And then a-days his gray breeks.
Was neither auld nor duddy.
But now they're threadbare worn,
They're wider than they wont to bt f
They're tashed-like,* and sair torn,
And clouted sair on ilka knee.
But gin I had a simmer's day,
As I have had right mony,
I'd make a web o' new gray.
To be breeks to my Johnny.
For he's weel wordy o t!iem.
And better gin I had to gie,
And I'll tak pains upo' them,
Frae fauts I'll stiire to keep them &w
To dead him weel shall be my care,
And please him a' my study ;
But he maun wear the auld pair
Awei, tho' they be duddy.
For v/hen the lad was in his jirime,
Like him there was nae mony
He ca'd me aye his bonny thing,
Sae wha wou'd na lo'e Johnny ?
So I lo'e Johnny's gray breeks.
For a' the care they've gi'cn me yet.
And gin we live anither year,
We'll keep them hale between us yet
Now to conclude, — his gray breeks,
I'll sing them up wi' miith and glee;
Here's luck fc) a' the gray stocks.
That show themseils upo' the knee i
And if wi' health I'm spared,
A' wee while as I may,
I shall bae them prepared.
As Wee' as ony that's o' gray
StaiDod.
SONGS.
107
MAT EVF OR KATE OF ABERDEEN.
Kate of At)eiilt'cn, is, I believe, the work of
pour CiiniiinslKun the pljyer ; of whom the fol-
lowing anecdote, thojj;li told before, deserves a
reiitul. A fat dignitary of the church coming
past Cunniiiijham one Sunctay as the poor poet
was bu-y plying a fi-hing-rod in some stniam
near Duiliam. his native country, his reverence
reprimanded Cunningham very si'verely for >jeli
an oecup.ition on such a day. The poor poet,
with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which
was his peculiar characteristic, replied, that he
hoped God and his leverenee would forgivj his
seeming profanity of that sacred day, " as he. had
no dinnir to eat, but ichat lay at the bottom of
that pool !" This, Jlr. Woods, the player, who
knew Cunningham well, and e-iteeined him in ich,
assured me was true. — Burns.
ilver moon's enamour'd beam,
Steals softly through the night.
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.
To beds of state go balmy sleep,
('Tis where you've seldom beeri).
May's vigil while the shepherds keep
With Kate of Aberdeen !
Upon the grctrA the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay.
Till morn unbar her golden gate,
And give the jiromis'd May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare
The promis'd May, when seen.
Nut half BO fragrant, half so fair.
As Kate of Aberdeen !
Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,
We'll rouse the nodding grove ;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid I love :
And see — the matin lark mistakes,
He quits the tufted green ;
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen !
Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove,
Like thera, the jocund dance we'll lead.
Or tune the reed to love :
For see the ro-<y May draws nigh.
She claims a virgin ([ueen ;
And hark, the happv shepherds cry,
'"Tis Kate of Aberdeen 1"
Avrshire. — The following &nerdote I had from
the present Sir William Cunningham, of Robert-
land, who had it from the la^t Jcdin, Eirl ol
Lou<ion. — The then Earl of Loudon, father to
Earl John, before mentioned, had Ramsay at
Loudon, and one day walking together by the
banks (>f Irvine water, near New-Mills, at a
place yet called Patie's Mill, they were stiuek
with the ap|iearance of a beautiful country girl.
His lord-hij) observed, that she would be a fine
theme fir a song. — Allan lagged behind in re-
turning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produc-
ed this identical song Bukks.
The lass of Paties mill.
So bonny, biythe, and gay,
In sj)ite of all my skill.
She stole my heart away.
Wiien tedding of the hay,
Bare-heuded on the green.
Love 'midst her locks did play.
And wantun'd in her een.
Her arms white, round, and smootl^
Breasts rising in their dawn,
To age it would give youth.
To press 'em with his hand :
Thro' all my spirits ran
An ecstasy of bliss,
\^^len I such swcetuess fanu
M'rapt in a balmy kiss.
Without the help of art,
Like flowers which grace the wild.
She <lid her sweets impart.
Whene'er she spoke or smil'd.
Her looks they were so mild,
Frte from affected pride.
She me to love beguil'd ;
I wish'd her for my bride.
O had I all that wealth,
Hopeton's high mountains * fill,
Insur'd lang life and health.
And pleasure at my will ;
I'd promise and fultil.
That none but bonny she,
The lass of Patie's mill
Shou'd share the same wl' no*
THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL.
Is Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland,
fnis song is localized (a verb I must use fur want
THE TURNIMSPIKE.
There is a stanza of this excellent scng for
local humour, omitted iu this set, — where I have
placed the astensms. }•
llERSEl.r, pe highland «hentleman,
Pe auld as Pothwell Prig, man ;
• Thirty three miles south-west of Edinbuigh^
lere the Karl (if Hopeton's mints are.
-^ - - . . t Burns hail placed the asterisms between
Worth of Scotland, and likewise is claimed by and 10th verses. The verse is here restored.
of another to express my idea ) somewhere in the ! ^'^'^Tf "''•" !;-f,' "[ ""^f'T" ,""'"' '''^, .k o,v
-- !""■ J ' I Burns had placed the a.sterisins between the 9t3
LI
i08
BURNS' WORKS.
And mony alterations set-a
Amang te lawlatd whig, man.
Fal, §-c
First when her to the lawlands came,
Nainsel was driving cows, man ;
There was uae laws about him's nerse,
About the preeks or trews, man.
Nainsell did wear the philaheg,
Tl.e plaid prick't on her shouder ;
The guid claymore hung pe her pelt,
De pistol sharg'd wi' pouder.
But for whereas these cursed preeks,
Vt'herewith man's nerse be locket,
O hon ! that e'er she saw the day !
For a' her houghs be piokit.
Every ting in de highlands now
Pe turn'd to alteration ;
The sodger dwall at our door-sheek.
And tat's te great vexation.
.Scotland be turn't a Ningland now.
An' laws pring on de eager ;
Nainsell wad durk him for his deeds.
But oh ! she fear te sodger.
Anither law came after dat,
Me never saw de like, man ;
Thev mak a lang road on de crund.
And ca' him Turniinspike, man.
An' wow ! she pe a ponny road.
Like Louden corn-rigs, man ;
Where twa cai ts may gang on her,
An' no prcak ithers legs, man.
Thev sharge a penny for ill<a horse,
(In troth, tney'll no pe sheaper^ ;
For udtight but gam upo* the crund.
And they gie Ee a paper.
Thetj tak the horse then py te head,
And tere teij iiiuk her atiiii, man;
Mc tell teiii, me hue seen te day,
Tey had 7ia sic commaH, man.
Nae doubt, Nainsell maun traw his purse.
And pay teni what liim likes, man ;
I'll seo a shudgment on his toor ;
Tat filthy Turnimspike, man.
But I'll awa to the Highland hills.
Where te'il a ane dare turn her,
£nd no come near your Turnimspike,
Uoletjs it yc to purn her.
Fal,^c
HIGHLAND LADDIE.
As this was a favourite theme with our later
Scottish muses, there are several airs and songs
of that name. That which 1 take to be the
oldest, is to be found in the Musical Museum^
beginning, / hue been at Crookie-den. —
I HAE been at Crookie-den,*
My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ;
Viewing Willie and his men,
Jly bonnie laddie. Highland laddie
There our faes that burnt and slew,
IMy bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ;
There, at last, they gat their due.
My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie.
Satan sits in his black neuk.
My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ;
Breaking sticks to roast the Duke,
JMy bonnie laddie. Highland laddie :
The bluidy monster gae a yell.
My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ;
And loud the lauyh gaed round a' hell !
My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie.
One of my reasons is, that Oswald has it in hia
collection by the name of The auld Highland
Ldddie. — It is also known by the name of
Jinijhm J' hni'e, which is a well known song of
four oi five stanzas, and seems to be an earlier
song than Jacobite times. Asa proof of this, it
is little known to the peasantry by the name of
Hiijhlnnd Laddie ; while every body knows
Jinylan Juhnie. The song begins,
Jinglan John, the meickle man.
He met wi' a lass was blythe and bonnie.
Another Higland Laddie is also in the 3/«-
setim, vol. v. which I take to be Ramsay's ori-
ginal, as he has borrowed the chorus " O my
bonnie Highland lad, §-c.'' It consists of three
stanzas, besides the chorus ; and has humour in
its composition — it is an escellentbut somewhat
licentious song. — It begins.
As I cam o'er Cairney-Mount,
And down amang the blooming heather, &c.
This air, and the common Highland Laddie^
seem only to be different sets.
Another Highland Laddie, also in the Mu-
seum, vol. V. is the tune of several Jacobite frag
ments.— One of these old songs to it, only eiiatt,
as far as 1 know, in these four lines—
Whare hae ye been a' day,
Bonnie ladifie. Highland laddie ?
Down the back o' Bell's brae,
Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie.
* A. cant name for Hell
SONGS.
108
Aao'her cf this name is Dr. Arne's beautiful air,
talltii, the new Ilii/liltind Laddie.*
THE BLAITHRIE O'T.
The following is a set of this song, which
wa-s the earliest sonji; I refnenil)er to have got !iy
hrart. When a chil.l, an old woman sung it to
mc, and I picked it up, every word, at first
hearing.
0 Wxi.i.v weel I mind, I lent you my li.inil,
To sing you a song whii-h y<\i did me comiiuinrl ;
Hut my memoiy'N :><i l)a<l, I had aln\ost forgot
That you call'd it the gear and the blaithrie o't.
I'll not sing ahnut confusion, d'!!usi(m, or prid«,
I'll sitig about a laddie was fur a virtuous hride ;
For virtue is an ornament that time will never
rot.
And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't.
Tho' my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on.
We envy not the greatest that sits ujnm the
throne ;
1 wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she cam in her
smock,
Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't.
Tho' we hae nae horses or menzie at command.
We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi'our
hand ;
And when wearied without rest, we'll find it
sweet in any Sjior,
And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't.
If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent ;
Hae we less, hae we mair, we will aye be content ;
Fur they say they hae mair pleasure that wins
but a groit.
Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't.
I'll not meddle wi' th' affairs o' the kirk or the
queen ;
They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink
let them swim,
On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it
still remote,
Sae tak lids for the gear and the blaithrie o't.
THE BLAITHRIE O'T.
When I think on this warld's pelf,
And the little wee shaie I have o't to myself,
• The followinR (.l>^erv;itinn was found in a mcmo-
"andum book Ulongm); lo Bums:
The Higfiltinder^ Prayer at Sheriff: HTuir.
" O L— <1 i*.' ihou with ii« : but, if thou l)e n-./ with
»«, be not agaiusi us i but Uave it bet-neen the rat coati
•la in/"
And how the lass that wants it is by the ladj
forgot.
May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't !•
Jockie was the laddie that he'd the pleugh,
Hut now he's got gowd and gear eneugh ;
He thinks nae mair of me that wears the plaide«
coat ;
May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't !
Jenny was the lassie tliat mucked the byre,
Hut now she i.< clad in her silken attiie,
And Jockie s.iys he lo'es her, and swears he'i
me forgot ;
May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't !
Rut all this shall never daunton me,
Sae lang's I keep my fancy free:
For the lad that's sae inconstant, he's not wcrth
a groat ;
May the shame fa' the gear an.l the blaithrie o't !
TWEEDSIDE.
In Ramsay's Tea-table Mixcellani/, he tells
us that about thirty of the songs in that publi-
cation were the works of some young gentlemen
of his acquaintance ; which soti^s are marked
with the letters D. C, &c Did Mr. Tytler,
of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender
of the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that
the songs marked C, in the Tca-tab/e, were the
composition of a Mr. Crawford, of the house of
Achinames, who was afterwards uiifortunatelv
drowned coming from France As Tvtler was
most intimately acquainted with Allan Ramsay.,
I think the anecdote may be de|ien(led on. 6i
consequence, the beautiful song of Twtedslde is
Mr. Crawford's, and indeed docs great honour
to his poetical talents. He was a Roliei t Craw-
ford ; the Mary he celebrates, was Mary Stuart,
of the Castlemilk family, afterwards married tc
a Mr. John Belches,
What beauties does Flora disclose I
How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed •
Yet .Clary's still sweeter than those ;
Both nature and fancy exceed.
Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose,
Nut all the gay flowers of the field.
Nor Tweed gliding gently through those,
Such beauty and pleasure dues yield.
The warblers are heard in the grove.
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush,
The blackbird and sweet cooing dove,
With music enchant ev'ry bush.
♦ Shame fall the trear ami the bhrTrij o'l, is the tura
ofanolil Scottish soiij, spoken when a >ouiig hami.
snme girl marries an olii man, upon the acpuuiit of t:A
wealth —Kelly's Scult Ptuverltt.
no
BURNS' WORKS.
Come, let us jro forth \o the mead,
Let us see how the primroses spring,
We'll lod'jre in some villao;e on Tweed,
And love while the feather'd folks sing.
How does my love pass the long day ?
Does JIary not 'tend a fev/ sheep ?
Do they never carelessly stray,
While happily she lie» asleep?
Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest ;
Kind nature indulging my blis'*,
To relieve the siift pains of my breast,
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.
'Tis she does the virgins excel,
No beauty with her may compare ;
Love's gracts around her do dwell ;
She's faiiest, where thousands are fair.
Say, charmer, wliere do thy flocks stray ?
Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed ;
Shall I sei^k them on sweet winding Tay,
Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ?
I have seen a song, calling itself the original
Tweedsiile, and s.iid to have been composed by
a Lord Yester. It cnn-;!sted of two stanaas, of
which I titill recollect the fir.-t.
When Maggy and T was acquaint,
I carried my nodille fu' hie ;
Nae lintwhite on a' the gieen jjlain.
Nor gowdspiiik sue happy as me :
But I saw her sae fair, and I lo'ed ;
I woo'd, but I came nae great speed ;
So now I m.iun waniler abroad.
And lay uiy banes far frae the Tweed.
The last stanza runs thus : — Ed.
To Meiggy my love I did tell,
Saut tears did my pas-ion express,
Alas ! for I loo'd her o'erwell.
An' the women loo sic a man less.
Her heart it was frozen and cauM,
Her pride had my ruin decreed ;
Therefore I will wander abroad,
And lay my baues far frae the Tweed.
THE BOATIE ROWS.
The author of the Jioiitie Rows, was a Mr.
Ewen of Aberdeen. It is a charming di-play of
womanly afffction min^lin;: with the concerns
and occU|iati<'i.s of bfe. It is nejrly e(jual to
Tliercs niii: luck about the house.
O WVT.I. may the boatie row»
And better may she s.ieed ;
Anil leesoine ni ly the boatie re
Tiiut wins my b.iini- lire ul .
The boatie row-:, tl'.e bo itie rows,
The boatie rows iikL'b I ;
And wei-1 may the biiatli- row
That wins the bairns breid.
I cust • my line in Largo bay,
And fishes I catch'd nine ;
There was three to boil, and three to firf
And three to bait the line:
The boatie rows, the boatie row?
The boatie rows indeed ;
And happy be the lot of a'
Who wishes her to speed.
O weel may the boatie row.
That fills a heavy creel.f
And cleads us a' frae head to feet.
And buys our porridge meal :
The boatie rows, the boatie rowa,
The boatie rows indeed ;
And happy be the lot of a'
That wish the boatie speed.
Wlien Jamie vow'd he would be miOB,
And wan frae me my heart,
0 muckle lighter grew my creel,
He swore we'd never part :
Tiie boatie rows, the boatie rows.
The boatie rows fu' weel ;
And muckle lighter is the load,
When love bears up the creel.
My kurtch I put upo' my head.
And dress'd mysel' fu' braw ;
1 true my heart was douf an* wae,
When Jamie gaed awa :
Hut weel may the boatie row,
And lucky be her part ;
And lightsome be the lassie's care>
That yields an honest heart.
\\lien Sawney, Jock, an' Janetie,
Are up and gotten lear,
They'll help to gar the boatie row.
And lighten a' our care :
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows fu' weel ;
And lightsome be her heart that heart
The murlain, and the creel.
And when wi' age we're worn down,
Anil hirpling round the door,
TheyT. row to keep us dry and warni,
As we did them l)efore ; —
Then weel may the boatie row.
She wins the bairns bread ;
And happy l>e the lot of a'
That wish the boat to speed !
TIIE HAPPY MARRIAGE.
Another, out very p'-etty Anglo-5!oot tiiii
piece.
• Cast— Tlic AlicrilocriShirc dialecU
\ kn u«icr UuikeU
SONGS.
m
How blest lias ray time Decu, what joys have 1
Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my
own !
So joj-ful my heart is, so easy my chain,
That freedom is tasteless, uiid lovin'j a pain.
Thro' walks grown with woodbines, as often we
stray,
Arnund us our boys and girls frolic and play :
How pleasing 1 !ieii- sport i* .' the wanton ones
see
And borrow their iooks from my Jessy and me.
To try her sweet temper, oft times am I seen
In revels all day with the nymphs on the green:
Tho' painful my absence, 'my doubts she be-
guiles,
And meets me at night with curopUcence and
smiles.
What thu' on her cheeks the rise loses its hue,
Her wit and good humour bloom all the year
thro' ;
Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth,
And gives to her mind what he steals from her
youth.
Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare,
And cheat, with false vows, the too credulous
fair ;
In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam !
To hold it for life, you must find it at home.
Unto the yinvcs a niilkin, itind sir, «he says,
With a double and adieu to thee fair IMay.
What if I gang alang wi' thee, my ain piettj
May,
Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-blacli
hair ;
Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, sht
says.
With a double and adieu to thee fair May.
&c. &e.
THE POSIE.
It appears evident to me that Oswald com-
posed his /{iisUn Castle on the modulation of
this air In the second part of Oswald's, in the
three first bars, he has either hit on a wonder-
ful similarity to, or else he has entirely borrow-
ed the three first bars of the oM air ; and the
close of both tunes is almost exactly the same.
The old verses to which it was sunjr, when 1
took down the notes fioin a country jjirl's voice,
had no great merit.— The following is a speci-
men ;
There was a pretty May,* and a milkin she
went ;
Wi* lier red rosy cheeks, and her coal-black
hair :
And she lia» met a young man a comin o'er the
bent.
With a double and adieu to thee fair May.
O where are ye goin, my ain pretty May,
Wi thy red rosy cheeks, tnd thy c.-al-black
hair .'
•Maid.
THE POSIE
O LUVK will venture iu, vhere it daui na wee'
be seen,
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has
been.
But I will down yon river rove, ammg the
wood sae green,
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.
The primrose I will pu", the firstling o' the year,
And I will pu" the piuk, the eiiihlem o' my dear,
For she's the |)ink o' woman kind, and hlooiiia
without a peer ;
And a' to be a jiosie to my ain dear IMay.
I'll pu' the budding rose, when Plia'biis jieeps
in view.
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie
mou ;
The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchang-
ing blue.
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair.
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaA-cted air.
And a' to be a posie to my aiu dear May ;
The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller
g'ey.
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o
day,
But the songster's nest within the bush I winns
tak away ;
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear IMay
The woodbine I will pu', wlien the e'ning sta.
is Ileal',
And the diamond djaps o' dew shall be her e'ei
sae clear ;
The violet's lor modesty which wcel she fa's h
wear,
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o
luve,
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear b»
a' above,
That to my latest drauglu o' life the band shali
ne er remuve,
And this will be a posie to my aiii t'-ar Ma^
112 BURNS' WORKS
MARY'S DREAM.
The Miry here alluded to is generally sup-
pi "-.o lie Miss Mary Macghie, daiisjhter to
the ^AUt\ of Ainls, ia Galloway. The poet
was a Mr. Alexander Lowe, who likewise
wrote another beautiful song, called Pnmpei/s
Ghost. — I have seen a poetic epistle from him
in North America, where he now is, or lately
was, to a lady in Si-otland. — By the strain of
the veises, it appeared that they allude to some
love disappointment.
The moon had c'imb'd the hignest hill,
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summet shed
Her silver light on tow'r and tree:
When Mary laid her down to sleep.
Her thouj^hts on Sandy far at sea ;
When soft and low a voice was heard.
Saying, Mary, weep no more for me.
She from her pillow gently rais'd
Her head to ask, who there might be ;
She saw young Sandy shiv'rlng stand.
With visage pale and hollow eye ;
' O M iry, dear, cold is my clay,
' It lies l)eneath a stormy sea ;
' Far, far from thee, I sleep in death ;
' So, Mary, weep iio more for me.
* Three stormy nights and stormy days
* We toss'd uixiii the raging main ;
* And long we strove our bark to save,
' But all our striving vi^as in vain.
* E'en then when horror chill'd my blood,
' My heart was tillM with love for tliee :
' The storm is past, and I at rest ;
' So, Mary, weej> no more fui- me.
O maiden de:ir, tin self prepare,
' We soon shall meet upon that shore,
' Where love is free from doubt and care,
• And tlioii and 1 shall part no more !'
Loud crow'd the cock, the sharlows fled.
No moie of Sandy could she see ;
But soft the |)assiug s|)irit said,
" Sweet Mary, weep no more for me !"
He wad neither ly in barn, nor yet wad te in
byre,
But in aiint the ha' door, or e\v afore the fire,
^nd we'll gang tmb mair, Sfc-
THE JOLLY BEGGAR.
Said to have been composed oy King James
v., on a frolic of iiis own.
There was a jcdly beggar, and a begging h«
was bono',
And he took up his quarters into a land'art
town,
And we'll gang nae mair a roving,
Hue lute into the tiig/it,
And we'll gang tine mair a roving, lioys,
L$ti the moon xhine ne'er xae brii/hl I
The beggar's bed was made at e'en wi' good
clean straw and hay.
And in ahint the ha' door, and there the beggar
lay,
And ive'll gang nae mair, §"0.
Up raise the good man's dcchte', and for to ba.
the door.
And there she saw the beg>,ir standin i' th»
floor.
And we'll gang nae mair, §"c
He took the lassie i;i iiis Firms, and to the bed
he ran.
O hooly, hooly wi' me, sir, ye'U waken out
goodnian.
Anil we'll gang nae mair, ifc.
The beggar was a cunnin loon, and ne'er a
word he spake.
Until he gi>t his turn done, syne he began tc
crack.
And we'll gang nne mair, §-c.
Is there ony nogs into this town? maiden, tell
me true.
And what wad ye do wi' them, my hiuny and
my dow ?
And we'll gang nne mair, SjX.
They'll rive a' my mealpocks, and do me meikU
wrang,
0 dool for the doing o't ! are ye the pnir man 3
And we'll gang nae mair, Sfc.
Then she took up the mealpocks and flang theiB
o'er the wa',
The (leil gae wi' the mealpocks, my maidenhea<
and a*,
A-id we'll gang nae mair, §"c.
1 took ye for some gentlenian, at least the laird
of llrodie ;
O dool for the doing o't ! are ye the puir bodie?
And we'll gang nae iiinir, 6fc,
He took the la.ssie in his arms, and gae her kissct
three,
And four-aiid-twenty hunder merk to pay the
uurice-fee.
And we'll gang nae mair, ^-c.
He took a horn frae his side, and blew hiitb
loud and slinll,
And four-and-twinty belfel kuight.'t came ikip-
ping o'er the hdl,
j And we'll gaiiy >uie tnuir, jfC
SONGS.
And he took out his little knife, loot a' lis dud-
dies f.i',
And he wm the brawest gentleman that was
aiiian^ them a'.
And we'll gang nae mair, §-c,
1 he hocjcrar wis 3 cliver loon, and he lap shoul-
dor lici>;ht,
O ay for sii-kori qii irtcrs as I gat yesternight !
And we'll gang nae mair, Sfc.
HIE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS.
BV MR. DUDGEON.
Tins DiiilgiHiu is a respectable farmer's son
in Berwickshire.
Vy amanij yon cliffy rocks
Swt'etJy rings the rising echo,
To the nviid tliat tends the goats,
Lihiiig o'er her native notes.
Hark ! she sink's, " Young Sandy's kind
All' he's luouilsed av to loe me ;
Here's a hrooili I ne'er shall tine
Till he's fairly married to me :
Drive away ye drone Time,
An' bring about our bridal day.
" S.indy herds a fluck o' sheep,
Alton does he blaw the whistle,
In a strain sae saftly sweet,
Laniniies list'niiig d lurna bleat.
He's as fleet's the mnuntain roe,
Hardy as the highland heather.
Wading thri)Ui;h the winter snow,
Keeping ay his flock together ;
Rut a pla;d, wi' bare houghs,
He braves the bleakest uorlin blast.
" Brawly he can dance and sing
Canty glee or highland cronach;
Ndne can ever match his fl-.ug,
At a reel, or round a ring ;
\Vij;htly can he wield a rung,
In a brawl he's ay the bangster :
A' liis piaise can ne'er be sung
IJy the lange-t-winded sangster.
Sangs that sing o' Sandy
Come short, though they were e'er sae lang.
When 'tis carded, row'd and njms^
Then the work is haflens done ;
Hut when woven, drest and ilean,
It may be clea<ling for a queen.
Sing, my bonny harmless sheep,
That feed upon the mountain s steepj
Bleating sweetly as ye go,
Thro' the winter's frost and snow;
H.irt, and hvnd, and fiUow-deer,
No be haff so nsefid are :
Frae kings to him that hads the plovf.
Are all oblig'd to tarry woo.
Up, ve shepherds, dance and skip.
O'er the hills and vallies trip,
Sitig up the praise of tarry woo,
Sing the flocks that bear it too ;
Haimless creatures without blame,
That dead the back, and cram the waia^
Keep us warm and hearty fou ;
Lcese me on the 'arry woo.
IIow happy is the shepherd's life,
Far fiae cuui ts, and free of strife,
While the giiDiners bleat and bae,
And the lambkins answer mae :
No such music to his ear ; —
Of thief or fox he has no fear ;
Sturdy Kent and CoUg true,
Will defend the tarry woo.
He lives content, and envies noce;
Not even a monarch on his throne,
Tho' he the royal sceptre sways.
Has not sweeter holidays.
M'ho'd be a king, can ony tell.
When a shepherd sings sae well ?
Sings sae well, anil pays his due.
With honest heart and tarry woo.
TARRY WOO.
This 19 a very pretty song ; but I fancy that
tlie first half stanz.u as well as the tune itself,
ftre much older than the rest oH the words.
Tarry woo, tarry woo,
Tarry woo is ill to spin ;
Card it well, card it well.
Card .. »'ell ere ye begin.
THE COLLIER'S BONNIE LASSIF.-
The first h.df stanza is much older than the
days of Ramsay. — The old words began thus :—
The collier has a dochter, and, O, she's woo.
dcr bonnie !
A laird he was that sought her, rich baith it
lands and money.
She wad na hae a laird, nor wad she be a lady
But she wad hae a collier, the color o' her daddia
The collier has a oaughter.
And O she's wonder bonny ;
A lainl he was that sought her,
Rich baith in lands and money ;
The tutors watch'd the motion
Of this young honest lover ;
But love is like the oceau ;
Wha c*i* its depth discover?
114
BURNS' WORKS.
He li.id i ir,".rt to please ye.
And w.is hy ii' respected ;
His airs sat roiiiul him easy,
Genteel, l>ut un^iifected.
The fullier's honnie lassie,
Fdir as the new-hlown lilie,
Ay sweet, ana never saucv,
Seeur'J the lieurt of WiRie.
He lov'd beyond expression
The charms that were about her^
Anil panted for pnsse-sitm,
His life was dull without her
After mature resolving.
Close to his breast he held her
In saftest flames dissolving,
He tenfierly thus tell'd her :
'My bonny collier's daughter.
Let nacthing discompose ve,
'Tis no yiHir scanty tocher
Shall ever gar me lose ye :
For I have gear in plenty,
And love says, 'Tis my duty
To ware what heav'n has lent me
Upon your wit and beauty.
MY AIN KIND DEARIE— O.
The old words of this song are omitted here,
though much more beautiful than these insert-
ed ; which were mostly composed by poor Fer-
gusson, in one of his merry humours The (Id
words began thus: —
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig,
IMy ain kind dearie, O,
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O,
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wat.
And I were ne'er sae weary, O,
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig.
My ain kind dearie, O
Will ye gang o'er the lea-rig,
My aiii kind dearie, O ?
And cuddle there sae kindlie,
My ain kind dearie, O?
At thorny ilike and birken-treo,
We'll dilT and ne'er be weary, O ;
They'll scug ill een fiae you and me.
My ain kind dearie, O !
Nae herds, wi' kent or colly, there,
Shall ever come to fear ye, O ;
But lavrocks, whistling in the air,
Sh.'.ll woo, like me, their dearie, O.
While others herd their lambs and yowcs,
And toil for wuild's gear, my jo ;
(Jj)on the lea, my pleasure grows,
Wi* thee my kiud dearie, O.
DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE.
I have been informed, that the tune of Down
the Hum, Davie, was the composition of David
Maigh, keeper of the blood slough hounds, be-
longing to the Laird of Riddel, in Tweeddule.
When trees did bud, and fields were greca.
And broom bloom d fair to see ;
When Mary was complete fiftee-n,
And love laugh'd in her e'e ;
Blythe Davie's blinks her heart did mo7e»
To speak her mind thus free,
Gang dawn the Ivrn Davie, love.
And I shall follow thee.
Now Davie did each lad surpass,
That dwalt on yon burn side,
And Mary was the bonniest lass,
Just meet to be a bride ;
Her cheeks were rosie, red and white.
Her een were bonnie blue ;
Her looks were like Aurora bright,
Her lips like dropping dew.
As down the burn they took their way,
What tender tales they said 1
His cheek to her's he aft did lay.
And with her bosom play'd ;
^V^lat pass'd, I guess, was harmless plsy,
And naething sure unmeet :
For, ganging hame, 1 heard them say,
They lik'd a walk sie sweet ;
And that they aften should return,
Sic ])leasure to renew ;
Quoth Mary, Love, I like the burn,
And ay shall follow you. •
BLINK O'ER THE BURN, SWEET
BETTY.
The old words, all that I remember, are,—
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
It is a cauld winter night ;
It rains, it hails, it thunders.
The moon she sries nae light :
It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty,
That eTer I tint my way ;
Sweet, let me lie beyond thee,
Until it be break o' day.—
O, Betty will bake my bread,
Ami Betty will brew my ale,
And 15etty will be my love.
When I come over the dale :
• TIic last four lines of the tlotd stnn/.i, tx-ing
»omcivliat objectionable in point ol ilelii'acy, arc omit-
teil. Ihirns .iltcroil tlicso liiic!,. 11;.. '.\\i alii-iatioB
lici'n atteuiled with his usual succe.», \t would hava
bi'L'n aUuDtt^L
SONGS.
115
Blink ovpi- tlie burn, sweet Betty,
liliisk over the liiini to ine,
\ii(l while I hae life, dear l.issie,
Mv iiiii sweot Bv^tty thuu's be.—
THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE
HOUSE.
This is one of the most beautiful songs in
the Scuts, or any other language. — The two
lines,
And will I see his face again !
Ana will I hear him speak !
as well as the two preceding ones, are unequall-
ed almost l)y any thing I ever heard or read :
and the lines,
The present moment is our ain,
The neiit we never saw-
are woithy of the first poet. — It is long poste-
rior to Ramsay's days. — About the year 1771,
or 72, it came first on the streets as a ballad ;
and I su|ipose the composition of the song was
not much aiiterior to that period.*
And are ye sure the news is true ?
And are ye sure he's weel ?
Is this a time to talk o' wark ?
Ye jads, lay by your wheel !
Is this a time to talk of wark,
When Culin's at the door?
Gie me my cloak ! I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.
Fjt there's nae luck about the house,
There^s nne luck ava ;
There's little pleasure in the house,
M'hen our gudeminis awa.
Rise up, and mak a clean fire-side,
I'ut on the muckle pat ;
Gie httle Kate her cotton gowu,
And Jock his Sunday's coat ;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw ;
It's a to please my ain guilenian,
He likes to see them braw.
For there's nae luck, §'c.
There is tiva hens upon the bauk.
Sheen fed this month and mair ;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about.
That Colin weel may fare ;
And spread the table neat and clean,
oar ilka thing look braw ;
It's a for love of my gudeman, — •
For he's been long awa.
For there's nae luck, §t.
0 gie me down my bigonets.
My bishop-satin gown ;
For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town ;
My Sunday's shoon they maun gae OII«
My hose o' peail blue.
It's a* to please my ain guderaan,
For he's baith leel and true.
For there's ?iue luck, §-c.
Sae true's his woriU, sae smooth's his speeeh
His breath like caller air,
Ilis very foot has music in't,
When lie comes up the stair :
And will I see his face again !
And will I hear him speak !
I'm dowri;;ht dizzy with the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet I
For there's nae luck, §-c.
The cauhl blasts of the winter wind,
That thrilled thro' my heart,
They're a' blaun by ; I hae Lm safe,
'Till death we'll never part ;
But what puts [laiting in my head?
It may be far awa ;
The present moment is our ain.
The uei^t we never saw !
Fur there's nae luck, SfC.
Since Colin's well, I'm well content,
1 hae nae niajr to crave ;
Could I but live to mak hiir. bles*,
I'm blest ahoou the lave ;
And will I see his face again I
.And will I hear him spe.'k !
I'm downrigl'.t dizzy with cap .iap-t^
In troth I'm like io g:«;et !
• It is no » ascertained tliat Meikle, the trauslat<r
•f Cauioens, was the author of tins Jong.
JOHN liLi'f. Boxr:E J/^i-.l.
JJfiN Hat's ^unrie J-sssio wa* i ,».ghter of
John Hav, E'A, cr Muru> Is of Tf.edJale, and
late Ci'untcas Dow-^ger of Ilj.\bjrgh. — She died
at Bioo:iib-..Is, ucm Kelso, some time between
the y.'ai-i i^'.O s-ml 1740.
Br sr-,Do''b winding Tay a swain was recoiling
Af'' crr'd ki. Oh hey ! maun I still live pining
Aiycl f'.ius away, and daurna discove'
Tj ir.y Ix/unie Hay that I am her lover !
N^s tr.air it will hide, the flame waxes stronger;
If she's not my bride, my days are nae langer :
Then I'll take a heart, and try at a venture,
Alayhe, ere we part, my vows may content her.
She's fresh as the Sprin;;, and sweet as Aurorik,
When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good-
morrow ;
The swaird of the mead, enamell'd wi* daisies,
Looks witl er'd and de.id when twin'd of lie!
8'rac<'«.
116
BURNS* WORKS.
But if she appear where verdure invites her,
The fountains run clear, and flowers smell the
swt-eter ;
Tis heaven t» lie by when her wit is a-flowing.
Her smiles and brighteyes set my spirits a-glow-
ing.
The mair that T gaze, the deeper I'm wounded,
Struck duml) wi* amaze, my mind is confounded ;
I'm a' ill a fire, dear maid, to caress ye,
Far a' my aesire is Hay's bonnie lassie.
THE BONNIE BKUCKET LASSIE.
The idea of this son<j is to me very original :
the two first lines are all of it that is old. The
rest (if the son?, as well as those songs in the
Museum marked T, are the works of an obscure,
tippling, but extranidinary body of the name of
Tytler, commonly known by the name of Bcl-
loon Tytler, from his having projected a balloon :
A mortal, who, though he drudges about Edin-
burgh as a common printer, with leaky shoes, a
sky-lighted hat, and knee-buckles as unlike as
George-by-the-Grace-of-God, and Solomon-the
Son-of- David ; yet that same unknown drunken
mortal is author and compiler of th.ree-fourths
Elliot's pompous Encycliipedi* Biitannica, which
he composed at half a guinea a week !•
The bonnie brucket lassie
She's blue beneath the e'en ;
She was tlie fairest lassie
That danced on the green :
A lad he loo'd her dearly.
She (lid his love return ;
But he his vows ha< broken.
And left her for to mourn.
*' My shape," she says, " was handsome,
My face was fair and clean ;
But now I'm bonnie brucket,
And blue beneath the e'en :
Wy eyes were bright and sparkling,
Before that they turn'd blue ;
But now they're dull with weeping.
And a', my love, for you.
" IMy person it was comely.
My shape, they said, was neat ;
But now I am quite chang'd,
My stays they winna meet :
A' night I sleeped soundly.
My mind was never sad ;
But now my rest is broken,
Wi' thinking o' my lad.
" O could I live in darkness,
Or hide me in the sea.
• Balloon Tytler, is here rcrerred to.
Since my love is unfai.hfu!.
And has forsaken me !
No other love I suffer'd
Within mv breast to dwet s
In nought 1 have offended,
But loving hira too well."
Her lover heard her mournitg,
As by he chanc'd to pass,
And press'd unto his bosom
The lovely brucket lass :
" My dear," he said, " cease grieving,
Since that your love's sae true,
My bonnie brucket lassie
I'll faithful prove to you."
SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA'E BEEN
This song is beautiful. — The chorus in par-
ticular is truly pathetic. — I never could Jean
any thing of its author.
.\ l.Ass that was laden with care
Sat heavily under yon thorn ;
I listen'd awhile for to hear.
When 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 rcseud>led the spring.
Sae merry as we twa hue been.
Sue merry ns we twit line been.
My heart it is like fur to break,
ir//c/j I think (in the days we hae teen.
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 vou thus turn away
From him who is dying for thee?
Sae merry, §-c.
But now he is fir from my sight,
Perhaps a deceiver may prove.
Which makes me lament day and nig^
That ever I granted my love.
Kt eve, when the rest of the folk
Were merrily seated to spin,
( set myself under an oak.
And heavily sis;hed for hira.
Sae merry, i^c.
THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.
Tins is another beautiful song of Mr. CraW
ford's composition. In the neighbourhood o(
TriKjuair, tradition still shews the old "Bush;"
which, when I saw it in the year 1787, wM
SONGS.
117
"WinpotcJ of eijrlit or nine raf^g^eil birches. The
Earl of Traquair has pl;inteii a i:liiin|i of trees
near l)y, which he calls " The New IJush. "
Hear nie, ye nymphs, and every swain,
I'll tell how I'ejiijy grieve* nie ;
Tho* thus I languish anil complain,
Alas ! slie ne'er lielieves me.
My vows and sisjiis, like silent air,
Unheedeii never move her ;
The bonnie bush ahoon Traquair,
Was where 1 first did love her.
That day she sinil'd and made me glad,
No maid seilii'd ever kinder ;
I thougL*: myself the luckiest lad,
So swjetly there to find her.
I try'd to sooth my am'rous flame,
In words that I thuuijht tender ;
If more there pa>'s'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 shews disdain.
She looks as ne'er a( qn.iinted.
The bonnie bu'-h bloouj'd fair in 3lay,
Its sweets I'll ay remember ;
But now her frowns make it decay.
It fades as in December.
Ve rural pow'rs, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Pesfgy grieve me?
Oh ! make her partner iu 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 ahoon Traquair,
To lonely wild.s L'U wander.
CROMLET'S LILT.
" In the hitter end of the 1 6th century, the
Chishuhns were propiietors of the estate of
Crondecks (now pns>es>e(l by the Drunimonds).
The eldest son of that family was very much
Sttached to a daughter of Sterling of Ardoch,
conin.on'y known by the name of Fair Helen
of Ardoch.
" At that time the opportunities of meeting
betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequently
m<ue sought after than now ; and the Scottish
ladies, far from piiding themselves on extensive
literature, were thought sufficiently book-learn-
ed if they could make out the Scriptures in their
mother tongue. Writing was entirely out of
the line of female education : At that |)eriod
the most of our y<iung men of family souijht a
fortune, or found a grave, in France. Crom-
lu', when he went abroad ti the war, was o-
bliged to leave the managenun. of hi» corre*-
pcndence with his mistios to a lay bruth^i' cf
th'* monastery of Dumhiain, in the imniediata
neighbourhood of Crouileck, and near Ardoch.
This n\an, uuf(Mtunate! ,', was deeply sensible i4
Helen's chai i:is. He artfully prepossesseii her
with storirs to the disailviiiitage of Cromlusj
anil by misinterpreting oi- keeping up the let-
ters and messages intrusted to his e.ire, I* en-
tirely irritated both All <'onnecti(m was broken
olf betwixt them : Helen wa» inconsolable, and
Cromlus has left behind him, in the ballad call-
ed Cromlet's Lilt, a proof of the elegance of his
genius, as well as the steadiness of his love.
" When the Rrtftd monk thought time had
sufficiently softent '. Helen's >urrow, he projMsed
himself as a lover: Helen was obdurate; but
at last, overcome by the persuasions of her
brother with whom she lived, aiul who, having
a fimily of thirty-one chddren, was piobably
very well jileased to get her off his hands, she
submitted, rather than consented to the cere-
mony ; but there her compliance ended ; and,
when forcibly put into beil, she started quite
frantic from it, screaming out, that after three
gentle taps on the wainscoat, at the bed head,
she heard Cromlus's voice, crying, Helen, He-
len, vi'ind vie.* Cromlus soon after coming
home, the treachery of the confidant was dis-
covered,— her m.iiriage disannulled, — <ind He-
len became lady Cromlecks."
N. B. Warg. iMurray, mother to these tliirty-
one chddren, was daughter to Murray of Strewn,
one of the seventeen sons of Tullybanline. and
whose youngest son, conjmonly called the Tutor
of Ardodi, died in the year 1715, aged HI
years.
SiKCE all thy vows, false maid.
Are blown to air,
And my ])()or heart betray'd
To s.id despair.
Into some wilderness.
My grief I will expiess.
And thy hard- hearted ness,
O cruel fair.
Have I not graven our loves
On every tree
In yonder sjireading gioves,
Tl'.o" false thou h«:
Was not a solemn oath
Plighted betwixt us both.
Thou thy faith, I my trvith.
Constant to be ?
Some gloomy place I'll find.
Some doleful shade,
Where neither sun nor wind
K'er entrance had :
Into that hollow cave,
There will 1 sigh and rave.
Because thou dost behave
So faithlessly.
• Reticmtiei nie.
118 BURNS WORKS.
Wild fruit snail be my moat,
Restore my Peggy's wonted charms,
I'll drink the spring,
Those charms so dear to me !
Cold earth shall he my seat:
Oh ! never rob them from these arcQ3|
Fi)r covering
I'm lost if Peggy die.
ril have the starry sky
My head to canojiy,
Until my soul on hy
Shall spread its vr'iag.
SHE ROSE AND LET ME IN.
I'll have no funeral fire,
Nor tears for me :
The old set of this song, which is still to be
No grave do I desire,
Nor obsequies :
found in printed collections, is much prettier
than this ; but somebody, I believe it was Ram-
The courteous Rtd-breaat he
say, took it into his head to clear it of som«
With leaves will cover rne,
seeming indelicacies, and made it at once mora
And sing my elegy
chaste and more dull.
With doleful voice.
The night her silent sable wore.
And when a ghost I am,
And gloomy were the skies ;
I'll visit thee,
Of glitt'ring stars appear'd no more
O thou deceitful danie,
Than those in Nelly's eyes.
Wliose cruelty
When at her fither's yate I knock'd,
Has kill'd the kindest heart
Where I had often been,
That e'er felt Cupid's dart,
She, shrouded only with her smock,
And never can desert
Arose and loot nie in.
From loving thee.
Fast lock'd within her close embrace,
She trembling stood asham'd ;
Her swelling breast, and glowing face.
And ev'ry touch inflam'd.
MY DEARIE, IF TIIOU DIE.
My eager passion I ohey'd,
Resolv'd the fort to win ;
Attc/TUER beautiful song of Crawford's.
And her fond heart was soon betray'd
To yield and let me in.
Love never more shall tjive me pain,
My fancy's fix'd on thee,
Then, then, beyond expressing,
Nor ever maid uiy heart shall gain.
Transj)orting was the joy ;
IVIy Pef^xy, if thou die.
I knew no greater blessing.
Thy heauty <loth such pleasure give,
So bless'd a man was I.
Thy love's so true to ine,
And she, all ravish'd with delight.
Without thee I can never live,
Rid me oft come again ;
My dt.irie, if thou die.
And kindly vow'd, that ev'ry night
She'd rise and let me in.
If fate shall tear thee from my breast,
How shall I lonely stray !
But ah I at last she prov'd with b^unSf
In dreaty dreams the night I'll waste,
And sighing liat and dull,
In sighs, the silent day.
And I that was jis much concern'd.
I ne'er can so nnn'h virtue find,
Look'd e'en just like a fool.
Nor such perfection see ;
Her lovdy eyes with tears ran o'er,
Then I'll renounce all woman kind,
Repenting her ra-h sin :
IMy Peggy, after thee.
She sigli'd, and curs'd the fatal boor
That e'er she loot me in.
No new-bln\vTi heauty fires my heart.
\V ith Cupid's riving rage ;
But who cnu'd cruelly deceive,
But thine, which can such sweets impart,
Or from such lieinty part?
Must all the world engage.
I lov'd her so, I could not leare
'Twas this, that lilse th? morning sun,
The charmer of my lu'art ;
Gave joy and life to me ;
But wedded, and conceal'd our cHme
And when its destin'd day is done.
Thus all was well again.
With Peggy let me die.
And now she thanks the happy tims
That e'er she lout me in.
Ye powers that smile on virtuous love.
And m such pleasure share ;
You who its riiililiil (liiiies iipj>rove.
With pity view the fair :
J
SONGS.
GO TO THE EWR-nuGirrs, :\iarion.
I A>t not sure if tliis olil anil ch.irminjj -lir l)c"
if tlio Simrh, as is (•(iiiiinnnly s.iiil, or of tlic
Nortii of St-otldti(l. — Tlii-re is a smiir ;i|>|i,irfiitlv
as ntu-ioiit as Hu-L-IhinlUs, jMiriiui, wliicl'i
•i'lsjs to tlic s.inie tune, and is evidently of the
North. — It begins thus: —
TiiE Lord o' Gnrdiin hid three doclitcrs,
5!jry, Mtri^et, unil Je.m,
Tliey Uiul n.i st.iy at honnie Castle Goidou,
But a«-a to Aherdteu.
119
Wn,r. ye jjo to the ewe-hu^'hts Marion,
And we.ir in tlie sheep wi" nie ;
The »un shines sweet, iny Marion,
lint n,ie halFs.ie sweet as thee.
0 Marion's a bonny l,i>s.
And the b!yt!i blinks in lier e'e ;
And f.iin wad I ni.irry M irion,
Giu Marion wad uiairy me.
There's jjowd in your garters, Marion,
And silk on your white !iause-bane ;
Fu' fain wad I ki^s my Marion,
At e'en wi-.en I loaie hiine.
There's braw lads in E irnsi iw, Marion,
Wha i:a|ie, and glower with tlieir e'e,
At kii k wh.n tluy see my Alarion ;
But nane of tiiem lo'es idie nie.
1 ve nine milk-ewes, my Marion,
A cow and a brawi^y i|uey,
I'll gie them a' to my ^Alarion,
Just on her brid il-day :
And ye's get a green sey apron,
And waistcoat of the Lcmdon brown,
And wow ! but ye will be vap'ring.
Whene'er ye gang to tl e town.
Pm young and stout, my Marion ;
Nane dance like me on the green ;
And gin ye tiiistke me, Marion,
I'll e'en draw up wi' Jean :
Sae pi.t on yonr pearllns, Marion,
And kyrtie of the cranii^sie ;
And soon as my chiu has nae bair on,
I ehill come west, and sice ye. •
LEWI.S GORDON.f
Ihis air is a pn<of how one of our Scots
tunes comes to be comj.osed out of another. I
• This is marke.1 in ilie T a TaJ.le MlsrelUuy as an
old soni- Willi .i.liitions.— a;,/. •"
ihL'n {'"' '■'•."'i* /i'T'l"". vonnpcr brother to the
hen D„keo. Gor.loii. eoMimanled ,i .IcUichinent for
m< lliev.iiicr. uml aaiiiitt.'l hiinvjf with LTcat i-il-
»»<itrv and iuJuMHiit. Me d,e.l in ITol." ''
have one of the earliest co]).es of the song, and
it has jnetixed.
Tune of Tarry Woo.
Of whi<h tune, a differect se.t has insensibly
varied into a different air.— To a Scots critic,
the pathos of the line,
" Tho' his back be at the wa',"
—must be very striking It needs not a Jaco-
bite prejudice t,- be iiifected with this s.ing. The
supposed autho; ii " Lewis dordin' was a Mr
Geddes, priest, at Slienval, in the Ainzie.
Oh ! send Lewie Gordon haine,
.•\nd the la<l I winna name ;
Tho' his back be at the wa'.
Here's to him that's far awa !
Ok hon ! my I£i,,hland man.
Oh, my honnt/ lli(jlthtiid iinni •
Weel woidd I my truK-liive kun,
Aniang ten thonsajid lliyhland men.
Oh ! to see his tartan-trews,
Bonnet blue, and laigh-heei'd shoes,
Philabeg ahoon his knee ;
That's the lad that I'll gang wi' !
O/i hull, Sfc.
The princely youth that I do mean,
Is fitted for to be a kin" :
On his breast he wears a star;
You'd tak him for the God of War
O/t hon, §-c.
Oh to see this Princely One,
Seated on a royal throne !
Disasters a' would disappear.
Then begins the Jub'Ice ye^r !
Oh hon, Sfc.
Oil ONO CHRIO.
Dr. Ri.ACia.otK informed me that this sod*
was composed on the infamous massacre at
Glencoe.
Oh ! was not I a weary wight !
Oh ! ono chri, oh ! ono chri—~
Maid, wife, and widow, in one night !
When in my soft and yielding anus,
O ! when most I thought him free from harma
Even at the dead time of the night,
They broke my bower, and slew" my kni"ht.
\yith ae lock of his jet-black hair, °
I'll tie my heart for everni-iir ;
Nae sly-tongued youth, or flitt'nng swain.
Shall e'er untye this knot again ;
Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be.
Nor pant for aught, save heaven and thee.'
<The chorui repeated at tht end of each line).
120 BURNS WORKS
THE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES.
This song;, as far as I know, for the first
time appears here in print. — When I was a boy,
it was a very popular song in Ayrshire. I re-
member to have heard those fariatics, the Buch-
anites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes,
which they dignify with the name of lymns, to
this air BuiiNS.
As I was a walking
One morning in May,
The small birds sang sweetly,
The flowers were bloomin' gay,
Oh there I met my true love,
As fresh as dawnin' day,
Down amoRg the beds of sweet roses.
Fu' white was her liarefoot,
New bathed in the dew ;
Whiter was her white hand,
Her ecn were bonnie blue;
^nd kind were her whispers,
And sweet was her moo,
Down among the beds o' sweet roses.
My father and my mother,
I wot they told me true,
That 1 liked' ill to thrash.
And I like worse to plough ;
But 1 vow the maidens like me,
I'or 1 kend tlie way to woo,
Down among the beds of sweet roses.
COKN RIGS ARE BONNY.
Mv I'atic is a lover gay.
His mind is never mudily.
Ills lireath Is sweetei than new liay,
His face is fair and rndily.
HiH sliujie is liandMMiie, miildle size ;
He's stately in his wawking ;
The sliiriing of his cen surprise ;
'Tis lieaven to hear him tawking.
La-^t night I n:et him on a hawk.
Where vllow ciirn was growing,
There mony a kimily Word he spake.
That set my lieart a-glowing.
He ki->M, and vow'd he wad lie mine.
And liio'ii nit' best of ony ;
That gars me like to sing sinsyne,
O com ru/s are bnniiy.
_et miid.-n* of a sil!y minil
Urfuse wlijt niai>t they're wanting,
Biiicc we for yielding are de-igu'd.
We clia>t«ly should be granting ;
Tlien I'll iiMiiply ami many I'ate,
All'! -vol- u\\ ciuUei iiiiny
Wi* (if>- to t..uz!i> air or lite,
W bere ■-•oiii rij;-> are bouny.
All the old words that ever 1 could meet with
to this air were the following, which seem t«
have been an old chorus.
O corn rigs and rye rigs,
O corn rigs are bonnie ;
And where'er you meet a bonnie lass.
Preen up her cocker n»uy.
WAUKIN O' THE FAULD.
There are two stanzas still sung to this tune,
which I take to be the origiual song w'nenoe
Ramsay composed his beautiful song of tbt
n<yiie in the Gentle Shepherd. — It begins,
0 will ye speak at our town.
As ye come frae the fauld, &c.
I regret that, as in many of our old songs, the
delicacy of this old fragment is not equal to it*
wit and humour.
My Peggy is a yovmg thing.
Just enter'd in her teens.
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
Fair as the day, and always gay.
My Peggy is a young thing.
And I'm not very an Id,
Yet well I like to meet her at
The wauking of the fauld.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
Whene'er we meet alane,
1 wish nae malr to lay my care,
I wish nae mair of a' that's rare.
My Peggy sjieaks sae sweetly,
To a' the lave I'm cauld ;
But she gais a' my spirits glow,
At waukii.g of the fauld.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly.
Whene'er I whisper love.
That 1 look down on a' the town.
That I look 'li'wn upon a crown,
]\ly I'eguy smiles sae kindly.
It makes me blythe and ba'jld.
And naething gi'es me sic delight.
As wauking of the fauld.
My Peggy sings sae saftly.
When on my pipe I play;
By a' the rest it is cmifest,
3y a' the rest, that she sings best.
My IVggy sings sae saftly.
And in lier saiigs aie tald,
Witli innocence, the wale of sei;!^
SONGS.
121
MAGOin: LAUDER.
Tins nl I sorii,', so prci^nant with Si-ottisli
nairittif and ciitTwy. is iiiu-U ri'lishcd by all
ratiks, notwitlistaiiiiinc; ii.s lnoad u it an<l pal-
palilc nllusidns. — Its langiiasje is a piecioiis ino-
Jel iif imitaritin : sly, spris^hily, and fon^ihly ex-
pri'ssive. — M is^jzit's tongui." \vms;s out tlie nick-
nnini'S of Rob the Pipur with all the ciiiek'ss
lightsomt'iii'ss of iinri'straiiiuJ gaiety.
\ViiA wad na be in love
\\"i' bonny iMai,'<,'ie Laudor?
A jiiper ini't hur gaiin to Fife,
And spoiiM what was't they I'a'd her ;—
Right scornfully slie answei'd hini,
I5o<;onc, you hall.in>li.iki'r !
Jig on your s^ate, you bladilerskate,
31y name is JIaggie Lauder.
Masf^ie, <]no* he, and by my bigs,
I'm tidijin' fain to sec thee ;
Sit ilo«ii by nie, my bonny birdi
In ticith I winna steer thee :
For I'm a ])i|Mr to mv trade,
My iiame Is Rob the Ranter ;
The la----es loop as tliey were daft,
Vhen I blaw up my chanter.
Piper, quo' ."Me;;, hae ye your bags?
Or is your drone in order ?
If ye be Rob, I've heird o' you,
Live you upo' the liorder ?
Th.e lasses a', liaith t.ir and near.
Have heaid o' Rob the Ranter ;
III shake my foot wi' right sjiide will,
Gif you'll blaw up your chanter.
Then to his bapjs he flew wi' speed,
About the drone he twisted ;
Meg up and wallop'd o'er tiie green,
For brawly cimiil she tri>k t.
Weel done! tjuo' he — play ip ! quo* she;
Weel l)ohb'rl ! quo' Rob the llantcr ;
Tis worth mv while to pi ly indeed,
^Vhen I hae sic a d.incer.
Weel hae ye jilay'd your part, (juo* Meg,
Your cheeks are bke the crims(m ;
There's nai.e iti Scotlaml plays sue weel.
Since we lo<t Habliie Simpson.
I ve liv'd in Fife, baith maid and v/lfe,
These ten years aiid a quarter ;
G'.n ye ghi.uM come to Knster Fair,
Speir ye fur Maggie Lauder.
TRANENT MUIR.
Tu7,e—" Killicrankie."
" TRANF.NT-MfiR" Was Composed by a Mr.
Skirvin, a veiy woithy re>|'ecf.ible firmer, near
that Lieutenant Smith, whom he inentions iu
the n'nth stanza, came to llaild;ngt>in after the
publicaticMi of the song, and sent a challenge to
Skirvin to meet him at H.uldington. and an-
swer for the unworthy manner in which he had
noticed him in his song. " Gang awa back,"
said the honest faiiiier, " and tell Mr. Smith
that I hae na leisuie to come to Haddington ;
but tell him to come here ; and I'll t.ik a look
o' him ; and if I think I'm fit to fecht him, I'l.
fecht him ; and if no — I'll do as he did, — i'fi
rin awa." —
The Chevalier, being void of fear,
Did inarch up Hirsle brae, man,
And thro' Tranent, e'er he did stent,
As fast as he could gae, man :
While General Cope did taunt and mock,
Wi' mony a loud huzza, man ;
But e'er next morn proelaim'd the cock.
We heard another craw, man.
The brave I ivniel, is I heard tell,
Led Camerons on in clouds, man ;
The morning fair, and clear the air.
They loos'd with devilish thuds, man :
Down guns they threw, and swords they drew
And soon did chace them aff, man ;
On Seaton-Crafts they buft tlieir chafts,
Atid gatt them riu like daft, man.
The bluff dragoons swore blood and 'uoiu.
They'd make the rebels run, man ;
And yet they flee when them tliey see,
And winna fire a gmi, man :
They turn'd their back, the foot they brake,
Such terror seii'd them a', man ;
Some wet their cheeks, some fvl'd their breck*
And some for fear did fa', man.
The volunteers prick'd up their ears.
And vow gin they were crouse, man ;
But when the bairns saw't turn to earu'st,
Tliey were not worth a louse, man ;
;\Iaist feck g.ide hanu> ; (J fy for shame !
They'd better stay'd awa', man.
Than wi' cockaoe to make parade,
And do nae good at a', man.
Mentelth the great,* when hersell sh— t,
Un'wares did ding him o'er, man ;
Yet wad nae stand to bear a h and,
But aff fou fast did scour, man ;
O'er Soiitra hill, e'er he stood still.
Before he tasted meat, m in :
Troth he may brag of his swift nag,
That bare him alf sae fleet, man.
• The minister of I,nngformae>i'!,avoIimtc«r ; who,
hapiuMiiiig to eoiue llie iiif;*'! I)i tore ili l)inle, upon i
II I ■• , , 111 r lli;;hlaiul (jelluif". ea^'lli; nature ai l'res:on, threw him
UaJdington. 1 have hea-il the auecdute often, | over, aiul carried liis gun as a trophy to Cope's camp.
122
BURNS' WORKS.
And Simpson • keen, to dear the een
Of rel)els far in wranj;, in.in.
Did never stiive wi' pistuls five,
But giJliip'd wilh tlie tliiang, man :
Ke tiirnM his b.uk. and in a crack
Was de.inly nut of sight, man ;
And thdiight it best ; it was nae jsst
Wi* Highlanders to fight, man.
^langst a' the gang tiane bade the bang
But twa, and ane was tane, man ;
For CaniplK'H rade, l)iit Myrief btiid,
And sail he |)aid the kain.f man ;
Fell sktlps he got, was war than shot
Frae the sharp- edpj'd claymore, man ;
Frae many a spnut came running out
His reeking-het red gore, man.
But Gard'nerg hrive did still behave
Like to a hero bright, man ;
His courau^e true, like him were few,
That still despised flight, man ;
For king and liws, and country's cause,
In honour's bed he lay, man ;
His life, but not his courage, fled,
While he had breath to draw, man.
And Major Bowie, that worthy soul.
Was brought ilown to tlie giriund, man ;
His horse being sliot, it was his lot
For to get mony a wound, man :
Lieutenant Smitii, of Irish birth,
Frae whom he cali'd for aid, man,
Being full of dread, lap oVr his head,
And wadna be gainsaid, man.
He made sic haste, sae spur'd his beast,
'Tw.is little there he saw, man ;
To Berwick rade, and safely said,
The Scots weie rebels a', man ;
But let that end, for well 'tis kend
His use and wont to lie, man ;
The Teague is naught, he never fau^ht.
When he had room to flee, man.
* Another voUinterr Presbyterian minister, who
»ai,1 he would cr.nv iiier the re'jels of their error bv the
dint 111" his p;^tllls•. haviii^, for tliat |iiir;iose, two ni
his pockets, tw.) in hi', holsters, and ont in his ijtlt.
t Mr. Myriewas astudeiu of physic, from Jamaica;
he entered as a vohintter in Cope's army, aid was
misenbly mangled by llic broadsword.
t i- e. He siiflered severely in the cause.
II James Gardiner, Colonel of a regiment of hor'ie.
This t'entlfin m's conduct, howevrr celebrated, does
not seem to ha\e |iri needed so much from the (,'ene-
rous ardour of a nohlc and lieroie mind, as from a
spirit of religious <:Mihusia>iii, .md a bifjoted reli.Jice
on the I'resbyteriau doctrine of |)rc(ksinalion, which
rendered it ;i matter of |iert'eel mdillerence whether he
left the field or leinaiiied in it. being d^•^erled bv his
♦.roup, he was kilx'd by a Higlilaiulcr, wiih a Lochaber
axe.
CnloncI Gardiner having, when a gay young man,
tt Paris, mode an as i^uaimi willi a ladv, was, a« lie
pretended, not iinly deterred from keeping his an.
poiutmeiii, III, I lli.ir.iu(!tily leelainicd from all such
thoughts 111 future, by at. apiiarilion. bee hii Life by
Uuddndse.
And Caddell drest, aniang the rest.
With gun and good claymore, 2G2I1,
On gelding grey he roile that way.
With pistols set before, man ;
Tlie c'ause was good, he'd spend his bloody
Before that he would yield, man ;
But the night before he left the cor.
And never fac'd the field, man.
But gallant Roger, like a soger.
Stood and bravely fought, man ;
I'm wae to tell, at last he fell.
But mae down wi' him brought, man :
At point of death, wi' his last breath,
(Some standing round in ring, man),
Oil's back lying flat, he wav'd his hat.
And cry'd, God save the king, man.
Some Higliland rogues, like hungry dogs^
Neglecting to pursue, man.
About they fac'd, and in great haste
Upon the booty flew, man ;
And they, as gain, for all their pain,
Are dcck'd wi spoils of war, man ;
Fow bald can tell liow her nainsell
Was ne'er sae pra before, man.
At the thorn-tree, which you may see
Bewest the meadow-mill, man ;
There mony slain lay on the plain.
The clans pursuing still, man.
Sic unco' hacks, and deadly whacks,
I never saw the like, man ;
Lost hands and heads cost them their deada^
That fell near Preston-dyke, mm.
That afternoon, when a' was done,
I gacd to see the fray, man ;
But ha J I wist what after past,
I'd better staid away, man :
On Seaton sands, wi* nimble handi.
They pick'd my |)ockets bare, man;
But I wijh ne'er to drie sic fear.
Fur a' the sum and mair, man.
STREPHON AND L\DIA.
Tunc—" The Gordon's had tlie Guldirg o't."
The following account of this son-f I 1 jd
from Dr. Blacklock.
The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in tha
song were perhaps the iovehe^t coujile of their
time. The gentleman was cmnmonly known
by the name of Beau Gibson. Tiie lady wa«
the Gentle Jean, celebrated soiuewliere in Mr.
Hamilton of Bangoiii's |>oeiiis Having fre-
ijtiently met at public places tlicy bad lot incj
a lerljMoeal attachment, which their frien !i
thought dangerous, as their resources were by
no means adequate to ti.eir la-tes and habits of
life. To elude the bad conseipiences of such a
connection, Strephua was i>ent abroad with «
SONGS.
l?'3
eABLTiission, and jicnshcJ in Admiral reinon's
e.\pi'iliti()n to CuillKigeiia.
The author of the sonj^ was William Wallace,
Esq. of Cainihill, in Ayrshire. — Burns.
Ai.r. lovely on tlie sultry heach,
Exjjirinfj Strephon lay,
No hand the cordial draught to reach,
Nor rhear the gloomy way.
Ill-fated youth ! no |)areiit ni;;h.
To catch tl.y fleeting breath,
No hride, to fix thy swimming eye.
Or smooth the face of death.
Far distant from the mournful scete,
Thy parent" sit at ease,
Thy Lydia rifles all the i)lain.
Anil all the spring to please.
Ill-fated youth! Iiy fault of liiend.
Not force of foe dcpress'd,
'''hou fali'st, alas! thyself, thy kind.
Thy country, unredress'd '
IM O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET.
The chorus of this song is old. — The rest if
q such as it is, is mine — Burns.
I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young,
I'm o'er young to mairy yet ;
I'm o'er young, 'twad he a sin
To take rae frae my mammy vet.
There is a stray, characteristic verse, which
ought to be restored.
My minnie coft me a new gown.
The kirk maun hae the gracing o't ;
Ware I to lie wi' you. kind Sir,
I'm feared ye'd spoil the lacing o't.
I'm o'er young, &c.
MY JO. JANET.
Johnson, the publisher, with a foolish deli-
cacy, refused to insert the last stauza of thi-
aumorous ballad. — Burns.
Shtket Sir, for yo-ir courtesie,
NVhen ye come by the liass tlien,
For the luve ye bear to me,
Buy me a keeking-yla^s, then
Keck into the draic-uell,
Janet, Janet ;
And there ye' II see your lionny sell,
My Jo, Janet.
Keeking in the draw-well clear.
What if 1 should fa' in,
S)no i' my kin will say and eweOTj
I drown'd mysell for sin. —
Hand the letter be the liroe,
Janet, Janet,
Hand the better be the hr<te.
My Jo, Janet.
Good Sir, for your courtesie.
Coming through Aberdeen, ths%
For the luve ye bear to me.
Buy ine a |)air of sheen, then.—
Clout the auld, the new are dear,
Jam-t, Janet ;
Ae pair may gaiti ye hafu year,
JSIy Jo, Janet.
But what if (lancing on the green,
And skip[)ing like a maukin.
If they should see my clouted shoon,
Of me they will be taukin'.^
Dance ay laiyh, and late at e'en,
Janet, Janet ;
Syne a their fauts jvill ni> l,c seen.
My Jo, Janet.
Kind Sir, for your courtesie.
When ye gae to the Cross, then.
For the luve ye bear to me.
Buy me a pacing-horse, then.—
Pace vpo' yuur sj)iniiinc/-uheel,
Janet, Janet ;
Pace vpo' your splnniny-uheel,
My Jo, Janet.
My spinning-wheel is auld and stiff,
The rock o't winua stand, Sir,
To keep the temper-pin in tiff.
Employs right aft my hand, Sir.-»
Mak the best o't that ye can,
Janet, Janet ;
But like it nciLf tcule a man.
My Jo, Janet.
GUDE YILL CO.MES, AND GUDE
YILL GOES.
This song sings to the tune called The lot.
torn iif thv. puucli bout, of wliicii a vejv goo^
copy may be found in M' (•'iLbu7isCullt:ctiuK.~-m
BuilNS.
Tune—" The Happy Farmer."
O (jiide yill comes, and yiide yill goes,
(jutle yill gars me sell my hose.
Sell my hose, anil pawn my shoon,
For gude yill keeps my heart aboon.
I HAD sax owsen in a pleugh,
.\nd tlu'y drew teugh ami weel encugh }
I diank them a' ane by ane,
For gude yill keeps my heart abooa.
Gude yill, ij-c.
I had forty sliiHin in a clout,
Uude yill gart me |jyke tlit«a out ;
124
BURNS' WORKS.
That gear should moule I thought a siu,
Gude jill keeps my heart aboon.
Glide yill, S^'c.
The meikle pot upm my back,
Unto the vill-hduse I diil pack ;
It nitlted a' \vi' the heat o' the moon,
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon.
Gude y'dl, ^-c.
Gude yill hands me bare and busy,
Gars me moop \vi' tlic servant hizzie.
Stand in the kirk when I liae done,
Gude yill keeps my heart aboou. •
Gude yill, §"r.
I wish their fa' may be a shallows,
Winna gie gude yill to gude fellows.
And kei p a soup 'lill the altcrnoun,
Gude yill keeps my heart almon.
O yude yill comes, and gude yill goes,
Glide yill gars we sell my liuse.
Sell my /lOse, and jxiwn my sIiDon,
Gude yiU keeps my heart aboon.
WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD
DIE.
Lord Hait.f.s, in the notes to his collection of
ancient Scots poems, says that this song was the
composition of a Lady Grissel Baillie, daughter
of the ftrst Earl of JJarchniont, and wife of
George Baillie, of Jerv:swuod I^urns.
There was aaes a ^lay, and she Ino'd na men.
She biggit ' :r bonny bow'r down in yon glen ;
But now she cries dool ! and a well-a-day !
Come down the green gate, and oome here away.
Jiut now she ci ies, ^'C.
When bonny young Jcdiny came o'er the sea,
He said he saw naitliing sae lovely as me ;
He hecht me baith riujisand muny braw things ;
And were na my heart ight I wad die.
JJe hec/it me, Sfc.
tie had a wee titty that loo .1 na me.
Because I was twice as bonny as she ;
She rais'il such a j-otlier 'twixt him and his mo-
ther.
That were na my heart light, I wad die.
She ruis'd, §-t'.
The day it was set, and the bridal to he,
The wife took a dwam, and lay down to die ;
Bhc niain'd and she grain d out of dolour and
pain,
Till lie you'd he never wad see nie again.
She iiiuin'd tjC.
• 'Ibc hand of Biin)« h visible here. The lit and
1th viTKcii oulv are the orijiiual uiick. J
His kin was for ane of a higher degree.
Sad, What had he to ilo with the like of me i
Albeit I was bonny, I was na for Johny :
And were na my heart light, I wad die.
Albeit I teas, §v.
They said, I had neither cow nor cafiF,
Not dribbles of drink rins throw the drafl^
Nor pickles of meal rins throw the miU-ee;
And were na my heart light, I wad die.
Nor pickles of, kc
His titty she was baith wylie and slee,
She spy'd me as I came o'er the lee ;
And then she ran in and made a loud din.
Believe your ain een, an ye trow na me.
A.n.d then she, §"C.
His bonnet stood ay fou round on his brow ;
His auld ane looks ay us well as some's new ;
But now he lets't wear ony gate it will hiug,
And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing.
Hut nuw he, Sfc.
And now he gaes ' dandering' about the dykes
And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes :
The live-lang night he ne'er steeks his ee,
And were na my heart light, 1 wad die.
The live-laiig, ^c.
Were I young for thee, as I hae been.
We shou'd hae been galloping down on yon greeOf
And linking it on the lily-white lee ;
And wow gin I were but young fur thee !
And linking 8fc.
MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF
YARROW.
Mr. Robertson, in his statistical account of
the palish of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the
Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the Dry
hoiie, and married into the Harden family. Her
daughter was mairied to a predecessor of the
present Sir Francis Elliot of Stobbs, and of the
late Lord Heathtield.
There is a circumstance in their contract cf
marriage that merits attention, as it strongly
marks the ])redatory spiiit of the times. — The
fatlier-in-law agrees to keep his daughter, for
some time .ifter the marriage; for which the
son-in-law binds himself to give him the profit*
of the first Michaelmas-moon. — Burns.
Happy's the love which meets return,
When in solt Haines souls equal burn;
But words are wanting to discover
The torments of a hopeless lover.
Ye registers of beav'ii, relate.
If looking o'er the ridl> of fate,
Did you there see me mark'd to mar/ow
Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow i
All no ! licr form's too heav'nly fair,
FTtT love tlie gods above must share ;
While ninrtah witli (Icspaii- explore her,
And at distance due adore her.
O lovely maid ! my doubts bes^uile,
Revive and bless me with a smile :
Alas ! if not, you'll soon debar a
Sighing swain the banks of Yarrow
Pe hush, ye fears, I'll not de-^pair ;
My .Maiy'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 in Yarrow.
SONGS. 125
THE MUCKIN' O* GEORDIE'S BYRE.
The chorus of this song is old Tlie rest i«
the work of Balloon Tytler.' — BuKNs.
Tune—" The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre."
The muckin' o' Geordie's byre,
And the shool an' the graip sae clean.
Has gar'd nie weet my cheeks.
And greet wi' baith my een.
It was ne'er mi/ ftther's will,
i^'or yet mi/ mit/ier's desire,
lit e'er I slioiihl fi/h mij fingers
Wi' muckin' o' Geordie's byre.
That
was
Sol-
ack-
tiie iiigiilaxd queen.
The Highland Queen, music and poetry,
composed by a Mr. M'Vicar, purser of the
bay man of war. — This I had from Dr. B
lock. — BuuNs.
Tu'w—" The Highland Queen.",
No more my song shall be, ye swains.
Of purling streams or flowrie plains:
More pleasing beauties now inspire,
And rhoebus deigns the warbling lyre.
Divinely aided, thus I mean
To celebrate, to celebrate,
To celebrate my Highland Queen.
In her sweet innocence you'll find
With freedom, truth and virtue join'd :
Strict honour fills her spotless soul.
And gives a lustre to the whole.
A match'ess shape and lovely mein
All centre in, all centre iii,
All centre iu my Highland Queen.
No sordid wish or trifling joy
Her settled calm of mind destroy :
From pride and affectation free.
Alike she smiles on you and me.
The brightest nymph that trips the green
1 do pronounce, I do pronounce,
I do pronounce my Highland Queen.
How blest the youth, whose gentle fate
Has destined to so fair a mate,
With all those wondrous gifts in store.
To which each coming day brings more,
Nj man more happy can be seen
Possessing thee, possessing thee,
Posiessing thee, my Highland Queen.
The mouse is a merry beast.
The moiidiwort wnnts the een.
But the warld shall ne'er get wit,
Sae merry as we hae been.
It was ne'er jnt/ fat/ier'i will,
Nor yet my mi titer s desire.
That e'er I sluml-l fyle my finrjeia
WV muckin' u' Geordie's byre.
macpherson's farewell,
ALSO KNOWN AS
MACPHERSON'S RANT.
He was a daring robber in the beginning of
this (eighteenth) century — was condemned to
be hanged at Inverness. ' He is said, when un-
der sentence of death, to have composed this
tune, which he called his own Lament, or Fare-
well.
Gow has published a variation of this fine
tune, as his own composition, which he calls
" The Piiucess Augusta." — Bi;kns.
I've spent my time in rioting,
Debauch'd my health and strength:
I've pillaged, plundered, murdered.
But now, alas ! at length
I ni brought to punishment direct •
Pale rie ith draws near to me ;
This end I never did project
To hang upon a tree.
To hang upon a tree, a tree,
That cursed unhappy death j
Like to a wolf ro worried bf.
And choaked in the breath :
My very heart would surely break
When this I think upon.
Did not my courage singular
Bid i)ensive thoughts begone.
■ A 8ins>ilarly lcanic<l but unhappv person. He
live. .It to , earlv a sage of the w„r|,l: before thera
was toleratmn m Bntain. wh.ch he was obhged to quit
I ,J5) because of his dem<>or;4tical writiiiiTsI when he
i vImI "\iT " S^'"" =" " "''''■■^Paper ediior. 1 le also
•here. ""^ Temperance .Societies any
126
BURNS WORKS.
Ko man on earth, tnnt (Iraweth breath,
]\!ore courage hud than I ;
I (luicd my foes unto their (die.
And would not i'roni them fly.
This grandeur stout, I did keep out,
Like Hector, manfully :
Then wonder one like me so stout
Should hang upon a tr.>e.
The Eg)'ptian band I did comnuind,
With courage more by far,
Than ever did a general
His soldiers in the war.
Being feared by all, both great and small,
I liv'd most joyfullie :
Oh, curse upon this fate o' mine,
To hang upon a tree.
As for my life I do not care.
If justice would take place,
And bring my fellow-plunderers
Unto the same disgrace :
But I'eter Brown, that notour loon.
Escaped and was made free :
Oh, curse upon this fate o' niine,
To hang upon a tree.
Both law and justice buried are.
And fraud and guile succeed ;
The guilty pass unpunished.
If money intercede.
The Laird o' Graunt, that Highland Sauct,
His mighty majestic,
He pleads the cau>e of Peter Brown,
And lets JIacpherson die.
The destiny of my life contrived.
By those whom I obliged.
Rewarded me much ill for good.
And left me no refuge :
But Braco Duff, in rage enough,
He first laid hands on me ;
And if thiit death would not prevent.
Avenged would I be.
As for my life, it is but short,
When I shall be no more ;
To part with life, I am content.
As any heretofore.
Therefore, good people all, take heed,
This warning take by me —
Accoiillug to the lives you lead,
Rewaidcd you shall be.»
UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.
Thk chorus of this is old ; the two stanzas
ire mine.
Up in the morninc;'s no for mC)
Up in t/ie morning early ;
When a the hills are cover d wV snoOt
I'tn sure it's winter fairly.
Cold blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly ;
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.
Burns.
• riurns' own set of the Lament, appears Ijkcr the
ontiiviil 1 fl'iisions of the high-spirited c: ^.^jnjU, tlian
KlMi homily
UP IN THE MORNING EARLV
BY JOHN HAMILTON.
Caui.d 1)1, iws the wind frae north to soutiv
Tlie drift is driving sairly.
The sheep are courin' in the heuch :
O, sirs, its winter fairly.
Now up in the mornin's no for me.
Up in the mornin' early ;
I'd rather gae supperless to my bed
Than ri^e in the moiniu' early.
Loud roars the blast amang the woods.
And tirls the branches barely ;
On hill and house hear how it thuds.
The frost is nipping sairly.
Now up in the mornin's no for me.
Up in the mornin' early;
To s:t a' nicht wad better agree
Than rise in the mornin' early.
The sun peeps ower yon southland tilla
Like ony timorous carlie,
Just blinks a wee, then sinks again.
And that we find severely.
Now up in the mornin's no for me,
t^p in in the mornin' early ;
Allien snaw blaws in at the chimly cheek*
Wha'd rise in the mornin' early.
Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush ;
Poor things they suffer sairly.
In cauldrife quarters a' the night,
A' day they feed but sparely.
Now up in the mornin's no forme,
Up in the mornin' early ;
A pennyless purse I wad rather dres
Than rise in the mornin' early.
A cozie house and canty wife.
Aye keep a body cheerly ;
And pantries stou'd wi' meat and drink>
They answer uitco i-arely.
But up in the mornin's no for nte,
Uj) irr the mornin' early ;
The gowan maun glint on bank and lirae^
When I rise in the mornin' early
SONGS.
127
GALA-WATER.
I HAVE heard a cuacludiag verse suag to
these wonls — it is,
An' ay she came at e'cnin fa*,
Am iiifj the yeliuw broom, sae eerie,
To seek the snooil o' silk she tint ; —
She fau ua it, but gat her dearie. — BuftNs.
The original song of Gala-water was thus re-
cited by a resident in that very pastoral district.
Bonnie lass of Gala-water ;
Biaw, braw lass of Gala-water !
I would wade the streitn sae deep,
For yc3 bi aw lass of Gala-water.
Braw, braw lads of Gala-water ;
O, braw lads of G.ila-water !
I'll kilt my coat aboon my knee,
And fo.low my love thro* the water.
Sac fair her hiir, sae brent her brow,
Sae bonnie blue her een, ray dearie ;
Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou*,
I often kiss her till I'm wearie.
O'er yon h mk, and o'er yon brae,
O'l r yon moss amang the heather ;
ni kilt my coat almon my knee.
And follow my love thro' the water
Dowc amang the broom, the broom,
Down ammg the liroom, my dearie ;
The lassie lo-t her silken snood.
That gart her greet till she was wearie.
DU.MBARTON DRUMS.
Ttiis is the last of the West Highland airs ;
ond from it, over the whole tract of country to
the contiiies of Tweedside, there is hardly a
tune or song tliat one can say has taken its ori-
gin from any place or transaction in that part of
Scotland. — The oldest .\yrshire reel, is Stcw-
arlon Litsses, which wxs made by the fither of
the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunning-
ham, alias Lord Lyie ; since which period there
has indi'cd been local music in that country in
great jilenty. — Juhnie Faa is the only old song
which I coidd ever trace as belonging to the ex-
tensive county of Ayr. — BuiiNS.
The poet has fallen under a mistake here : —
the drums here celebrated were not those of the
town, or garri:<on of Dumbarton ; but of the
rej;iment commanded by Lord Dumbarton — a
ravaiior of the house of Douglas — who signalized
him-^elf en the Jacobite side in I6S5. — The old
song was a» follows : —
Dcmbarton's drums heat bonny, O,
Wiien ihev mind me of uiy dear Johnie, O.
How iiiippy am T,
When my soldier is by,
^V^l!le he kisses and blesses his Annie, O !
'Tis a soldier alone can delight me, O,
For his graceful looks do invite me, O :
\Viiile guarded in his arms,
I'll fear no war's alarms,
Neither danger nor death shall e'er fright me, O
My love is a handsome laddie, O,
Genteel, but ne'er fopjjish nor gaudy, O :
Tl.o' commissions are dear,
Yet ril buy him one this year ;
For he shall serve no lon;^er a cadie, O.
A scddicr has honour and bravery, (),
Unacquaijited with rogues and their knavery, Ot
He minds no other thing •
But the ladies or the king ;
For cv'ry other care is but slavery, O.
Then I'll be the captain's lady, O ;
Farewell all my 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's drums sound bonny, O,
They are sprightly like my dear Johnie, O :
How happy shall I he.
When on my soldier's knee.
And he kisses and blesses his Annie, O '
FOR LACK OF GOLD.
The country girls in Ayrshire, instead of tba
line
She me forsook for a great duke,
say,
For Athole's duke she me forsook;
which I take to be the original reading.
These words were composed by the late Dr.
Austin, physician at Edinburgh. — He had
courted a lady,* to whom he was shortly to
have been married : but the Duke of Athnie
hiving seen her, became so much in love with
her, tliat he made proposals of mirria^je, wliich
Were accepted of, and she jilted tlie Doctor.—.
Burns.
dr. austin.
Tune—" For Lack of Gold."
For lack of gold she has left me, O ;
And of all that's dear she's bereft me, Oj
She me forsook for Athoie's duke.
And to endless wo she has left me, O.
A star and garter have more art
Than youth, a true and faitlJul heart ;
• Jean, daughter of John Diummond, of Megg
inch, KsQ.
128
BURNS' WOKKS.
Fi)t PDiptv titles \vp tnust jinrt ;
Foi jjlittt'riiig jJiDW she has left me, O.
Nn criipl fair shall ever move
Mv iiijiirM neiiif ;if;.iin tri love;
Thri)' (listarit clii)i;ites T must rove,
Since Ji'iinv she has left nie, O.
Ye jjnweis ;il)(ive, I to \<)ur care
Resign my faithless lovely fair ;
Your choicest hlessui'^s he her sharei
Tho' she has ever left me, O !
MILL, MILL O.
The original, or at least a song evidently
prior to Ramsay's, is still extant. — It runs thus :
T/ie ?nin, mill O, nnri the kill, kill O,
Anil the ciK/fiin o' Perjrii/s nhetl O,
The suck and the siive, and a' she did leave,
And danc'd the milhr's reel O,
As I cam down yon waterside,
And hy yon shellin-hill O,
There I spied a honnie honnie lass,
And a lass that I lov'd rit'ht wcel O. — •
. RCRNS.
MILL, JIILL O.
Beveatit a green shade I find a fair maid
Was sleeping sound and still-O,
A' lowing wi' love, my fancy did rove,
Around her with good will-0 :
Her bosom I press'd, but, sunk in her rest,
She stir'd na my joy to «])ill-0 ;
While kincliy she slept, close to her I crept,
And kiss'd, and kissd her my fill-O.
Oblig'd by command in Flanders to land,
T' emjjloy my courage and skill-O,
Frae 'er quietly I stiw, hoist'd sails and awa.
For wind blew fair on the hill-0.
Twa years brought me hame, where loud-frasing
fame
Tahl me with a voice right shrill-O,
My lass, like a fool, had mounted the stool,
Nor ken'd wha'd doue her the ill-0.
Mair fond of her charms, with my son in her
arms,
A fcrlying speer'd how she feIl-0 ;
Wi' the tear in her eye, quoth she, let me die,
Sweet Sir, gin I can tell-0.
* The remaining two stanzas, thougli pretty enough,
partake rather ton much of the mile simplicity ot ihc
"■ Uldcn time" to be admitted here. — KU.
Love gae the command, I took !-.er bv he ixc^
And bad her a' fears expel-O,
And nae mair look wan, for I was the man
Wha had doue her the deed x /seil-O.
My bonnie sweet lass, on the gowany grass.
Beneath the shilling-hill-O,
If I did offence, I'se make ye amends,
Before I leave Pcfjgy's niill-0.
O ! the mill, mill-0, and the kill, klll-O,
And the cogging of the wlieel-O,
The sack and the sieve, a' tluie ye man leave
And round with a sosrer reel-O
WALY, WALY.
In the west country I have heard a dlfFerent
edition of the second stanza Instead of tbi
four lines, beginning with, '' When cixJile
shtlls," §T. the other way ran thus :^
O WHEREFORE need I busk my head,
Or wherefore need I kame my hair,
Sin my fause luve has me forsook.
And says he'll never luve me mair. —
Burks.
0 WAl.v waly up tlie bank,
And waly waly down the brse.
And waly waly by yon burn-side,
Where I and my love were wont to gse,
1 leint my back unto an aik,
I thought it was a trustie trie ;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brake.
And sae my true love did lyghtlie me.
O waly waly gin love be bonnie
A little time while it is new;
But when its auld it waxeth cauld,
And fades awa' like muming-dew.
O wherefore shu'd I busk my head ?
Or wherefore shu'd I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,
And says he'll never loe me mair.
Now Arthur-seat shall be my bfv',
The sheits shall neir be fyl'd by me:
Saint Anton's well sail be my drink,
Since my true love has forsaken me.
Marti'nias wind, whan wilt thou blaw.
And shake the green leaves atf the trie?
O gentle death, whan wilt tlu a cum ?
For of my life 1 am wearie.
'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ;
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my love's beat t thrown cauld to mtk
Whan we came in by Glasgowe town.
We weic a comely sight tu see ;
SOJNGS.
]29
Mf (ovp was dad i' tli' bl,u-k velvet,
And I iiiyscll in fianiasii.
But had I wist hcfoie I kisst,
Tlicit ove hail lict'ti sae ill to win,
I luid Idckt my lii-art in a c.vu of gowd,
And |iiiui d it wi' a siller pin.
Oh, (ill I if my yniiiiii hahe wrre hnrne,
And set uiJtin the luiisc's kiiee.
And I niysi'il wore dead and ttiine,
For a maid a;;ain lie never be !
TODLEN IIAJIE.
This is, perli:ip<!, tlie first bottle song that
ever w;ls composed — Burns.
WiiFN I've a saxpcMce under my thumb.
Then I'll uet ciedit in ilka town :
But ay when I'm ]!oor they bid uie gae by;
O ! p'lverty parts good company.
Ti'dlun /lame, toil/cn liaiiie,
Coudtui my hove come todlen home ?
Fair-fa' the goodwife, and send her good sale.
She gi'i'-^ lis white bannocks to diiiik her ale,
Svne if l.er tippony chance to be sma',
Wi'll tak a E;ood scour o't, and ca't awa'.
Todlen hame, todlen /mnie.
An round as a tuep, come todlen hame.
My kimmer and I lay down to sleep.
And twa piiitstoups at our bed-feet ;
A.id ay wiien we waken'd, we drank them dry :
What think ye of my wee kimmer and I ?
Todlen hut, and todlen ben.
Sue round as rny louve comes todlen hame.
Leeze me on liquor, my todlen dow,
Ye're ay sae good humour'd when weeting your
niou ;
When sober sae sour, yo'II fis;ht wi' a flee.
That 'tis a biyth sijjht to the bairns and me.
When todlen home, todlen hame.
When round as a neep ye cone todlen hame.
CAULD KAIL IN ABLKDEEN.
This 'Ong is by the Duke of Gordcu — The
verses aie,
There's canid kail in Aberdeen,
And castocks in Strabogie ;
When ilka lad maun hae his lass,
Then fye, gie me n\y cogic.
My coyie. Sirs, my cojie, Sirs,
I cannot want my coyie :
Jtciulna r/ie my tliree-yirr'd stoup
For a the quenes on li igie.
There s .lohnie Smith has !jot a wife
That scrimps him o' his C(>t;ie,
If she were mine, upon my life
I'd doiik lier in a boijie.
My cvgie, Sirs, Sfc. — Burns.
CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.
There's ranld kail in Aberdeen,
And castocks in Stra'bogie ;
(jin I but hae a bonny htss,
Ye'ie welcome to your cogie :
And ye may sit u|) a' the night.
And drink till it be braid day-light ;
Gie me a lass baith clean and tight,
To dance the Keel of Bogie.
In cotillons the French excel ;
John Bull loves couritra-dances ;
The Spaniards dance fandangos well ;
iMynhcer an allcmande prances :
In foursome reels the Scotch delight,
Tiie threesome inaist dance wond'rous JlgEl ;
But twasiime's ding a' out o' sight,
Dauc'd to the Reel of Bogie.
Come, lads, and view your p::rtner» well.
Wale each a blythsome rogie ;
I'll tak this lassie to niysel.
She seems sae keen and vogie !
Now ])iper lad bang up the spring ;
The conntia fashion is the thing.
To prle their mou's e'er we begin
To dance the Reel of Bogie.
Now ilka lad has got a lass,
Save yon auld doited fogie ;
And ta'en a fling upo' the grass.
As thev do in Stra*l)ogie :
But a' the hisses look sae fain,
We cann.i think oursel's to bain,
For they maun hae their came again
To dance the Reel of Bogie.
Now a* the lads hae done their best,
Like true men of Stra'bogie ;
We'll sto]) awhile and tak a rest.
And tipple out a cogie :
Come now, my lads, an<l tak your glaM,
And try ilk other to surpasn,
In wishing health to every lost
To dance the Reel of Bogie.
WE RAN AND THEY RAN.
The author of We ran ami Ihry ran, &n4
i/ipy 7-(/« and we ran, Sfc. wxi the late Rev
Murdoch M l.etina.i, luiuiatcr at Crathie, 0*».
side. — BuiiNS.
M2
ISO
BURNS' WORKS
Theie's some sav that vre wan,
Some say that they wan,
Some say that nane wan at a', man ;
But one thinp; I'm sure,
That at Sheriff Muir •
A battle there was, which I saw, man ;
And we rat, anil they ran, and tkty ran,
anil we ran, and tee ran, and they ran awa\
num.
Brave Arpyle •)• and Belhaven, \
Not like frighted Leven, §
Which Rothes ]| and Haddington^ sa', man j
For they all with Wightman **
Advanced on the right, man,
Whiie others took flight, being ra', man.
jind we ran, and they ran, 8fc.
Lord Roxburgh -{-f was there.
In order to share
With Dougl.is, ^1 whe stood not in awe, man,
Volunteerly to ramble
With lord Loudon Campbell, || ||
Biave Hay §§ did suffer for a', man.
And we ran, and they run, §•&
Sir John Schaw, ^^ that great knight,
Vv'i' broid-sword most bright,
On horseback he briskly did charge, man ;
An hero that's bold,
None could him with-hold.
He stoutly encounter'd the targemen.
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc,
For the cowardly Whittim, *'*
For fear they should cut him,
Seeing glittering broad-swords wi' a pa', man,
Au(\ that in such thrang,
Made Baird edicang, f f f
And fiom the brave clans ran awa', man.
And ice ran, and they ran, Sj'c.
• The battle of Dumblain or ShcrinTmiiir was fought
the l^ih (if November !71,i, between the Karl of Mar,
for the Chevalier, and the Duke of Arpyle for tlie pcv
vernineiit. lioth suies olaiincd the victory, the lifi
winf; of either army bciiifj routed. The capture of
I'reston, it is very remarkable, happened on the same
day.
t .Tiihn (Camjibell) iM Dukeof Argyle, commander,
in-rhiifor I le^^nveruniciU force*; ; a nobleman of great
tflleiil< and integrity, much respected by all parties:
died 171.J.
% Jolui (Hamilton) Lord Relhaven ; served as n vo-
lunteer; .'ind had the ciimm:ind nf a troop of horse
raised by the county of Haddington: perished at sea,
17-'l.
S David (I.esly) Tarl of I.even ; fur the governm.ent.
II Ji>hn (I.esly) Karl of Rotlies; fur IliegDveriiuient.
H 'I'll mas (Hamilton) Earl of Haddington; for the
govcnm cut.
♦* Majorr.cneral Joseph Wightm.m.
1t John (Kerl first Duke of Roxburgh; for the go
ir.c-nt.
Jt Archibald (notiplas) Duke of nouglas.
lill tluch (Camiilu'll) Kail cf l.midon.
^^S Arclubil.l E.ui of Hay, bmthir to the Duke of
Hreyle. He was dangerously wounde<l. |
ill An odicer in Ihc iroopOf gentleman volunteers.
»»*Maj()r-j,'incral Thomas \Vhithani.
♦H • c Aiit <lu ctimi>.
Brave Mar • and Panmure +
Were firm 1 am sure,
The latter was kidnapt awa', man.
With brisk men about.
Brave Harry \ retook
His brother, and laught at them a*, man.
And we ran, and they ran, |rc.
Grave IMarshall [] and Lithgow, §
And Glengary's^ pith too,
Assisted by brave Loggie-a-man, ••
And Gordons the bright
So boldly did fight.
The redcoats took flight and awa', man.
And we ran, and they ran, §-c.
Strathmore f f and Clanronald f f
Cry'd still, advance, Donald !
Till both these heroes did fa', man ; |l ||
For there was such hashing.
And broad-swords a clashing.
Brave Forfar §§ himself got a da', man.
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc.
* John (Erskine) Earl of Mar, commander.in-chiel
of tlie Chevalier's army; a nobleman of great spirit,
honour, and abilities. He died at Aix-la-C'hapelie in
1752.
t James (Maulc) Earl of Pan:nurc; died at Paris,
17-'3.
4. Honourable Harry Maule, brother to the Eaii.
The circumstance here alluded to is thus related in the
Earl of Mar's printed account of the engagement : —
" The prisoners taken by us were very civilly used,
and none of them stri)it Some were altow'd to return
to Stirling upon their parole, Ac. . . 'J'he fc.v prison,
ers taken by the enemy on oni left were most of them
stript and wounded after taken The Earl of Par.-
mnre being first of Ihc prisoners wounded after t.Tken.
They having refused his parole, he was left in a vil-
lage, and by the hasty retreat of the enemy, upon the
approach of our army, was rescu'd by his brother and
his servants "
II George (Keith) Far] Marischall, then a vouth at
college He <iicd at hs governmenr of Ncnfihalel in
1771. His brother, the celebrated Marshall Keith, was
with him in this battle.
^ James (Livingston) Earl of Calendar and Linlith.
gow : attainied.
^ Alexander M 'Donald of Olengary, laird of a clan ;
a brave and spirited chief: attainied.
** Thomas Druininond of Logie-Almond ; com-
manded the two battalions of Druuimoiali. [le was
wounded.
ft John (Lyon) Earl of Strathmore; " a man of
good parts, of a most amiable ilisposition and charae-
ter."
rt Ranald M'Donald, Captain of Clan Hanald.
A'. 11. The Captain of a clan was rne who, bet!:g next
or near in blood to the Chief, heeded them in his nu'.in
cy or absence.
' II II " We have lost to our regret, the E.irl of Strath,
more and the Captain of Clan llanald." Karl of Mar's
Letter to the Governor of Perth. Again, printed ac-
count : — " We eann'i find above t':L> of our !;-.( n in all
kiU'd, among whom were the Karl nf Straihirore [audi
the Captain ot Clan llanald, both nnich lamented.
The latter, " for his good parts and gentle accomplish-
ments, was look'd upon .-is Ihc nii>,-l g;jlianl and gener.
ous young genllemau among the c'ans. . . . He wai
lamented bv both parlies that liiiew hun."
His serv.ant, who lay on the field w.itchiiig his ociil
body, being asked next d.iy who iliat w.-.s, answered.
He was a man yesterday. — iiosurli's Juiirne,. to the He-
brides, p. .).')U.
f^ Archibald (Douglas) '!art of Eorfar, who com-
manded a regiment in the Luke's army. He is siid tf
have been shot in the knee, ami to have had ten 01
twelve cuts in his head from tlic bro.id swords. H«
ditnl a few days after of his wounds.
SONGS.
13'
Lonl Perth * stood the storm,
Scafiiith f but liikcAvanii,
Kilsyth I and Strathallan |j not sla', :nan ;
And Hamilton § pK'd
Tlic men were not bied,
For he had no fancy to fa', man.
Atid we ran, and tluy ran, §•<•,
Brave generous Southesk, \
Tdehaiin ** was brisk,
Wliose ither indeed would not dra', man,
Into llie same yoke,
Wliich serv'd for a cloak.
To keep the estate 'twixt them twa, man.
And we ran, and iheij ran, Sfc.
Lord RoUo -j-j- not fear'd,
Kiiitoie^J and his beard,
Pitshgo 11 li and O^'ilvie §§ a', man,
And brothers Balfours, ^^
They stood the first show'rs,
Clackmannan and Burleigh ••* did cla', man.
And we ran, and tkeij ran, §-c.
But Clep])an f f f acted pretty,
And Strowan the witty, \^\
A poet that pleases us a", man ;
For mine is but rliime.
In respect of what's fine,
Or what he is able to dra', man.
And we ran, and they ran, §'c.
• James Marquis of Drummond, son of James
(Dnuniiionil) DuKe of Perth, was li utenant-sencral
of horse, and •' behaved with great gallantry." He
was attiiiiteJ, but escaped to France, where he soon
after (tied.
t William (Mackenzie) Earl of Scaforth. He was
sttaintcil, anil <lie(l in IT-Jn.
t William (LiviMg-.ioii) Viscount Kilsyth : attaintcil.
II William (Drnmmond' Viscount' Stratluillan ;
whose sense of loyalty could scarcely equal the spirit
and activity he manifested in the cause. He was ta-
ken prisoner in this hattU', which he survived to per-
ish in the still more fatal one of Culloden.muir.
§ Lieutenant-general Geoige Hamilton, command-
ing under the tarl of Mar
^ James (Carnegie) Karl of Southesk ; was attaint-
ed, and, escaping to I'ranee, died there in 17'-'y.
*» William (Murray) Marquis of Tulliljardin, eldest
son to the Duke of Atliolc. Having been attaiutiil,
he was taken at sea in llid, and died soon after, of a
flux, in the Tower.
tt Itobert (Itollo) Lord Rollo; " a man of singular
merit and great integrity :" died In 175S.
Jt William (Keith) Earl of Kintore.
nil Alexander (Forbes) Lord Pitsligo; "a man of good
pans, great honour aiid spirit, and universally beloved
and esteemed." He was engaged again in the artair of
171-i, for which he was attainted, and died at an ad-
vancikl age in ITfi;.'.
<j\ James Lord Ogilvie, eldest son of David (OgiU
vie) Earl of .\irly. He was attainted, but afterwards
pardoned. His father, nut dra'ing into Ih.,: jameyoke,
:aveil the estate.
HU Some relations it is supposed of the Lord Bur-
leigh.
•«« Robert (B dfour) Lord Burleigh. He was at-
tain'ed. and died in 1757.
t+t Major William C'lephane, adjutant-general to
Ihe Marquis of Drummond.
XXX .\lexand r Robertson of Struan; who, having
Experience I every vicissitude of life, with a stoical
finnness. ij:ed in' peace 17'19- He was an excellent
Oct, anrf hi"! left eUgies worthy of TibuUut.
For Huntley • and Sinclair \
They both play'd the tinclair,
With consciences iikick like a era* matt.
Some Auf^iis and Fileiiien
Tliey r.in for their life, man,
And ne'er a Lot's wife there at a', mao.
And we ran, and they ran, §-c.
Then Laurie the traytor,
Wlio betray'd his master,
His king and his country and a', man,
Pretending Mar might
Give order to tight,
To the right of the army awa', man.
And we ran, and they ran, ifc.
Then Laurie, for fear
Of what he might hear,
Took Drnmmond 's best horse and awa', an^
Iiiste.id o' going to Perth,
He crossed the Firth,
Alongst Stirling-bridge and awa', man.
^r.d wt ran, and they ran, §"c.
To London he [iiess'd,
And there he address'd,
That he behav'd best o' them a', man ;
Anfl there without strife
Got settled for life,
An hundred a year to his fa', nian-
And we ran, and they ran, §T.
In Buriowstounness
He resides wi' disgrace,
Till his neck stand in need of a dra', mi^
And then in a tether
He'll swing frae a ladder,
[And] go utr the stage with a pa', man.
And we ran, and they ran, |rc.
Rob Roy stood watch
On a lull f.ir to catch
The booty for ought that I sa*, man.
For he ne'er advanc'd
From the place he was stanc'd.
Till nae mair to do there at a', man.
And tee run, and they ran, SfC.
So we a' took the flight,
And Moui)ray tin." wright ;
But Lethain the smith was u bra' vaxHf
For he took the gout,
M'hich truly was wit,
By judging it time to withdia', man.
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc,
And trtinv ct IM'Lcan,
^\'hose brecks were not clean,
• Alexander (Gordon) Marquis of Huntlev, eldest
son to the Duk'- of Gordon, who, accordinig to the
usual policy of his country, (of which we here meet
with several other instances), reniained neutral.
t John Sincbir, Esq. commonly called Master ot
.Sinclair, eldest son of Henry Lord Sinclair; was at-
talnteil, but afterwards paid ncd, and died in 17.M>.
The estate was preserved of cout««).
132
BURNS' WORKS.
Thro' misfortune he happen'd to fa*, man,
Bv saving his neck
Ilis trumpet did break,
Came aflF without musick at a*, man.*
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc.
So there such a race was,
As ne'er in that place was,
And as little chase was at a', man ;
Frae ither tliey • run'
Without touk o' drum
They did not make use of 4 pa', man.
And we ran, and thei- ran, and they ran,
and we ran, and we ran, and they ran awa,
men.
BIDE YE YET.
There is a beautiful song to this tune, be-
ginning,
Alas, my son, you little know — ■
which is the composition of a Miss Jenny
Graham of Dumfries Burns.
Alas! my son, vou little know
The sorrows tliat from wedlock flow :
Farewell to every day of ea^^e,
V^Len vou have gotten a wife to please.
Sue hide you yi:t, and hide you yet.
Ye little ktn wlidfs to hctide you yet ;
The half of that u-ill yane ynu yet.
If a wayward wife uhtain yuu yet.
Your e.^perience is but small.
As yet you've met with little thrall ;
The black cow on your foot ne'er trud.
Which gars you sing alang the road.
Sue hide ynu yet, ^'c.
Sometimes the rock, sometimes the rrel,
Or some piece of the spiiiniiig-wlu'cl,
She will drive at you wi' good will,
And then she'll send you to the de'il.
Aae hide you yet, SfC.
* The particulars of this anecdote no vvlicre appear.
The hero is svjpijoscit to be thi' r^ymv J i/in M'Lnnt,
trump':/, who wa< sent from Lord Mir, tlieii at I'ertli,
with a letter to the Duke of Argvlr, at Sinliiij; camp,
on the 50th of Octdber. f'Jt i 'ia'nwl Ldiers 1730.
Two co|iies, howcviT, printcil not long alter 1715,
reail, " And trumpet Mnrhif."
hi 17X-' tlie son of this Tnimprter Marinr tolil the
Earl (if Haddinotun (then Lord lininiii^;) th.it llie first
circuit he ever attended, as one of his Maje>ty's house- 1
nold trumpeters, wis the Norlhcrn. in the \car ITKi, a- '
longwithold l.ord Miuto. I'hat the reason ofhis(;oin!»
there wa<, that the circuit immediately lucceding, hfs
fathei had been so liarasscd iu every town he went
through, by the people sinRiiig his verse, " .4iid trum-
pt Marine, wlifxe hritks," dv. of this son<;, ihat lie
swore h^ would never go again ; and aitualiv resigned
Ui« "i'.uaiion in favour of his ion.—Campbeii's Hiitory
</ Potti y in Scotland. 1
When I like you was young tad. free,
I valued not the proudest she ;
Like yon I vainly boasted then.
That men alone were born to reign.
Sae hide you yet, §•«.
Great Hercules and Sampson too,
Were stronger men than I or you ;
Yet they were baffled by their liears,
And felt the distaff and the sheers.
Sae bide you yet, §•«.
Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls.
Are oroof 'gainst swords and cannon-balls
But nought is found by sea or land,
That can a wayward wife withstand.
'^ le hide you yet, |ro
i^/DE YE YET.
OLD SET.
Gin I had a wee house and a canty wee fit*
A bonny wee wifie to praise and admire,
A bonny wee yardie a>ide a wee burn ;
Fareweel to the bodies that yammer and cntrntM
Sae hide ye yet, and hide ye yet.
Ye little ken what may hetide ye yet^
Some bonny wee body may he mii lutf
And I'll he canty wi' thinking at.
M'hen I gang afield, and come home at e ea,
I'll get my wee wifie fou neat and fou clean J
Aiul a bojiny wee bairne upon her knee,
That will cry, papa, or daddy, to ine.
Sae hide ye yet, Sfc.
And if there happen ever to be
A diff'rence atween my wee wifie and me.
In hearty good humour, although she be teas'^
I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleas'd.
^cie bide ye yet, §-c.
THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKI^
TOW.
BV ALKXANDER UOSS.
Tkeke was an auld wife an' a wee pickle tow,
An' she wad gae try the spinning o't,
She louted her dow!i, an' her rock took a low,
Ajid that was a bad beginning o't :
She sat an' she grat, an' she flet and she flang.
An' she threw an* she blew, an' she wrigl'd aa'
wrang.
An' she choked, an* boaked, an' cry'd like tt
mang,
Al.is ! for the dreary spinning o't.
I've wanted a sark for these ei^ht years an t«Oj
An' this was to be the beginiiiii;; o't.
SONGS.
133
But T vow I »li ill wiint it for as lang again,
Or ever 1 try the spinning o't ;
For never since ever they ca'd me as they ca'
me,
[)icl sic a mis'iaj) an' misantcr befi' me,
Ijiit ye shall hae leave bi'ah to Ii.iug me an'
(irinv nie.
The neist time I try the spinuiog o't.
I hae ki'cpeil my house for these three score o'
\ ears.
All' av 1 kept free o* the spinning o't,
But how I was sarkeil f>-.ul fi' them that spcers,
For it mliiils me upo' the beginning o't.
But our women are now a days grown sae lira*.
That ilka an maun hae a sark an' some hae twa,
The warlds were bettor when ne'er an awa'
Had a r:;^; but ane at the beginning o't.
Foul fa' her that ever advis'd me to spin,
That had been so Ian-; a beginning ii't,
I miijht well have ended as i did begin,
Nor have got sick a sk.iir with the spinning o't.
But they'll say, she's a wyse wife that kens her
ain weerd,
I thought on a d.iv, it should never be speer'd,
IIow loot ye the low take your rock be the
beard,
When ye yeed to try the spinning o't ?
The spinning, tlie spinning it gars my heart so'n,
When I think upo' tlie beginning o't,
I thought ere I dieil to have aiies made a web,
B'jt still I had wecrs o' the spinning o't.
But had I nine (lathers, as I hae but three,
The safest and soundest advice I cud gee,
Is that they frae spinuLog wad keep tiicLi- hands
free,
For fear of a bad beginning o't.
Yet in spite of my counsel if they will needs run
The dreaiysome risk of the spinning o't,
Let them seek out a lytht in the heat of the sun,
And there veiiture o' the beginning o't:
But to do as 1 dill, alas, and awow !
To busk up a rock at the cheek of the low,
Says, that I had but little wit in my pow,
And as little ado with the spinning o't.
But yet after a', there is ae thing that grieves
My heirt to think o' the lieginning o't,
Mad I won the length but of ae pair <>' sleeves,
Then there h id been wmd o' the spinning o't ;
This I wad ha' wa>licn an' bleecli'il like the snaw,
And o' my twa gardies like moggans wad ilraw.
An' then fouk wad say, that auld Girry was bra',
An' a' was ujion her ain spinning o't.
But gin I will shog about till a new spring,
I t'hiiiild yet hae a bunt of the sjiinnin^ o't,
A nuitchkin of linsfcd I'd i' the \eid fling.
For a' the wan chausie Iwginnin;; o't.
I'li gar my ain Tiiniiiie gae down to the how.
An «-ut me a "ock of a widderslunes grow.
Of good ranty-tree for to carry my to\r,
An' a spindle of the same for the twining o't.
For now when I mip . v~ . tt't't Maggy Grim
This morning just a^ ■» heijinniig <» i.
She was never ci'il — ancy, i,ut canny an' sliin.
An' sae it has fiir'd my spinning o't •
r>ut in' my new rock were anes cutted an' dry,
I'll a' Maggies can an* lier cantraps ilefy,
All* but onic snssii the spinning 1*11 try,
An' ye's a* hear o the beginning o't.
Quo' Tibby, licr dather, tak tent fit ye say,
The nevuc a ragg we'll be seeking o't.
Gin ye anes begin, ye'll taiveals night an* day,
Sae it's vain ony mair to be speaking o't.
Since lambas I'm now gaing thirty an' twa,
An' never a dud sark had I yet gryt or sma*.
An* what war am I? 1 m as warm an' as bra,
As thrumniy tail'd Meg that's a spinner o't.
To labor the lint land, an' then luiy the seed,
An' then to yoke iiie to the harrowing o't,
An' syn loll ainon't an* pike out ilka vi'ecd.
Like fwine in a sty at the farrowing o't ;
Syn powiiig and rijiling an' steeping, an' then
To gar's gae an' spread it upo' the cauld plain,
An' then after a' may be labor in vain,
When the wind and the weet gets the fusion o*t.
Rut the' it shoulil anter the weather to byde,
Wi* beetles We're set to the drubbing o't.
An' then frae our fingers to gniilge atf the hide,
With the wearisome wark o' the rubbing o't.
An* syn ilka tail maun be heckl'd out throw,
The lint putten ae gate, anither the tow,
Syn on a rock wi't, an' it taks a low.
The back o' luy hand to the spinning o't.
Quo' Jenny, I think 'oinan ye're i' the right.
Set your leet ay a spar to the spinning o't.
We may tak our advice frae our ain mither'i
fright
That she gat when she try'd the beginning o't.
But they'll say that auld fouk are twice baiina
indeed,
.■\.n* sae she has kythed it, hut there's nae need
To sickan an amshack that we drive our heail,
As langs we're sae skair'd iVa the spinning o't.
Quo' Nanny the younijest, I've now heard
you a",
An* dowie's your doom o* the spinning o't,
Gin ye, fan the cows tlings, the cog cast awa',
Ye m.iy see wheie ye'U lick up your winning
o't.
But I see that but spinning I'll never be bra',
1 But gae by the name <d' a dilp or a da,
I Sae lack where ye like I shall aives shak a fa',
Afuie 1 be dung with the sjiiuning o't.
' For well I can i:i;nd rre when black Willie BcL
Had Tibbie tli-re just at the winning o't,
What blew up the bargain, she kens v.eli hersell,
Was the want uf the kn^ck of the spinning o't.
134.
BURNS' WORKS.
An' novv, poor 'omaiij for ouglit that I ken,
She may never get sic an offer again,
But pine away bit an' hit, like Jenkin's hen.
An' naething to wyte but t!ie spinning o't.
But were it for naething, but just this alane,
I shall yet hae about o' the spinning o't.
They may cast me for ca'ing me black at the
bean,
But nae cause I shun'd the beginning o't.
But, be that as it hapijen*, I care not a strae.
But nane of the lads shall hie it to >ay.
When they come till woo, she kens naething
avae,
Nor has onie ken o' the spinning o't.
In the days they ca'd yore, gin auM fouks Lad
but won.
To a suikoat hough side for the winning o't.
Of coat raips well cut by the cast o' their bun,
Tbov never sought mair o' the spinning o't.
A pair of grey hoggeis well clinked ber.ew,
Of nae other lit but the hue of the ew,
With a pair of rough rullions to scuff thio' the
dew.
Was the fee they sought at the beginning o't.
But we maun hae linen, an' that maun hae we,
An* how get we that, but the spinning o't?
How can we hae face tor to setk a i<ryt fee,
Except we can help at tlie winning o't ?
An' we maun hae pearlins and niabbies an'
cocks.
An* some other thing that the ladies ca' smoks,
An' how get we that, gin we tak na our rocks,
And pow what we can at the spinning o't ?
'Tis need'ess for us for to tak our remaiks
Frae our niither's niscooking the spinning o't.
She never kend ought o' tiie gueed of the sarks,
Frae this aback to the beginning o't.
Twa thrt-v. "^ll of plaiden was a' that was sought
By oui auid waild bodies, an' that boot be
bought,
For in ilka town sickan things was nae wrought,
So little they kend o' the spinning o't.
HOOLY AND FAIRLY.
It is remark-worthy that the song of ILiohj
inil J-'itir!;/, in all the old editions of it, is cal
ed T/ic Drunken W'ift o Giiltou-aij, which
ocahzes it to that country — Burns.
THE DIIUNKEN WIFE o' CALLOWAY.
Oh ! what had I to do for to marry?
My wife chi' drinks naething but sack and Ca-
nary,
( to her friends ronipl lin'd right eaily,
<) ! 1)1 u my wife inul dr'nili lux hi iiml fdir.ii,
11,1 ly iinil J'aiili/. hniili/ ami fniihiy
'J I (lift nil) nif'c iiaJ iJinJt I »•.. •.ml J.ihlii.
First she drank cruit.'nie, and syne she dranlf
garie ;
Now she has druken my bonny grey marie,
That carried me thro' a' the dubs aud the larit
O ! gin, §-c.
She has druken her stockins, sa has she het
shoon.
And she has druken her bonny new gown ;
Her wee bit dud sark that co'erd her fu' rarely
O ! gin, Sfc.
If she'd drink but her ain things I wad na mucl;
care,
But she drinks my claiths I canna weel spare.
When I'm wi' my gossips, it angers me sairly,
O ! gin, Sfc.
My Sunday's coat she's laid it a wad.
The best blue bonnet e'er w:is on my head ;
At kirk and at market I'm covei'd but barely,
O ! gin, Sfc.
The verra gray mittens that gaed on my ban's.
To her neebor wife she has laid them in pawns ;
RIy bane-headed staff that I lo'ed sae dearly,
O ! gin, §-c.
If there's ony siller, she maun keep the purse ;
If I seek but a baubee she'll scauld and she'll
cuise.
She gangs like a queen — I scrimped and sparely,
O I gin, §-c.
I nevfr was given to wrangling nor strife.
Nor e'er did nfuse her the cnmfoits of life ;
Ere it come to a war I'm ay for a parley.
O ! gin. Sec.
A pint wi' her ciimmeis I wail her all(>w,
But when she sits down she ii Is herself fou ;
And when she is fou she's unco camstarie,
O ! gin, §-c.
Wien she comes to the street she roars and
she rants.
Has nae fear o' her neebors, nor minds tht
h.ouse wants ;
She rants up some fool-sang, like " Up y'ef
heart, C/iarlie.^'
O I gin, §-c.
And when she comes haine she lays on the Iad»
She ca's the l.isses baith liniinirs and jads,
And 1, mv ain sell, an anlil cuckold carlie,
O ! gin n>!/ tdfe viul liriii/t /inali/ and Juinif,
Hiuily (iiiil f'liirig, Imtily uml J'niily,
O ! yin my wife wad drink houly and fairly.
SONGS
\3b
THE OLD MAN'S SONG.
BV THE REV J, SKISNEn.
Tim^— " Dumbarton Dnimj."
O! wiiv sliimld old as^e so miicli wound us I*
Tneic is n.'tliinfj in it all to conlound us ;
For liovv h.i])]iy now um 1,
With my >'ld will- sittinn by.
And our liaiiiis and our oys j all around us ;
For hotc hupj/i/ now am I, §-c.
We lieijan in tlio warld wi* naetliinir,
And WL-'ve joag'd on. and toil'd for the ae thing;
We made use of what we had,
And our thankful hearts were glad ;
When we g<it the hit meat and the c-laithinj;,
We made use of what we had, S^c.
We have liv'd all our life-time contented,
Sinjc the day we hecame first acquainted:
It's true we've lieen liut punr,
And we are so to this hour ;
But we never yet lepin'd or lamented.
It's true ict'fe been but puin, §-c.
When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntJt,
Nur did we hioi; our hoiils wlieu we wantit ;
But we alway« gave a share
Of the little we cou'd spare,
When it pleas'd a kind Heaven to <rrant it.
But we alu-ai/s gave a share, i"c.
We never laid a scheme to he wealtliy,
By means that were cunning or stealthy;
But we always ha<l the hliss,
(And what furtliei' could we wiss\
To be jileus'd with ourselves, a id be healthy.
Hut ice always had the bliss, §c.
What tho' we cannot boast of our guineas,
We have plenty of Joikic* unil Jeauies ;
And these, I'm certain, are
Mort iesirahle by far
Thatj a I) ig fidl of po(M- yellow sleenies.
And ttieae, I'm certain, are, §-c.
We have seen many wonder aad ferlv,
Of changes that almost are yearly,
Among rit h folks ui) and down,
Both in coiiutry and in town,
Who now live but -criniply and barely,
A)iiij!.^ —'"h fil/ts tiji and down, §-c.
Then why should peojile brag of prosperity ?
A straiten'd life we see is no rarity ;
Indeed we've been in want.
And our living's been but scant,
I'ct we never were re(iu<'eil to need charity.
Ir. deed we've been in witnt, §-c.
• This tune requires O to be .-iililed at the end of
ftnci-. i<( the Ion;; I iies, but in leading tlie louti tlie O
l!flio:l.r oiriiti. d.
t O.i/i — Ur.-uni-cliildren.
In this Louse we first came together,
Where we've limg been a father and inither.
And tho' not of st(uie and lime.
It will last us all our time ;
And, I hoi)e, we shall ne'er lu.d anither.
And t/w' n I of stone and lime, ^c.
And when we leave this poor habitation.
We'll dejiart with .1 good comuicLilutioa ;
We'll go hand in hand, I wiss,
To a better louse than this.
To make room for the next gciuistion.
Then uh>/ sliaiild uhl ai/e si> much wound ut
There is notliintj in it all to confound us t
For how hojipy now am I,
With my old wife sitting by.
And our bairns and out oys all around us.
TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT VE.
A PART of this old song, according to th«
English set of it, is quoted in Sliakspea.u. •— •
BUKNS,
In winter when the rain rain'd cauld,
And fnjst and snaw on ilka hill,
And Boieas, with his blasts sae bauld,
Was tlireatning a' our ky to kill :
Then Bell iiiy wife, wlia loves na strife,
She said to me right hastilv.
Get up, goodiii m, save Cromv's life,
Aud tak your auld cloak about ye.
My Cromie is an useful cow,
And she is cume o; a good kyne ;
Aft has >lie Wit tiie bairns' mun.
And I am lait!i that she shou'd tyne.
Get up, gooiliiiaii, it is fun time,
The sun shines in the lift sae hie ;
Sloth never made a gracious entl,
Go tak your auld cloak about ye.
My cloak was anes a good grey cloak
When it was fitting for my wear ;
But now It's scaiitiv worth a i;roat,
Foi I liave win n't this thirty ye<r;
Let's »pend the gear that we have Won,
We little ken the d.iy we'll die :
Then I'll be proud, since I have sworn
1 o have u new cloak about me.
• In the drinking scone in Othello: Ugoeingg,*.
King Stephen was a worthy peer,
His lircivlu-s iMst him but a nown ;
He held thcin sixjience all too dear,
Witli tint he called (he tailor lown.
He was a wight oI'IiihIi renown.
And thou art but of low ilc^ree;
Tis pride that pul.s the countrv down,
'I'lieu take thine auld cloak about thf e.
The old song fiom «hieh these stanzas were takec
was recovered by Dr. Percv, am' prwerved by him 9
lus Hi'liQuet of Ancitnt Poetru.
136 BURNS'
WORKS.
III days when our king Robert rang,
" Yestreen I lay in a well-ma.Je I)ed,
His treu's they cost but haff a crown ;
And my good lord beside me ;
He said they wire a groat o'er dear.
This night I'll ly in a tenant's barn.
And call'd tlie taylor thief and luun.
Whatever shall betide me."
He was the king that wore a crown,
And thou the man of laigh degree,
Come to your bed, says Johny Fai,
'Tis pride [)uts a* the country down,
Oh ! come to your beil, my deny;
Sac tak thy auld cloak about thee.
For I vow and swear by the hilt of my swor"i
That your loid shall nae mair come near ye
Every kind his its ain laugh,
Ilk kind of corn it has its hool,
" I'll go to bed to mv J.ihny Fai,
I think the warld is a' run wrung,
And I'll go to bed t j my deary ;
■\Vlien ilka wife her man wad rule ;
For I vow and swear by what past yestreen,
Do ye not s-ee Roh, Jock, and Hab,
That my lord shall nae mair coine near me
As they are girded gaiUntly,
While I sit hurklen in the ase ;
" rU mak a hap to my Jnhny Faa,
I'll liave a new tloak about me.
And I'll maU a hap to my deary ;
And he's get a' the coat gaes round,
Goodman, I wate 'tis thirty years,
Aud my lord shall nae mair come near me.
Since we did ane anither ken ;
And we have had between us twa,
And when our lord came home at e'en.
Of lads and bonny lasses ten :
And speir'd for his fair lady,
Now they are women grown and men.
The tane she cry'il, and the other reply' J,
I v/ish and pray well may they be ;
She's awajj' wi' the gypsie laddie.
And if you prove a good husband.
E'en tak your auld cloak about ye.
" Gae sadille to mo the black, black steed*
(jae saddle and mak him ready ;
Beil my wife, she loves na strife ;
Before that l either eat or sleep.
But she wad guide me, if she can,
I'll gae seek my fair laily."
And to maintain an easy life,
I aft maun yield, tho' I'm gnndman .
And we were fifteen well-made mea,
Nought's to be won at woman's hand,
Altho' we Were nae bunny ;
Unless ye give her a* the plea ;
And we were a' |)ut down for ane.
Then I'll leave a!f where I began,
A fair young wanton lady.
And tak my auld cloak about me.
TO DAUNTON ME.
JOIINY I-AA, OU THE GYPSIE
LADDIE.
TiiF, two following old stanzas to this tuiM
have some merit : — Bukns.
The people in Ayrshire begin this song —
li) d.uinton me, to daunton mo.
The gypsies cam to my Lord Cassilis' yett.
() ken ye wlut it is that'll diunton me ?—
There's eighty eight and eiglity nine.
Tliey have a great many more stanzas in this
And a' that I hae born sinsyne,
song than 1 ever yet saw in any printed copy.
There's cess and press and Presbytrie,
The castle is still remaining at iMaybole, wlieie
I tliink it \\ ill do meikle for to dauuton me.
his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and
kept her for lile Burns.
But to wanton me, to wanton me.
O ken ye what it is that wad wanton me?—
Thk gy|)siis came to our good lord's gate.
To see gude corn upon the rigs.
And wow but they sang sweetly ;
.\nd banlshmetit amang the Wbigs,
Tliey sang sae sweet, and sae very complete,
And right restored where rig! .,u.. oo,
Tliat down came the fair ladle.
1 think it W(mld do meikle for to wanton m&
And she came tripping down the stair,
Aud X her mjid* before her ;
As soon as they saw her weelfar'd face.
They coo-l the glauier o'er her.
TO DAUNTON ME.
There is an old set of the sotig : not politi
"* Gar tak fr i me this gay mantile.
cal, but very indej)endent. It runs thus ;— -
And bring to nic a plaidie ;
For if kith and kia aiid a' had sworn,
TiiK blude red rose at Yule may blaw.
' VJl follow the gypsie laddie.
The kiuimer lilies blume m snaw.
. _ _J
iiMlV^
PAltrrEDBY-yFIlAVID Wllr
K.® IB OKI (StK.-^'-
SONGS.
ISl
rhc fro't inay fioeze the ileepe-t »oa,
But an iiiilil in.in shall never il.iunton mc.
To il.iiintoii 1110, ami nie sae V'luiii:,
Wi' liis faiisc lie.irt anil fl.itteiiii' tiinjue,
That is the tliiiii; ye ne'er shall see,
Fo. an aiild man shall never daunton me.
For a' his nie.il, fur a' his riiaut,
For a' his fresh heef, anil his saut,
For a' his gowil anil white monie,
Aa auld niau sha 1 never dauntun ine.
Tu dauntun nie, iic.
riis gear may huy him kye and yowcs.
His gear may liny him glens «nd knowes,
Hut nie he sh ill not Imy nor fee,
For an auld man shall never daunton me.
To daunton me, &c
He liirples twa fauM as he dow.
Wi' his teothless gali, and his bald pow,
A.nd the rheum rins down frae his red blue e'e,
But an auld man shall never daunton me.
THE BONNIE LASS JIADE THE BED
TO aiE.
" The Ronnie Liss made the Red to mo,"
was com|)i)-eil <in an amour of Charles II. when
skulking in the North, ahout Abordi.-en, in the
time of the usurpitioii. He formed une petite
affiilre with a daughter of the House of Port-
Ittham, who was the luss that made lite bed tu
him : — two verses of it are,
I kiss' I) hor lijjs sae rosy red,
While the tear stood l>linkin in her e'e ;
I said my lassie dinna crv,
For ye ay shall lu.ik the hod to me.
She took iier initlior's winding sheet.
And o't she made a s,irk to me ;
BIytbc and merry may she be,
The liss that made the bed to me.
Burns.
I HAD A HORSE AND I HAD NAE
.MA HI.
This story was founded on fact. A John
Hunter, ann-stoi to a very respectable farming
family who live in a jilice in the parish, I think,
of Galston, oalK-d liair-mill, was the luekli'ss
hero that /tud u hnrsi- ami had tide iiiair For
tome little yuuthtui tollies he found it necessary
to make a retreat to the Wost-Highlaiids, wheie
he feed himself to a ILijIdand Luird, for that
is the expression of all the oral editions of the
song I ever heard. — The present Mr. Hunter,
who told me the .inecdote, is the gieat-giaud-
ehild to our hero. — liuttNS.
I HAD a horse, and I had nao mair,
I gat him frae my d iddy ;
My jnirse was light, and my heart wa« Mu'r
Rut my wit it was fu' reidy.
And s.ie I thought me on a tiinCj
Outwittfiis of my diuldv,
To foe mysel to a l.iwland laird,
Wiia had a bonnie lady.
I wrote a letter, and thus began,
" Madam, be not oli'einled,
I'm o'er the lugs in love wi' you,
And care not tho' ye keiid it:
For 1 get little frae he liird.
And far less frae my daddy,
And I would blythdy be the man
Would strive to please my lady."
She read my letter, and she lougb,
" Ye needna been sae blate, niaa ;
You inight hae come to me yonrsel.
And tauld me o' your state, maa :
Ye might hae come to me yoursel,
Outwittens o' ony body,
And made Jnhn Guu-kstoii of the ladrdj
And kiss'd his bonnie ladj. "
Then she pat siller in my |)iirse.
We drank wine in a coggie ;
She feed a man to rub my horse,
And wow ! but I was vogie.
Rut I gat ue'er sa sair a flog.
Since I came frae my daddy.
The laird came, rap rap, to the yett.
When I was wi' his lady.
Then she pat me below a chair,
.\nd liapp'd me wi' a plaidie ;
But I was like to swail wi' foar,
Aiid wish'd ine wi' my daddy.
The laird went out, he saw na nie,
I went when 1 was leady :
I promis'd, but 1 ne'er gade back
To kiss his bonnie l.idy.
AULD ROBIN GRAY.
Tins air was formerly called The Brirft-
ijrao'n preits whm llie sun r/itiius <tiiwn. The
words are by Lady Ann Liudsiiy. — BuRNS.
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kv at
hame,
And a' the warld to sl.ep are gane ;
The waes of my heart fd in show'is frae mycc,
When my gudeman lyes so..i«d by me.
Young Jamie loo'd me wet , and he sought me
for his bi ide,
But saving a crown he hail n:ieth.ing bsside ;
Tu make that crown a |iimud, my . aime gutit
to sea,
And the crown and the puund were baith foi
uae
138
BURNS WORKS.
He liad r.ae been awa a week but only twa,
When my indther she fell sick, and the cow
was srown awa ;
My father lirak hi< arm, and my Jamie at the sea,
And auld Rubin Gray came a courtint" me.
My father coudna work; and my mother cotidna
spin,
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I coud-
na win ;
Auld Rob maintaiii'd them baith, and wi* tears
in his ee,
Said, " Jenny, for their sahcs, O marry me."
My heart it said nay, I look'd for Jamie back,
But the wind it l)iew high, and the ship it
%vas a wraik ;
The ship it was a wrack, why didna Jenny die,
And why do I live to say, waes me?
My father argued sair, tho' my mither didna
f-peak,
She look'd in my face till my heart was like
to break ;
So they giVd hiin my hand, tho* my heart was
in the sea,
And auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me.
I hcdna been a wife a week but only four.
When sitting sue rnournfuliy at tjie dour,
I saw my Jamie's wiaith, fur I coudna think it he.
Till he sriiil, " I'm come back for to marry
thee."
0 sair did we gieet, and mickle did we say,
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves
away,
1 wish I were de;id ! but I'm no like to die,
And why do I live to say, waes me !
I gang like a ghaist. and I earena to spin,
I d irna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ;
But Til do my best a gudcwife to be,
For aidd Robiu Grav is kind unto me.
UP AND WAR\ A' WILLIE.
The expression, " Up ami warn a' WilJie,'"
alludes to the Crantari oi warning of a High
.and Clan to aims. Not understanding tins,
the Lowlanders in the west and south say, " Uji
end waur them «', &c. This edition of the
song I got fn.ir Tom Niul,' of ficetious fame,
in Edinburgh.
Up nud iviirn a', Willie,
Will n, iriirn a ,
T'l ht'iir my canty [liyhhind sang,
lielate the thiny I saw, IF/^/c— Burns.
• Torn Kifl was a carpenter in KdiKbumh, niid liveil
flucHv t)y r.uiliin^ .■„l|ii,s. He ..as a s.) ITcmitor, o.
LIcrk. inonc oril„.cluircli.-s. Ileln.l a l'<m),I stro; n
voice, aii.l ivHsR,t.a:ly.|,siMiKMivlic(l bv hi- powers of
^Z^ Ul'lil'r """""'""' "'^"'" °'' '"'«'"« ^"^' ""^
Vv'hen we gaed to the braes o' Mar,
And to the wapon-shaw, Willie,
Wi' true design to serve the king.
And banish whigs awa, Willie.
Up and warn a', Willie,
W^arn, warn a' ;
For lords and lairds came there bedeea.
And wou but they were braw, Wilbe
But when the standard was set up,
Right fierce the wind did blaw, Willie;
The royal nit upon the tap
Down to the ground did fa', Willia,
Up and \^-arn a', Willie,
Warn, warn a' ;
Then second-sighted Sandy said,
We'd do nae gude at a', Willie.
But when the army join'd at Perth,
The bravest e'er ye saw, Willie,
We didna doubt the rogues to rout,
Restore our king and a', Willie.
Up and warn a'. Willie,
Warn, warn a' ;
The pipers playd frae right to left,
O whirry whigs awa, Willie.
But when we raarcli'd to Sherra-muir,
And there the rebels saw, Willie,
Brave Argyle attack'd our right.
Our flank and front and a', Willie.
Up and warn a', Willie,
Warn, warn a' ;
Traitor Huntly soon gave way,
Seaforth, St. Clair and a', Willie.
But brave Glengary on our right,
The rebels' left did claw, Willie ;
He there the greatest slaughter made
That ever Donald saw, Willie.
Up and warn a' Willie,
Warn, warn a' ;
And Whittam s — t h's hreeks for fear<
And fast did rin awa, Willie.
For he ca'd U3 a Highland mob.
Anil soon he'd slay us a' Willie,
But we chas'd him back to Stilling Drig,
Dragoons and foot and a', Willie.
Up and warn a', Willie,
Warn, warn a' ;
At length we rallied on a hill,
And briskly up did draw, Willie.
But when Argyle did view our line,
And them in order saw, Willie,
He streight gaed to Dumblane again,
And back his left did draw, Wilhe
Up and warn a', Willie,
Warn, warn a' ;
Then we to Atichteraider march'd.
To wait a better W, Willie.
Now if ye spear wha wan the djv.
I've tell'd vou what I saw. W 'lit.
SONGS.
isq
We b»ith dill fipiht and haith did beat,
And bailli <iid lin awa, Willie.
Up and warn a', Willie,
Warn, warn a' ;
For seooiul-sighted Sandie said,
We'd do nae gude at a', Willie.
THE BLYTIISOME BRIDAL.
I FIND tlie Bli/tfisome Bridal in James Wat-
ion's Collection of Sc<>ts Poems, printed at
Edinburgh in 1706.
Tills song has hiitnou. and a felicity of ex-
pression worthy of Rimsay, with even mure
than his wonted broadness and sprij-htly lan-
guage. The Witty Catalogue of Names, with
their Historical Epithets, are done in the true
Lowland Scottish taste of an age ago, when
every householder was nicknamed either from
'onie prominent part of his character, pel son,
■)r lands and housen, which he rented. Thus —
*' Skupe-Jitted Rob." " Thrnwn-moud Rah
o' the nubs." " Roarin Jxch i' the Swair."
" Slaverin' Simyiiie o' Ti)ds/iati:" " Soiiple
Kate o' Ircnyray," &:c. &c. — BuilNS.
Fv let us all to the bridal.
For there will be lilting there ;
For Jockie'sto be married to Maggie,
The la>s wi' thegauden hair.
And there will be lang-kail and pottage.
And bannocks of barley-meal,
And there will be good sawt herring,
To relish a cog of good ale.
1 y let us till to the brin'al.
For there will be liltinp there.
For Joc/iit's til be inurry'd tn I\Taggie,
The lass with the yauden liair.
And there will be Sandie the sutor.
And ' Wdl' with the meikle mow ;
.\n(l there will be Tam the ' bluter,'
With Andrew the tinkler, I trow.
And there will be bow-legged Robbie,
With thunibless Katie's gnoilnian ;
And there will be blue-chieked Dowbie,
And Lawrie the laird of the land.
Fy let us all, §*c.
And there will be sow-libber Patle,
And plouckie-fac'd Wat i' the mill,
Ca|iper-iios'd Francie, and Gibbie,
That wons in the how of the hill ;
And there will be Ali^ter Sibbie,
Wha in with black Bes-^y did moo!.
With siieevling Lillie, anil Tibbie,
The lass that stands aft on the stool.
Fy let us all, ^c.
4nd Madsje that was buckled to Steenie,
And colt him [grey) bieeks to his arse,
Wha after was' haiigit for stealing.
Great mercy it happened nd wunw :
And there will be gleed Geordle Janncrs^
And Kirsh wi' the lilv-white leg,
Wha ' gade* to the south for niamiers,
And bang'd up her wame in JNIuns Meg.
Fy let us all, SfC.
And there will be Judan Maciawrie,
And blinkin daft Rarbra ' Macleg,*
Wi' flae-lugged, sharny-fac'd Lawrie,
And shangy-nioii'd haliicket Meg.
And there will be h,ip[ier-ars'd Nansy,
And fairy-fac'd Flowrie be name.
Muck JLulie, and fat-hipped Lizle,
The lass with the gauden waine
Fy let us all, &e.
And there will be girn-again Gibbie,
With his glakit wife Jennie Bell,
And Misleshiiiu'd Miingo Macapie,
The lad that was skip|)er hiinsel.
There lads and lasses in pearlings
Will feast in the heart of the ha',
Os sybows, and ryfarts, and carlings.
That are baith sodden and raw.
Fy let us all, §-e.
And there will be fadges and brachen.
With fouth of good gappoks of skate,
Pow-siidie, aiid drammock, and crowdie.
And callour nout-feet in a plate ;
And there will be partans and buckies,
Speldens and whytcns enew,
And singed sheep-heads, and a haggize.
And scadli|)s to sup till ye spew.
Fy let us all, 8fC.
And there will be lapper'd-milk kebbucks,
And sowens, and failes, and b«ps,
With swats, and well-scraped i)auiiel;es.
And brandy in stoops and in caps;
Anil there will be meal-kail and cai>tocks,
With skink to sup till ye rive ;
And losts to rost on a brander,
Of flouks that were taken alive.
Fy let us all, §t.
Scrapt haddocks, wilks. dilse, and tangles,
And a mill of good snishing to pile;
When weary with eating and drinking.
We'll rise up and dance till we die.
Then fy let us all to the brid.d.
For there will be Ultin;) there ;
Fur Jnckie^s to be tnarry^d tn Miiygy.
The lass with the gauden hair.
O CAN YE LABOUR LEA, YOUNG
MAN.
This eong has long been known among th»
inlubitants of Nithsilale and GaJIoway, where
it is a great favourite. The first Verse should
be resitored to ib; orijpnal state.
140 BURNS WORKS.
I FEED a lad at Roodsniass,
We're tall as the oak on the mount of the valCj
Wi' si\ler pennies three ;
As swift as the roe which the hound doth assail,
Wlien lie came home at l\Iartinmass,
As the full-moon in autumn our shields do ap
He c'ouhi nae labour lea.
pear.
0 i-aniia ye labour lea, young lad,
Minerva would dread to encounter our spear.
O eaniia ye lal)our lea ?
Such our love, §"c.
ludeed, quo' he, my hand's out —
An' «ip his graith packed he.
As a storm in the ocean when Boreas blows,
So are we cnrag'd when we rush on our foe* ;
This old way is the truest, for the t<;rms,
We sons of the mountains, tremendou-* as rocks
Jino'lwass is the hirino; fair, and Hallowmass
Dash the force of our foes with our thundering
the Jimt of the half year Burns.
strokes.
Such our love, §-c.
I FEED a man at Martinmas^,
Wi' arle-pennies three ;
Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride of old
But a' the faute I had to him,
France,
He coiild nae labour lea.
In their troops fondly boasted till we did ad-
O am ye labour lea, young ntiin,
vance ;
O am ye labour tea ?
But when our claymores they saw us produce,
Gae back the i/ate ye came again,
Their courage did fail, and they sued for a truce.
Ye'se never scorn me.
Such our love, Sfc.
0 cl.ippin's gude in Febarwar,
An' tissins sweet in May ;
But what signiSi'S a young man's ove
An't diniia last for ay.
In our realm may the fury of faction long cease,
Jlay our councils be wi>e, and our commerce
increase ;
And in Scotia's cold climate may each of us find,
That our friends still prove true, and our beau-
O can ye, S,-c.
O kissin is the key of luve,
ties prove kind.
An (-lappin is the lock.
Then we'll defend our liberty, our country
An' niakiu-of's the best thing
and our laws.
That e'er a young thing got.
And teach our late posterity to fight i*
O can ye, Sfc.
Freedom' s cause.
That they like our ancestors bold, !(c.
IN THE GARB OF OLD GAUL.
WOO'D AND i\I.\TtRIED AND A'
Tins tune was the composition of General
Rcid, an<l caUed by him Tlie Uiy/ilatid, nr i2<l
Wiio'd and married and a\
fiei/inK-iit s xMarch. The words are by Sir
Woo'd and married and a'.
Harry Ersklnt- Burns.
Was she not very weel off.
Was woo'd and married and ol I
In the garb of old Gaul, wi' the fire of old
Ilonie,
The bride came out o' tlie byre.
From the heath-covcr'd mountains of Scotia we
And 0 as she (lighted her cheeks,
come.
" Sirs, I'm to i;e married the night.
Where the Romans endeavour'd our country to
And lias nouthcr blanket nor sheets ;
gain,
IIa< noutlier blankets nor sheets,
But our ancestors fought, and they fought not
Nor scarce a coveilet too ;
in vain.
The bride that has a' to borrow.
Such our love of liberty, our country, and
Has e'en riffht meikie ailo."
our laws,
Woo'd and married, jr.
That like our ancestors of old, we stand
by Frci darn's cause ;
Out spake the bride's father.
We'll bravdi/ f'jht ike heroes hold, fur
As lie came in fiae the pleugh,
honour anil uji/iluuse,
" 0 had yere tongue, my (laughter.
And defy the French, witk all their art.
And yese get gear enoufjh ;
to utter our laws.
The Ktirk that stands i' the tether,
And our bra' basin'd yade.
No efTominatc customs our sinews unbrace,
Will carry ye hame yere cirn ;
No luxurious tallies enerv.ite our race,
What wad ye be at ye jade ?"
Our louii-Miuiiding pipe bears the tiue martial
ir<j(/6.' and niumed, {».
strain.
'»o do We the old Scdttish valour retain.
Outspake the bride's mitlier.
Such our love, S^c.
" What deil needs a' this pride ?
SONGS
141
) h.id nae a pl.ick !n my poiica
That ni/lit I was a liride ;
My gown was liiisy-woolsy,
And ne'er a s:irk ava,
Anil ve !iae ril)b()ns ami biisltlas
Bl.iir tnan ane or twa."
^^'ou'J (Old mnrried, |fc.
" What's the matter ?" quo' Willie,
" Tho' we be scant o' claiths,
We'll i-ieep the nearer thegither,
And we'll smoor a' the fleas ;
SimnuT is coming on,
Anil we'll get teats o' woo ;
And we'll get a lass o' our ain,
And she'll spin claiths anew."
Woo'd and married, §"C.
Outspike the bride's I)rither,
As he came in \vi' the kye,
" Puir Willie hud ne'er hae ta'en ye.
Had he kent ye as weel as I ;
For you're baitli proud and saucy,
And no for a puir man's wife,
Gin I canna get a better,
I'se never take ane i' my life."
Woo'd and married, Sfc,
Outspake the bride's sister,
As she eame in frae the byre,
" O gin I were but married.
It's a' that I desire ;
But we puir folk maun live single.
And do the best we can ;
I dinna care what I should want.
If I could but get a man."
Woo'd and married and a',
Wuo'd and married aiid a'.
Was she not very weel aff,
Was woo'd and married and a'.
THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.
A SUCCESSFUL imitation of an old song is
really attended with less difficulty than to con-
vince a blockhead that one of these yeii d''esprits
is a forgery. This fine ballad is even a more
palpable iniitation than Hardiknute, The
manners indeed are old, but the language is of
yesterday. Its author must very soon be dis-
covered.— Burns.
BT JANK ELLIOT.
I've heard a lilting
At the ewes milking.
Lasses a' lilting before the break o' day,
Bui uow I hear moaning
On ilka green loaning,
Since our brave forresters are a' wed ixrsj.
At buchts in the morniug
Vae blythe lads are scorning ;
The It^scs are lonelv, dowic and V7ae i
Nae d.ilfin, niic gTibl)iiig,
Rut sighing and sabhing.
Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away.
At e'en in the glon;ing
Nae swankies are roammg,
'Mang stacks with the lasses at bogle to play ;
For ilk ane sits diearie,
Lamenting her dearie,
The flow'rs o' the forest wh' are a* wed away.
In har'st at the shearing
Nae blythe lads are jeering.
The Bansters are lyart, and runklcd, and grey ;
At fairs nor at preaching,
Nae wooing, nae fleeching.
Since our bra foresters are a' wed away.
O dule for the order !
Sent our lids to the border !
The English f(ir anes, by guile wan the day :
The flow'rs of the f irest
Wha aye shone the foremost.
The prime of the land lie cauld in the clay
THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.
BY MRS. COCKBURN.
I've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling,
I've tasted her favours, and felt her decay ;
Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing,
But soon it is fled — it is fled fur away.
I've seen the forest adorned of the foremost,
With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and
gay:
FuU sweet was their blooming, their scent the
air perfuming,
But now they are wither'd, and a' wede awae
I've seen the morning, with gold the hills a-
durning.
And the red storm roaring, before the parting
day ;
I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in
the sunny beams.
Turn drumly and dark, as they rolled on their
way.
O fickle fortune.' why this cruel sporting?
Why thus perjilex us [loor sons of a day ?
Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot
cheer me.
Since the flowers of the forest are a' wedt
awae.
142
BURNS' WORKS.
TIBBIE DUNBAR.
yVifjr— " Johnny M'GiU."
This tune is slid to be tlie composition of
Jolin M'Glil, fidJler, in Girvan. He called it
after his own name Burns.
0, v/iLT thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ;
O, wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dun-
bar ;
Wilt tliou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car.
Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar ?
I careni thy diddie, his lands and his money,
I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly :
But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur.
And cmne iu thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dun-
bar !
THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE.
The first half stanza is old, the rest is Ram-
say's. The old words are : — Bjrns.
O THIS is no mine ain house.
My ain house, my ain house ;
This is no mine ain house,
I kon by the biggin o't.
There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks,
Are my diKir-cheeks, are my door-cheeks ;
There's br'.Mil and cheese are my door-cheeks ;
Aud [jan-cakes 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.
ni t:ik the curchie aff my head,
Aff my head, aflf my head ;
I'll tik the curchie atf my head,
And row't about the feetie o't.
The tune is an old Highland air, called S/ruan
truish iritli ,/ian.
THE GABERLUNZIE-MAN.
The Gaberlunzic-Man is supposed to ■lom-
jr.cmiirate an iiifrigue of James the Fifth. Rlr.
Callander of Craigforth, published some years
ago, an editiun of Christ's Kirk on the Green,
anil the (Sahcrli/nzie-Mun, with notes critical
iii.l historical. James the Fifth is said to have
been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady Parish, and
that it was suspected by his coteniporaries, tliat
in his fre(iiiciit excursions to that part of the
country ln' had other purposes in view besides
golfing and archery. Three favourite Iwliea
Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant, v^one of them
resided at Gosford, and the others in the neigh-
bourhood), were occasionally visited by their
royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise to
the following satirical advice to his Majesty,
from Sir David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord
Lyon.
Sow not your seed on Sandi/lands,
Spend not your strength in Weir,
And ride not on an Elephant,
For spoiling o' your gear. — BuRXS.
Thi! pawky auld carle came o'er the lee,
Wi' many good e'ens and days to me.
Saying, Goorlwife, for your couitesie,
Will ye 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 cudgily ranted and sang,
O wow ! quo' he, were I as free.
As first when I saw this country,
How blvth and merry wad I be !
And I wad never think lang.
He grew canty, and she grew fain ;
But little did her auld minny ken
What thir slee twa togither were say'n,
When wooing they were sae thrang.
And O ! quo' he, ann ye were as black
As e'er the crown of my dady's hat,
'Tis I wad lay thee by my back.
And awa' wi' me thou shou'd gang.
And O ! quo' she, anu I were as white.
As e'er the snaw lay on the dike,
I'd dead nie braw, and lady like,
And awa' with thee I'd gang.
Between the twa was made a plot ;
They raise awee before the cock,
And wilily they shot the lock.
And fust to the bent are they gane.
Up the morn the auld wife raise.
And at her leisure put on her claise ;
Syne to tlie serv.mt's bed she gaes,
To speer fur the silly poor man.
She gaed to the bed where the beggar lay,
The strae was cauld, he was away,
She clapt her hand, cry'd Waladay,
For some of our gear will i)e gane.
Some ran to coffers, and some to kists.
But nought was stown that cou'd be mist,
She d.iiic'd her lane, cry'd. Praise be blest,
I have lodg'd a leal poor man.
Since nathing's awa', as we can learn,
The kiru's to kirn, and milk to cAirx,
Gae butt the hou^, lass, aud w/ken my baim
And bid her come quickly ben.
SOXGS.
US
rhe sn-rvaut ^jml'.' where the d.ni^hter lay,
Tlie -h(.fi.< wi!t ciU.M, she was away,
Ami ta<t to !icr f;;i(ii!\y;fe <j;,ii\ say,
Slio's alFwitli the GaLt'rluiaie-.uan.
O fy par rid..', ami fy sjir rin;
And h:i«ite ye liii;! thfst- triytors acain ;
For she's be burnt, and he's be slam,
The wearifu' Oaberlunzie-man.
Rome ra(h' n-io' hi)r>e, some ran a fit,
Tlie wife was wiuui, and out o' her wit :
Slie cnu'd n i sjan;:;, nor yet eoii'd slie «lt,
ISut ay slie cuis'd and she ban'd.
Mean time far hind out o'er the lea,
Fu' snuff in a i^ien, where iiane cou'd see.
The twa, with kindly sport and glee,
Cut frae a new cheese a whang :
The |)rivin;j was good, it pleas'd them baith,
To h>'e her for ay, he gae her his aith ;
Quo' sl:e, to leave thee I will be laith,
My winsome Gaberlunzie-man.
O kend my niinny I were wi' you,
llisanlly wad she crook her mou,
Sic a poor man she'd never trow.
After the Galierlunzie-man,
Jly dear, quo' he, ye're yet o'er young,
And ha' nae Icar'd the beggar's tongue,
To follow me frae town to town.
And carry the Gaberluuzie on.
Wi' cauk and keel I'll win your bread,
And ppindlei and whorles for thetn wha need,
Wliilk is a gentle trade indeed.
To carry the Gaherlunzie — O.
I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee,
And draw a black clout o'er my eye,
A cripple or blind they will ca' rae.
While we shall be merry and sing.
jonnie coup.
This satiiical song was composed to comme-
morate General Cope's defeat at Preston-Pans,
in l7io, when he marched against the clans.
The air was the tune of an old song, of which
I have heard some verses, but now only remem-
ber the title, which was,
W'ill ye go to the coals in the morning.
BUKNS.
Coup sent a letter frae Dunbar,
Chsrlie, meet me an ye dare,
A.'id I'll learn you the art of war,
tf you'll meet wi' me in the morning.
Ilti/ Jonnie Coup, are ye waking yet 9
Or are your diuins a-heatlng yet?
If ye were u-uk'ing T won'd wait
To gang to the coals i' the morning.
When Charlie lonk'd the letter upon.
He drew his sword the scalibird from,
Come follow roe, my merry merry men.
And we'll meet wi" Coup i' the morning,
Jley Jonnie Coup, Sfc.
Now, Jonnie, be as good as vour word.
Come let us try both fire and sword.
And dinna rin awa' like a frighted bird.
That's chas'd frae it's nest in the morning
Ucy Jonnie Coup, S^c,
When Jonnie Coup he heard of this.
Me thought it waclna be amiss
To hae a horse in readiness.
To die awa' i' the morning.
Hey Jonnie Coup, Arc
Fy now Jonnie get up and rin,
The Highland bagpipes makes a din.
It's best to sleep in a hale skin.
For 'twill be a bluddie morning.
Jley Jonnie Coup, §*e.
X^Hien Jonnie Coup to Berwick came.
They spear'd at him, where's a' your men.
Tlie deil confounil me gin I ken.
Fur I left them a' i' the mornir.g.
Hey Jonnie Coup, §•«.
Now, Jonnie, trouth ye was na blate,
To come wi' the news o' your ain defeat.
And leave your men in sic a strait,
So early in the morning.
Iley Jon/lie Coup, ^c.
Ah ! faith, co' Jonnie, I got a fleg.
With their claymores and philabegs.
If I face them again, deil break my icg^,
So I wish you a good mornituj.
Hey Jonnie Ccup, ifc.
A WAUKRIFE MINNIE.
I PICKED up this old song and tune from a
country girl in Nithsdale. — I never met w::th it
elsewhere in Scotland. — Burns.
Wha RE are you gaun, my boncie lasa,
Wliere are you gaun, my hiauie,
She answer'd me right saucilie.
An errand fur my niiniiie.
O whare live ye, my bonnie !«»,
O whare live ye, my liinnie.
By yen burn-side, gin ye maun kea.
In a wee house wi' uiy niintic.
But I foor up the glen at eea,
To see my bonnie lassie ;
And lang before the gr.iy mom ciua,
She was na bnuf sae sauci^
iU
BURNS' WORKS.
0 weary fa' tlie waukrife cock,
And the foumart liy liis crawin !
Tie wauken'd the aiild wife frae her sleep,
A wee blink or the ilawin.
Aq angry wife I wat she raise,
And o'er the bed she brought her ■
And «'i' a mickle hazia rung
She wade her a weel pay'd dochter
O fare thee weel, my bonnie lass !
O fare thee weel, my hinnie !
Thou art a gay and a himnie lass,
But thou hast a waukrife minnie.*
TULLOCHGORUM.
This, first of songs, i< the master-piece of
my old trienil Skinner. He was passing the day
at the town of El'on, I think it was, in a friend's
house whose name was JMontgomery Mrs.
Montgomery observing, en passant, 'that the
beautiful reel of Tulloch'ionim wanted words,
she begged them of I\Ir. Skinner, who gratified
her wishes, and the wishes of eveiy lover of
Scotlish song, in this most e.xce^lent ballad.
These particulars I hid from the author's
son. Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen Burns.
Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cry'd,
And lay your disputes all aside.
What signifies'! for folks to chide
For what was done before them :
Let Whig and Toiy all agiee,
Wing and Tory, Whig and Tory,
AA hig and Tory all agree.
To diop their Whig-raig-raorum.
Let Whig and Tory all agree
To spend the night wi' mirth and glee,
And cheerfid slug alang wi' me
The Reel e' Tullochgorum.
O, Tulluchgorum's my delight,
It gars us a' in ane unite.
And ony sumph that keeps up spite, •
In conscience I abhor him ;
For biythe and cheerie we'll be a',
Blythe and cheerie, biythe and cheerie,
Biythe and cheerie we'll be a',
And make a happy quorum,
For Iilyihe and cheerie we 11 be a'.
As lang as we hae breath to draw.
And dance till we be like to fa"
The Reel o' Tullochgorum.
What needs t'fere be sae great a fraise,
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays,
I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys
For half a hunder score o' thenv
They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Dowf and dowie, iiuwf and dowie^
Doivf 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,
Compar'd wi' Tullochgorum.
Let warldly worms their minds oppreei
Wi' fears o* want and double cess.
And sullen sots themsells distress
Wi' keeping up decorum :
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit.
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Sour and sulky shall we sit
Like old phlloso|)hnrum !
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit.
Nor ever try to shake a fit
To the Reel o' Tullochgorum '
May choicest blessings ay attend
Each honest, open-hearted friend,
And calm and quiet be his end.
And a' that's good watch o'ei hitn|
May peace and plenty be his lot.
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty.
Peace and plenty be his lot.
And dainties a great store o' thcai ;
May peace and pleuty be his lot,
Unstain'd by any vicious spot.
And may he never want a groat.
That's fond o' Tullochgorum'
Rut for the sullen frumpish fool,
That loves to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soiJ,
And discontent devour him ;
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
Dool and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say, wae's me for him !
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Wi' a' the ills that come frae France,
Wha e'er he be that winna dance
The Reel o' Tullochgorum.
JOHN O' BADENYON.
■EU.
•Ii^on V ' ' I r-' .V""' " "-""= »"|>i.'rn)r lo some o
Jiose recovered by Burns, which ii worthy of notit^'
" O tlinugli thy h^ir was gowilcn weft
An thyjips o" <Ira,ii)oiR (nmiie.
Thou hast gotten tl e clog ili.it winna clmc
tor a you're waukrife mimiie."
This excellent song is also the compositHW
of my worth.y friend, old Skinner, at LiasharU
BuilNS.
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 ;
•^
~i
SONGS. 145
In btst attire I sfept iiliioad.
What next to do I musM a whilCi
Witli 6i)irit> bi'i-k and j;ay,
Still hoping to suicerd,
AiiH hert) and there and cveiy wlicre
I jiitch'd on hook!) for company.
Was like a nuiin in M.iy ;
And gravely try'd to re.id :
No i-are I h.id nor fear ot want,
I bought and borrow'd every whei >.
But lanihled up and down,
Arid stiiily'd night and <l.iy,
And for a liiaii 1 might liave past
Nor miss'd what deau or doctor wrote
In country or in town ;
That happen'd in my way :
I still was ple.isM where'er I went,
Philosophy I now e^teeiii'd
And when I was alone,
The ornament of youth,
T tnn'd my jiipe and pleas'd myself
And carefully through many a page
Wi' John o' Badenyou.
I hunted after truth.
A thousand various scheines I try'd,
Now in the days of youthful prime
And yet was ])leas'd with none,
A mistress I iiuist tiiid,
I threw tlieiii by, anil tun'd my pipe
For liive, I heard, s;ave one an air,
To John o' Badenyon.
And ev'n improved the mind :
On Fhillis fair above the rest
And now ye youngsters every where.
Kind fortune tixt my eyes.
That wish to make a show,
Her piertiui,' beauty strucl.- my heart.
Take heed in time, nor funrlly hope
And she became my clioioe ;
For happiness bclaw ;
To Cupid now with hearty prayer
What you may fancy jileasure here,
1 (ifitr'd many a vow ;
Is but an empty name,
And danc'd and sung, and sigh'd, and swore.
And yir/s, and J'riendx, and bonks, and 80,
As other lovers do ;
You'll find them all the same ;
Hut, when at last I breath'd my flame,
Then be advised and warning take
I found her cold as stone ;
Fiom such a man as me ;
I left the girl, and tnn'd my pipe
I'm neither Pope uor Caidinal,
To John o' Badenyon.
Nor one of high degree ;
You'll meet displeasure every where .
)Mien love had thus my heart beguil'd
Then do as I have done, '
With foolish hopes and vain ;
E'en tune your pipe and please yourselves
To frietid^/iip's port I steer'd my course,
With John o' Badeuyon.
And laugli'd at lovers' pain ;
A friend 1 got by lucky chance,
'Twas somethmg like divine,
An honest friend's a. precious gift,
And such a gift was mine ;
THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN.
And DOW whatever might betide,
Here is a verse of this lively old song tha
A happy man was I,
used to be sung after these printed ones- —
In any strait 1 knew to whom
BUUNS.
1 freely might apply ;
A strait soon came : my friend I try'd ;
0, WHA has lien wi' our Lord yestreen /
He heard, and spnrn'd my moan ;
O, wha has lien wi' our Lord yestreen ?
1 hy'd me home, and tuu'u my pipe
In his soft down bed, O, twa fowk were the sted,
To John o' Badenyon.
Au' whare lay the chamber maid, lassie, ye*
treen ?
Methought I should be wiser next,
And would d puttiot turn,
Began to doat en Johnnv Wilkes,
And cry up Parson llorne.*
COCKPEN.
Their manly spirit I adniir'd.
0, WHEN she came ben she bobbed fu* law.
And prais'd their uoble zeal,
Who had with flaming tongue and pen
JIaiiitaiu'd the public weal;
But e'er a month or two had past,
0, when she came ben she bobbed fu' law.
And when she came ijen she kiss'd Cockpen,
And syne deny'd she did it at a'.
I found myself betray'd,
'Twas stIfinA party after all,
And was na ('ockpcn right saurie with n%
And was na Ci'ckpen right siueie with a',
For a' the stir they made ;
At last I saw thv factious knaves
Insult the very throne.
in leaving the daughter of a Lord,
And kissiu a collier lassie, an' a' .'
I curs'd them a', and tun'd my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.
O never look down my lassie, at a ,
O never look down my la-*sie, at a*,
Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure co'aipleta*
• This son([ was comjiosnl when Wilkes, Hone,
he wf'o nrinliiiig a noiaf about liberty.
L 1
At the finest dame in castle or La*.
N
146
Tho' thou }i?s nae silk and ho'Iand sae sma',
Thi)' tliou lias nae silk and Holland sae sina',
Tliy coat and thy sark are thy ain handy-wack,
And Lady Jean was never sue braw !
BURMS' WORKS.
CA' THE EWES TO THE KNOWES..
The following set of this song is now %3ry
common. It is ascribed to the authoress of the
B<jvel of " Marriage .'
THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN.
T^ne—" The Laird of Cockpen."
The Laird o' Cockpcn, Le is proud an' he's
g-i'eat ;
His mind is ta'en up wi' the things of the state :
He wanted a wife his braw house to keep ;
But favour wi' wooin' was fashions to seek.
Down liy the dyke-side a lady did dwell ;
At his table head he thought she'd look well ;
W'Leish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee,
A. pennylests la^s wi' a lang pedigree.
His wig was weel pouther'd, as guid as when
new,
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue ;
Hl' put on a ring, — a sword, — and cock'd hat, —
And wha' could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?
He took the grey mare and rade cannalie ;
And rapp'd at the yett o* Claverse-ha' Lee :
Gie tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben :
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cuckpen.
Jlistress Jean she was makiu' the elder-flower
wine :
" And what brings the Laird at sic a like time ?"
She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown.
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa'
down.
A-nd when she cam* ben, he booed fu' low ;
And what was his errand he soni; let her know ;
Amazed was the Laird, when the iadv s.iid Na',
And wi' a laigh curtsie she tarued awa".
Dunihfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gie ;
He nuiunted his mare, and rade caiinilie :
And aften he thought, as he gaed tliro' the glen.
She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cotkpen.
And now that the Laird his exit hid mule,
Mistie>s Jean she reflected on what ^lic ImiI said :
Oh fur ane I'll get better, it's waur lH uet ten,
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cotkpen.
Neist time that the Laird and the larly were seen.
They were gaun arm in arm to the kirk ou the
green ;
Now she sirs in the Ha' like a weeltappit hen ;
I3ut as yet there's nae thickens appeared at
Cockpen.
This beautiful song is in the true old Scotch
taste, yet I do not know that either air or wordi
were in print before BuiiNS.
Ca' the ewes to the knnwes,
Ca' them ichare the heather grows
Ca them whore the bur/tie ruwet.
Ml) honnie dearie.
As I gaed down the water-side.
There I met my shejdierd lad,
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,
An' he ca'd me his dearie.
Ca the ewes, Sfc.
Will ye gang down the water-side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glidc^
Beneath the hazels spreading wide,
The moon it shines fu' clearly.
Ca' the ewes, Sfc.
I was bred up at nae sic school,
My shepherd lad, to play the foo.
And a' the day to sit in dool,
And Haebody to see me.
Ca' the ewes, Sfc.
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 deiiie.
Ca' the ewes, §"c.
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.
Ca' the ewes, ipc.
While waters wimple to the sea ;
While day blinks in the lift sae hie ;
'Till clay-cauld death sail bliu my e'e>
Ye sail be my dearie."
Ca' the ewes, Sfc.
LADIE MARY ANN.
The starting verse should be restoitd .—
I'ua.Ns.
" Lady Mary Ann gaed out o' her bower,
An' she found a bnnnie rose new i' the t'owtr ;
.\8 she kiss'd its ruddy Iip-< dra|>ping wi' dew,
Quo' she, ye're uae sae sweet as my Charlie'*
niou."
• Mr'!. Hums inforn.cd l!cc Kditor that the laitver*!
of t!iis song was wriUcr. by Uurns.
SONGS.
147
LADIE MARY ANN.
0 Laijt Marv Ann looks o'er the castle \va*,
Slie saw three »>'>'>Mie hoys playin;^ at the ha".
The youngest no was the flower am.ing them a* ;
My Loiitiie laddie s younj, but ie's gruwin'
yet.
" O father, O f.ithrr, an' yt tliink it fit.
We'll send hiin a vear to the college yet ;
We'll sew a ereen ribbon round about his hat,
And that will let thein ken he's to marry yet."
Lady JIary Ann was a flower in the dew,
Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue,
And the langcr it blossomed, the sweeter it sjrew ;
For the lily in tht bud will be bonnier yet.
i'ounj Charlie Coehian was the sprout of an
aik,
Bonnie, and blooniiusj, and straiijht was its make,
The sun took delight to shine for its sake.
And it will be the brag o' the forest yet.
The simrner is gane, when the leaves they were
green ;
And the days are awa that we hae seen ;
But far belter days, I trust, will conie again,
For mv bonnie laddie's young, but he's jrow-
. ■ , • ^ o
in yet.
KILLYCRANKY.
"The battle of Killycranky was the last stand
marte by the Clans for James, after his abdica-
ticn. Here Dundee fell in the moment of vic-
tory, and with him fell the hopes of the party.
— General Mackav, when he found the Hig^h-
landers (.id not pursue his flying army, said,
" Dundee must be killed, or he never would
have overlooked this advantage." — A great stone
marks the spot where Dundee fell Burns.
Clavers and his highland-men.
Came down upo' the raw, man.
Who being stout, gave mony a clout,
The lads began to claw, then.
V ith sword and terge into the r hand,
Wi which they were nae slaw, man,
Wi' mony a fearful heavy sigh,
The lads began to claw, then.
O'er bush, o'er bank, o'er ditch, o'er stank,
She flaiig amang them a', man ;
The butter-box got mony knocks,
Their riggings paid lor a' then ;
They got their paiks, wi' sudden straiks,
Which to their grief they saw, man;
1 clinkum dankum o'er their crowns,
The lads began to fa' then.
Hur skipt about, hur leapt about,
And flang amang th»ni a*, man ;
W
The English blades got broken heads.
Their crowns were cleav'd in twa theila
The durk and door made their last hour.
And |irov'd their final fa, man ;
They thought the devil had betn there.
That play'd them sic a paw then.
The solemn league and covenant
Came whigging u|) the hills, man.
Thought highland trews durst not refuse
For to subscribe their bills then :
In Willie's name* they thought nae an&
Durst stop their course at a', man ;
But hur nane sell, wi' mony a knock,
Cry'd, Furich-whiggs, awa', man.
Sir Evan Du, and his men true.
Came linking up the brink, man ;
The Hdgan Duti-h they feared such.
They bre<l a horrid stink, then.
The true Maclean, and his fierce men.
Came in aming them a', man ;
Nane durst withstand his heavy hand,
All fled and ran awa' then.
Oh' on a ri, oh' on a rl,
Why should the lose king Shames, man ?
Oh' rig in di, oh' ri{/ in di,
She shall break a" her banes then ;
Whh fi(richini>:h, an* stay a while,
And speak a word or twa, man.
She's gi' a straike, out o'er the neck,
Before ye win awa' then.
O fy for shame, ye're three for ane,
Hur nane-seil's won the day, man ;
King Shame's red-coats should Oa liu:»g jr>
Because they ran awa' then :
Had bent their brows, like hij^hl'.nf' tr-.v^
And made as lang a stay, m'in,
TheyM sav'd their king, tba*. s'crd '''^-f,.
Aud Willie'd ' run' awa' t'^eiL.
THE EWIEW? fir; CPOOKiTKO**
Another excel'.er^/'jpj rf old Sliinner'** -•
Burns.
Were I but ib'e lo n-'aeirsc
iMy Ewie's pvai-^; \d praper verse,
I'd sound .t .0 cL ?j loud and tierce
As e- er f p.r's diMne could blaw ;
Tte Y.-v'e tv'' *'.v. c-.ookit l;»rn,
W'l? hai' k ;pt her might hae sworn
Sic f F /f: '/as never born,
'Ip.e.bout nor far awa',
Si« \ L"c Was never born,
H^rjabout nor I'ar awa'
I i.t /IT needed tar nor keil
To I mik her upo* hip or heel,
• I'liuceof Orar.pa.
L__
I
148 BURNS'
WORKS.
Her crook it horn did as weel
The loss o' her wt cou d hae bom,
To ken her by iino' them a' ;
Had fair strae-death ta'un bei avf«*.
She never threaten'd scab nor rot,
The loss o' her we cou'd hae born, &c.
But keepit ay her air» jog trot,
Bdith to the fauld and to the coat.
But thus, poor thing, to lose her life,
Was never siveir to lead nor caw,
Aneath a lileeily villain's knife,
Baith to the fauld and to the coat, &c.
I'm really fley't that our guidwife
Will never win aboon't ava :
Cauld nor hunger never dang her,
O ! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn,
Wind nor we* could never wrung her.
Call your muses up and mourn.
Anes she lay au ouk and lunger.
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw .
Stown frae's, and fellt and a' !
Whan ither Ewies lap the dyke,
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 8ec.
And eat the kail for a' the tyke,
My Ewie never ])lay'd the like.
But tyc'd about the barn wa' ;
My Ewie never play'd the like, &c.
ANDRO Wr HIS CUTTIE GUN.
A better or a thriftier beast,
Nae honest man could weel hae wist.
This blythsome song, so full of Scottish hu-
mour and convivial merriment, is an intimHie
For silly thing she never mist.
favourite at Bridal Trystes, and House-heat-
To hae ilk year a lamb or twa' ;
ir.gs. It contains a spirited picture of a country
The first she had I gae to Jock,
ale-house touched oft with all the lightsome gaiety
To be to him a kind o' stock.
so peculiar to the rural muse of Caledonia, when
And now the laddie has a flock
at a fair.
O' inair nor thirty head ava' ;
And now the laddie has a flock, &c.
Instead ef the line.
I lookit aye at even' for her.
" Girdle cakes weel toasted brown,"
Lest niischanter shou'd come o'er her,
I have heard it sung.
Or the fowniart might devour her.
O'
Gin the beastie bade awa ;
" Knuckled cakes weel brandert brown."
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Well deserv'd baith girse and corn,
These cakes are kneaded oat with the knuckles.
Sic a Ewe was never born.
and toasted over the red embers of wood on a
Here-about nor far awa.
gridiron. They are remarkably fine, and have
Sic a Ewe was never born, &c.
a delicate relish when eaten warm with ale.
On winter market nights the landlady heats
Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping,
them, and drops them into the quaigh to warm
(Wha can speak it without weeping ?)
the ale :
A villain can) when I was sleeping.
Sta' my Ewie, honi and a' ;
" Weel does the cannie Kimmer ken
I sought lier sair upo' the morn,
To gar the swats gae glibber down."
And down aneath a bnss o' tliorn
BURNA
1 got my Ewie's crookit horn.
But my Ewie was awa'.
I got my Ewie's crookit hoin, 2tc.
BLYTH WAS SUB
0 ! gin I had the Iout that did it.
Sworn 1 have as well as said it,
Tho' a' the waild should foibid it,
I wad gie his neck a thra' ;
1 never met wi' sic a turn,
As this sin ever I was born.
My Ewie wi' the cmokit horn.
Silly Ewie stown awa".
Blyth, blyth, blyth was she,
BIyth was she butt and ben ;
And weel she loo'd a Hawick gill,
And leugh to see a tappit hen.
She took me in, and set me down.
And heglit to keep me lawing-free;
But, cunning calling that she was,
She gart me birle my bawbie.
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, kr..
We loo'd the liquor well enough ;
But waes my heart my cash was done
O ! had she died o' crook or cauld.
Before that I had quench'd my drowth.
As Ewies do when they grow auld.
And hiith I was to pawn my shoon.
It wad nae been, by niony fauld.
When we had three times tooni'd our stoops
Sae sare a heart to nane o's a' i
And the niest chappin new begun,
For a' the claith that we hae worn.
Wha started in to heize our hope.
Frae Ler updher's sae aften shorn,
But ^ndro' wi' bis cutty gua.
SONGS.
149
llie carlinfj hrotifjht lier kebbuck ben,
With girdle-cakes wtrl-lnasti'd brown,
Will docs ti.c camiy kiimntT ki-n,
Tlu-y gar the swats gae jjlibber down.
Wi' ca'd the bicker aft about ;
Tdl dawiiina; we ne'er jee'd our bun,
And ay the cleanest diiidiiT out
Was Andro' wi' his cutty gun.
He did like ony mavis sing,
And as 1 in his oxter sat,
He ca'd nie ay his bonny thing.
And niony a sappy kiss I gat :
I hae been east, I hac been west,
I hae been far ayont the sun ;
But the blythest lad that e'er I saw
Wds Andro wi* bis cutty gun !
HUGHIE GRAHAM.
There are several edition? of this ballad. —
This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in
Ayrshire, where, when I was a hoy, it was a
popular song. — It originally, had a siinpls old
tune, which 1 have forgotten. — BuiiNS.
Our lords are to the mountains gane,
A hunting o' the fallow deer.
And they have grijiet Hughie Graham
For stealing o' the bishop's mare.
.\nd t'hey have tied him hand and foot,
And led him up, thro' Stirling town;
The lads and lasses met him tlieie,
Cried, llughie Graham thou'rt a loun,
0 Inwse my right hand free, he says.
And put my biaiil sword in the same ;
He's no in Stirling town this day.
Dare tell the tale to Hu^hie Graham.
Up then bespake the brave Wliitefoord,
As he sit by the bishop's knee,
Five hundred white stots I'd gie you
If ye'll let llughie Graham fiee.
0 baud your tongue, the bishop says,
And wi' your pleiding let me be;
For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat,
Hughie Graham this day shall die.
Up then bespake the fair Whittfot)rd,
As she sat by the bishop's knee ;
Five hundred white jieiice I'll gie you,
If ye'll gie llu^hie Gialiaui to me.
0 h«ud your tongue now lady fair.
And wi' your pleading let it be;
Altho' ten Giah.iniM were in Ins coat,
ltd for my honoi he maun die.
They've ta'en him to the gallows kuuwei
He lo<>ked to the gallows tree.
Yet never colour left his cheek.
Nor ever did he blink his ee.
At length he looked round about,
To see whatever he could spy :
And there he saw his auld lather.
And he was weeping bitterly.
O baud your tongue, my fither dear,
And wi' your weepiug let it he ;
Thy wee()ing's sairer on my heart,
'Than a* that they can do to me.
And ye may gie my brriher John,
My sword that's bent in the middle cletfi
And let him come at twelve o'clock.
And see me pay the bishop's mare.
And ye may gie my brother James
Wy 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 niest time ve gang o'er the moor.
Tell her she staw tne i.ishop's mare.
Tell her she was the bishop's whore.
And ye may tell my kith and kin,
I never did disgiHce their blood ;
And when they meet the bishop's cloak,
To mak it shorter by the hood.
LORD RONALD, JIY SON.
This air, a very fivourlte one in Ayrshiie,
is evidently the original of Lochaber. In this
manner most of our finest more modern airs have
had their origin. Some early minstrel, or mu-
sical shepheril, composed the simple artless ori-
ginal air, which being pi'.-kud up by the more
learned nmsician, took the inijiroved for tins
bears. — BuiiNs.
The name is commonly sounded Ronald, d«
Randal.
Where have ye been hunting.
Lord Randal, my son ?
Where have ye been hunting.
My hancNonie young man ?
In yon wild wood. Oh mother,
So make my bed soon :
For I'm wae, and I'm weary,
And fain would lie down.
Where gat ye your dinner,
Lord Randal, my son ?
Where gat ye your 'iinner.
My handsome youn;; man ?
150
BURNS' WORKS.
O, 1 rfinci] with my true love,
So nuke my l)t-'il soon :
Fur I'm wae, and I'm weary,
Aud fain would lie down.
O, what was your dinner,
Lord Randal, my son ?
O, wh it was your dinner,
My liandhouie yo:ini; man ?
Eels boiled in broo, niothur ;
So make my bed soon :
For I'ai wae, and I'm weary.
And fain would lie down.
O, where did she find them,
Lord Randal, my son ?
O, where did she catih them,
!\Iy handsome young man?
'Neath the bush of i)rown lirekao,
So make my bed soon :
For I'm wae, and I'm weary
And fain would lie duu n.
Now, where are your bloodhounds.
Lord Randal, my son ?
What caure of your bloodhounds,
IMy handsome young man ?
They swelled and died, mother,
And sae maun I soon :
O, I am wae, and I'm weary.
And fain would lie down.
I fear you are poisoned.
Lord RaJidaJ, my son !
I fear you are ])oisoned,
My hiindsome young man !
0 yes I am poisoned, —
So make my bed soon :
1 am sick, sick at hesrt.
And 1 now must lie down.
LOGAN BRAES.
There were two old songs to this tune ; one
»f them contained some striking lines, the other
entered into the sweets of wooing rather too
freely for modern poetry. — It began,
" Ae simmer night on Logan braes,
I helped a bonnie lassie on wi' her claes,
First wi' her stockiiis, an' syne wi' her shoon.
But she g'led me the glaiks when a' was done."
The other seems older, but it is not so charac-
teristic of Scottish courtship.
" Logan Water's wide and deep.
An' laith am I to weet my teet ;
But gif ye II cons.'nl to gang wi* me,
I'll bire a liorbe to cany thee."
BuuNS.
ANOTHER SET.
LOGAN WATER,
BY JOHN MAYNE.
By Loiran's streams that rin sae deep,
Fu* aft', wi' glee, I've herded sheep,
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes,
Wi' my dear lad, on Logan Braes :
But, wae's my heart, thae days are gane,
And, fu* o' grief, I herd my lane ;
Whi le my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far , far frae me and Logan Braes 1
Nae mair at Logan Kirk will he,
Atween the j.reachings, meet wi' me—
Meet wi* me, or, when it's mirk.
Convoy me hanie frae Logan Kirk !
I Weil may sing, tliae days are gine—
Frae Kiik and Fair I come my lane.
While my dear lad niaun faco his f^es.
Far, far frae me and Logan Braes !
O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE
nE.\THER.
This song is the composition of a Jean Ghver,
a girl who was not only a w — e, but also a tliief ;
SJid in one or other character has visited most
of the Correction Houses in the West. — She
was born, I believe, in Kilmarnock : — 1 took
the song down from her singing as she wa*
strolling through the country, with a. slight of-
hand blackguard. — Burns.
Comin' thro' the Craigs o' Kyle,
Ainang the bonnie blooming heather,
There I met a bonnie lassie,
Keejiing a' her yovves thegither.
O'er the mi>ur aniuny l/ie Jieiilher,
O'lr the moor aiminy the /leather,
There I met a bonnie lassie.
Keeping a' her i/uwes thegitlier.
Says I, my dearie, where is thy hame,
In moor or dale, pray tell me whether?
She says, I tent the Heecy flocks
That feed amang the blooming heather,
O'tr the mvor, $«.
We laid us down upon a bank,
Sae warm and sunny was the weather,
She left her Hoiks at large to rove
Atnang the buuuie blooming heather.
O'er the ntoor, S^
While thus we lay she sang a sang.
Till echo rang a mile and firther.
And av the biinlen o' the sing
Was — o'er the moor aiiuuu the heather.
O'l.r the mour, i"c.
SONGS.
15]
F\.i charniM my lieart, nnfl aye •in;') ae,
I could na tliiiik on any itb<T :
l>y st-a and «kv she shall lie mine !
The bonnitf la^s um.itis:; tlic lioatlicr.
O'er lite moor, S^e,
BONNIE DUNDEE.
0 wuARE p;at ye tliat hauvcr-mcal liannouk,
O silly liliiid hddie. O diiini yt" sl'c !
1 got it fiao a soiIjjlt laddie,
Between Saint Johnstone and honnie Dundee.
O gin I saw the laddie that gae ine't !
Aft has he doudl'd me on his knee:
May heav'n protect my honnie Scotch laddie,
And sen' liini safe hame to his babie and me !
May blessins light on thy sweet, we lljipie !
May blessins liglit on thy b'jnnie ee-bree!
Thou smiles sae like my sodger laddie,
Thou's dearer, dearer ay to me !
But I'll bis^ a bow'r on yon honnie banks,
M'hare Tiy riiis wimplan by sae clear ;
An' ill deed thee in the tartan fine.
An' luak thee a man like diy daddie dear !
OLD VERSE.
\e're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood,
Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree,
Yp slip trae me like a knotless thread,
An' ye'U crack your credit wi' iiiae than nie.
DONOCIIT-IIEAD.
Tune—" Cordon Castle."
Kfen blaws the wind o'er Dcmocht-Iiead,*
The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale,
The Gabeilunzie tirls my sneek,
Anrl shivering tells his waef'u' tale.
" CauJd is the night, O let me in,
" And dinna let your minstrel la',
" And dinna let his windin-sheet
" Be naething but a wreath o' snaw !
" Full ninety winters hie I seen,
" And pip'd wheje goi-cocks whirring flew,
' And niony a day je've d.inc'd, 1 wmn,
" To lilts which tV.ie my drone 1 blew."
My Eppie wak'<l, and soun she cry'd,
" Get up, Guidman, and let him in ;
" For weel ye ken the winter night
" M'as short when he began nis din."
\li Eppie's voice. O wow it's sweet
E'en iho' she bans and siaulds awee ;
But when it's tiin'd to sorrow's tale,
O haith, it's doub y de.ir to me !
• A mountain in the North.
Coire in, an tl Carl ! I'll stter my fii*,
I'll mak it bkez.e a bonnie rt.ime ;
Yoor blude is thin, ye've tint the gate,
Ye should na stray sae far frae hame.
" Nie 1 ame have I," the minstrel said,
'' Sad jiarty strife o'erturn'd my ha' ;
" And, weeping at the eve o' life,
*' 1 wander thro* a wreath o' Biiaw.*
THE BANKS OF THE TWEED.
This song is one of the many attempts fiat
English composers have made to imitate tli?
Scottish manner, and which I shall, in these
strictuies. beg leave to distini,'iiish by the appel-
lation of Anglo-Scottish proikictions. The mu-
sic is jiretty good, but the verses we just ubuve
contempt. — Buuss.
BARNETT.
I LEFT the sweet banks of tlie deep flowing
'I' weed,
And my own little cot by the wild wood,
When Fanny was spoiling tluough valley and
mead.
In the bi-autifnl morning of childhood
And oftimes alone, by the wave-beaten shore,
When the billows of twilight were flov.'ing,
I thou,i;ht, as 1 mus'd on the days ib.it wereoer.
How the rose on her cheek would be blowing
I came to the banks of the deep flowins; Tweed,
And mine own little cot by the wild \vo<m1.
When o'er me ten numiners had gathei'd their
speed,
And Fanny had p.i.ss'd from her chililliood.
I found her as fair as my fancy could dream.
Not a bud of her loveliness blighted.
And I wish'd I had ne'er .seen her beauty's noft
beam.
Or that we were for ever united.
THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH.
Thls Song is one of the many effusions of
Scots jacobit:sin. — The title, Fl werif ■•/' Edin-
biiryh, has no nianuer of connexion with the
present verses, so I suspect there has been an
older set of words, of which the title is all that
remains.
• This afToiliiig poem was loop; attributed to Rums.
He tlius reinaiks on it. " Ihmdclit-Hrad \^\u>\ mine
I womIiI giM- ten pounds it wx-re. It ;ip|ii.ariil (ii«i in
the Kiliiilniiph Heiakl : ai«l e.iiiie to llic e.litiir of ihal
papei with llie ,\t\ve:ist!e iiosi-m.irk mi ii." It iva^
the eomiKisi.ion of William I'i kt niij;, a north o-
KiirI.ukI pi'tt, who it not known to have written ant
thiiiu mure.
i
By tliij oye, it 19 finpular enough that the
CHARLIE, .^E'S MY DARLINO
Scottish Mcisi's v.'fie all J.iccjbites I have piiil
more attfutiun tii evtry (lescii)ition of Scots
OLD VERSES.
3ono;s than perha])s any luxly hviiiij has dune,
and I do not rt-coilect one single stanza, or even
Tune—" Charlie is my darling."
the title of the most triflinif Scots air, which
'TwAS on a Monday morning,
has the lea^t pjne;,'yrical reference to the fami-
Richt early in the year.
That Charlie cam to our toun,
lies (if Nassau or Brunswick ; while there are
hundreds satirizing them. This may be thouj^lit
The young Chevalier
no panegyric, on the Scots Poets, but I mean it
Anil Chnrlie he's mi/ dnrlinff,
Ml/ darliuff, mi/ dnrling ;
as such. For myself, 1 would always take it as
a comjilinient to have it saiil, that my heart ran
C/iiirlie he i ■»!.(/ diirUng,
before my head ; and surely the gallant though
The young Chtvalier.
unfortunate ho'ise of Stuart, the king« of our
fathers for so many heroic ages, Ls a theme
As he was walking uj) the street.
much more iuteresting than • • • '^ —
The city for to view,
Burns.
0 there he spied a bonnie lass,
The window looking through.
My love was once a bonny lad,
And Charlie, ^e.
He was the flower of all his kin,
The absence of his bonny face
Sae licht's he jumped up the stair,
Has rent my tender heart in twain.
And tirled at the pin ;
day nor night find no deligbt.
Anil wha sae ready as hersell,
In silent tears I still complain ;
To let the laddie in !
And exclaim 'gainst those my rival foes,
And Charlie, |re.
Tliat lia'e ta'eu from me my dailing swain.
He set his Jenny on his knee,
Des))?.ir and anguish fills my breast.
All in liis Highland dress ;
Since I have lost my blooming rose ;
For brawly weel he. kenned the way
I sigh and moan while others rest,
To please a bonnie la^s.
His aVisence yields me no repose.
And Charlie, §'c.
To seek my love I'd range and love.
Thro' every grove and distant plain ;
It's up yon heathy mountain,
Thus I'll ne'er cease, but sjiend my days,
And down yon seros^yy glen,
To hear tiilings from my darling swain.
We daurna gang a- milking,
For Charlie and his men.
There's iiaething strange in Nature's change,
Atid Charlie, SfC
Since p miits shew such cruelty ;
They caiis'd my love from me to range.
Anil knows not to what destiny.
The |)retty kids and tender lambs
M'.V cease to sport upon the plain ;
THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRS
But I'll mourn and lament in cleep discontent
I'or the absence of my darliiig swain.
Up with the souters of Selkirk,
And ilown with the Earl of Home !
Kind Neptune, let n'.e thee cntieat,
An:! up wi' a' the l.'rave lads
To seni! a fair and pleasant gale ;
Wha sew the single-soled shoon !
Ye dol|jliins sweet, upiui me wait.
Am! convey me on your tail ;
O ! fyc upon yellow and yellow.
Heavens l)less niy voyage with success,
Aiid {ye upon yellow and green ;
While crossing of tiie raging main,
And up wi' the true blu" and scarltt.
And send me safe o'er to that distant shor?.
A:id up wi' the single-soled shoon •
T« meet u;y lovely darling sv/aiu.
Up wi' the souters of Selkirk —
All joy and mirth at nur return
Up wi' the liiigle and la-^t !
Shall tin n aljiiuml from Tweed to Tay ;
There's fame wi' the days that's coraiog
And glory wi* them that are past.
The bells shall ring and sweet birds sing.
To grace and crown our nujitial day.
Thus bless'd wi* charms in my love's arms,
Up wi' the souters of Selkirk —
Jly heart (.lu-e more I will regain ;
Lads that arc trusty and leal ;
Then I'll range no more to a distant shore.
And up with the men of the Forest,
But in love will enjoy my darling swain.
And down wi' the Merse to the deii '
0 ! mitres are made for noddles.
But leet they a'e made for shoou ;
_J
And fjinp is as sib to Selkirk
As liijlit is true to tlie inuon,
Tlu-re siN a simtor in Si-lkiik,
Wh;i sin;;s a> lie dr.iws liis thread—
There's (;.i!l.iiit souttr-. in Solkiik
A« Unjj tiieru's water in Tweed.
CRAIL TOU.N.*
" IHinf—" Sir John Malcolm.*
Anp was yp e'er in Crail toun ?
Igo anil atfo ;
And saw ye there Clerk Disliington ? •}•
Sing ironi, iguii, ago.
His wii^ was !ikf a duukit hen,
Ii;o in, I .t<^ii ;
Tiie tail ii"t like a iCi'"^e-peu,
Sing iroiii, igon, ago.
And il'nni ye ken Sir John Malcolm?
J;;o an;i ago ;
Gin he's a wi>e mm I inistak him,
Sin^ ironi, igon, ago.
And hand ye weel frae Sandie Dim,
Igo and a:iii ;
He's ten times d it'ter nor Sir John,
Sing iruin, igon, ago.
To hear them o' their travels talk,
Igo and ago ;
To gae to Loiidoii'i lint a walk,
Sing irom, igoii, ago.
To see the womleis o' the deep,
Igo and ago.
Wad gar a ni in liaith wail and weep.
Sing iioui, igon, ago.
To see the leviathan ski|),
Igo and iiro.
And wi' Ills tail ding ower a ship.
Sing ironi, igcn, ago.
SONGS. 153
MY ONLY JO AND DEARIL, O
GALl,.*
Tune~" My only jo and deai i« O."
Thy clieek is o' the rose's hue,
My only jo and deaiie, O ;
Thy neck is o' tiie siller dew.
Upon the hank sae briery, O.
Thy ti'eth are o' the ivory,
0 sweet's the twinkle o' thine ce :
Nae joy, nae pleasure biiuKs oq me.
My only jo and dearie, O.
When we were bairnies o!i yon brae.
And youth was blinkiii' bom.ie, O,
Aft we wad d.iflf the lee laiig day.
Our joys in' sweet and iii.iriie, O.
Aft I wad chase thee ower the lee,
.And ronnd about the tlmrny tree ;
Or pu' the wild tlow'rs a' for thee.
My only jo and dearie, O.
1 hae a wish I canna tine,
'Mang a' the cares that urieve me, O J
A wish that thou wert ever mine.
And never niair to K-ive nii-, O ;
Then I wail daut thee nulit and day,
Nae ither warldly care 1 li hae.
Till life's warm stream forgat to play.
My only jo and dearie, O.
• There is a somewhat dilTcrenf version of this
•trance v.ii;. ii, lUnl's folleelioii, ITTfc. The prticnt,
whieii I ih Ilk the Ijpst, is co|iiea f:om the i><otti!,h
Minstrel.
t riie pcrsiin kiiowti io Seottish soni; and tradition
by (he epithet ClirK Di-hiiiBt.in, was a notary who re.
S'-k'd alK'Ut ihc innUlV ol tile last cei.turyin Crad,
«d acted a< tlie t.iwji- leik ,>f that aneietit hiirnh I
have been iiu'onmd :h.it he was a persun ol fircal locil
seletrity in Ins time, as m unconnirouiujny liuiiiuur-
FAIRLY SHOT O' HER,
Tvne—" Fairly shot o' her."*
O (jin I uere fairly shnt n' her !
Fairly, fairly, fiirly ihut ,,' iier I
O uin I were fairly s/n'l o' Iut !
If she were dead, I uwi <lunce on the top o' A«r
Till we were niarried, I conldna see licht tii
her ;
For a month after, a' thing aye gaed rirht wf
her :
15ut these ten veais I hae prayed for a wr-.sc;
to her —
O gin I wire fairly shot o' lur !
O (/ill J wtrefiiiily shut u' her I §-c.
Nunc o' her relations or friends could stay wi'
her :
The nrebours and bairns are fiin to flee frae her:
.^nd 1 my ainsell am forced to gie way till her :
O gin I were fairly shut ■>' lifr !
O gin I were fairly Ji.it «' her J ^c
She gangs aye sae braw, she's sae muckie prid«
in her ;
There's no a guuewife in the lulll country-side.
like her .
* Richard Gall, the son of a dealer in old furnitur*
ill St. Mary's Wyiid, Kdinl)iirj;h w;is broujjht up tM
the business of a printer, and ihed .ii an early a^B
about the be);inniiig »1 the pce^iii '«uULtv.
N2
154
BURNS' WORKS.
Wi' dress and xvi' diink thedcll wadoa bide wi'
her :
O gin I were fairly shut o* her !
O gin I ic ere fairly shot o' her ! §-c.
If tlte time were but come that to the kirk-gate
wi' lier,
And into the yird I'd mak mysell quit o' her,
I'd then be us biythe as first wlien I met wi
her :
O gin I Were f.iirly shot o' her !
O gin I were fairly shut o' her I Sfc.
FALSE LUVE ! AND HAE YE PLAY'D
ME THIS.
False luve ! and hae ye play'd me this,
In summer, 'mid tlie flowers?
I shall repay ye back asjain
In winter, 'mid the showers.
But ap;aiu, dear luve, and again, dear luve,
Will ye not turn again ?
As ye look to other women
Shall I to other mea ?•
FARE YE WEEL, MY AULD WIFE.
And fare ye weel, my auld wife ;
Sing bimi. bee, berry, bum ;
Fare ye weel, my auld wife ;
Sini^ l)um, bum, bum.
Fare ye weel, my auld wife.
The steeier up o* >turt aiul strife.
The maul 's abune tlie meal the nicht,
Wi' some, some. some.
And fare ye weel. my pdce-stafT;
Sintr b'jni, bee, berry, bum :
Fare ye weel, my pike-staff;
Sine bum, bum, bum.
Fare ye v/eel, my pike-staff,
W-'" vnu n;u? mair ii y wife I'll baff;
The maut's al)uue the meal the bicht,
^\ i' some, some, some.
r.ET UP AND BAR THE DOOR.
It fell about the Marfinm as time.
And a gay time it wa« than.
* From Heril's Oollcotinn. 177f;.— \ s!i^»lilly diffcr.
*nt version is pat by Sir Water Scott into the motah
of Davie Gellailcy, m tlie lelebraitil novel of Waver-
U-V-
" False love, and hnst thou play'd tne thU,
In su. inner, ainonf; ihe f1i)wcrs/
I wjll repay tliei- b.icK a);ain
In "inter, among ilie sliowcra.
"Unless .iRain, auain, niy love.
Unless yiMi tnrii aL;:tiii,
A> vnn with I'llier maidens rove,
I'll smile on oilier men "
When our gudewife had puddins to raak,
And she boil'd them in the pan.
And the barrin o' our itonr well, weL, well
And the barrin' o' our door weil.
The wind blew cauld frae south to north,
It blew into the floor ;
Says our gudeman to our gudewife,
Get up and bar the doiir.
And the barrin', Sfc.
My hand is in my hussyfe skep,
Gudeman, as ye may see ;
An it shouldna be barr'd this huncer veai,
It's no be barr'd for me.
And the burrin, Sfc.
They made a paction 'tween them twa.
They made it firm and sure.
The first that spak the foremost word
Should rise and bar the door.
And the barrin', §-e.
Then by there came twa gentlemen,
At twelve o'clock at night;
And they c(mld neither see house nor ta'j
Nor coal nor candle-licht.
And the barrin', §-c.
Now whether is this a rich man's house,
Or whether is this a puir ?
Cut never a word wad atie o* them speak,
For the barrin' o' the door.
And the ban in', t^c.
.\nd fiist tiicy ate the white puddins,
And syne they ate the black ;
.\nd muckle thocht our gudewife to herseil,
But never a word she spak.
And the barrin', §-c.
Then said the tane unto the tothcr,
Hae, man, take ye my knife.
Do ye tak aff the auld man's beard.
And I'll kij^s the gudewife.
And the barrin', tj-c.
But there's nae water in the house,
And what shall we do than ?
What ails ye at the puddin' broo,
That boils into the pan ?
And the barrin', Sfc.
O, up then startit oui gudeman,
.■*.nd an angry man was he :
Wad ye kiss my wife before my face.
And scaud me wi' puddin' biee?
And the barrin', ^-c.
Then up and startit our gudewife,
Gi'eri three sKijis on the floor:
Gudeman, ye've spoken the fo.einost word.
Get U|) and bai- the d. or.»
And the burrin', ^-c.
■ Prom Herd's Collection, rTi".— Tradition, as re.
ported ni Johnson's Musical Museum, alKims that thi
SONGS.
155
LOCAK O' BUCIIAN.
T^me—" Ldgie o' Buclian."
0. LiciE o' Bucliin, O, Lo:;ie, iha lainj,
They h.ie ta'cn awa Jaiiiic that delved in the
yard ;
Ho |)I lyM on the |)i[)c and the viol sie sma' ;
Thi'v hae ta'en awa Jamie, the flower o* theni a'.
He iiiid. Think na lauij, lassie, thouyli I
gang awa ;
He said. Think na king, lassie, though I
gang awa ;
Fur the simmer is coming, cauld winter^s
an-a.
And Til come back and see thee in spite o'
them a'.
0, Saiulie lias owsen, and siller, and kye,
A house aiid a haddin, and a' tliinijs forhye,
r<ut I wad hae Jamie, wi's bonnet in's liaiid,
Befu'.e I'd hae Sandy wi' Louses and Kind.
He said, ffc.
My daddie looks sulky, my niinnie looks sour.
They frown upon Jamie. I)eeau.-<e he is poor ;
Hut d iddie and minnic although that they lie,
There's nine o' them a' like my Jamie to me.
He said, Sfc.
I sit on my crcc|-.ie, and spin at my wheel.
And think on the laddie that lo'cd ine sae weel ;
He had liut ae sixpence — he hrak it in twa,
And he gi'ed me ti'.e haiit'o't when he gaed awa.
Then, haste ye hack, Jamie, and bide na awa.
Then haste ye bach. Jamie, and bide na awa ;
Simmer is cumin' , cauld winter's awa.
And ye'll come and see me in spite u them
a'.'
" Riidcinan" of this sonij was a person of the name of
John Bl'iiit, who live;! of yore in Crawford-Muir.
Thtre are two tunes to which it is often sung. One of
them is in most of the Collcetions of Scottish Times;
tlic other, tliongh to a|ipearaiice equally ancient, seems
to have been preserved b> traili ion alone, as we have
lever seen it m print. A (liiril time, to which we hav e
neard ihis song sung, by only one person, an American
s'.i (i( nt we suspect to h ive been mported from his
ov n :<> Mitry.
• " I ogie o' Buchan" is stated by Mr. Peter Bnchan
of r_elerheail, in liis (.leanings of .Scarce OM Uallads
<IS-'7), to have been the C"m|iosition of Mr. George
Haliiet, ami to have been wntleii by liim while school-
m<s:er of It.iihcn, in Abenlecnshin-, about the year
I73S. •' I'he poetry of tins indixidual," says Mi.
Dyhan, " wis chiefly J.icobiti.al, and long remained
familiar amongst the pea.-antry in iJiat quarter of the
country: One uf the best kuo.m of these, at the pru-
Bcnt, is' Wherry, Whigs, ana, man I' In I74(;, Mr.
Halket wrote a dialogue betwixt Ceorge II ami the
Devil, which falling into the hands of the Duke of
Cambeilaiid while on Ins march to Cnrodcn, he of-
fered one hundred pounds reward for the person or
Oie head o/ its author. Mr. llaiket dicil in 7-i6.
" The bogie licre mentioned, is m mie of the ad-
kjining parishes (Cramond) where .Mr. Halket then
rcsi.led; and the hero of the puijc was a James llo-
Kitson, gaidener at Uie plai-e of Logie."
HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEiM TIIAT'3
AWA.
Tune—" Here's a hcaltli to them thafs awa."
Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa ;
Here's a health to them that were here short
syne.
And canna be here the day.
It s glide to be merry and wise ;
It'.s gude to be hcmest and true ;
It's gude to he aff wi' the auld lovs,
Before ye be on wi' the new.
IIEY, CA' THROUGH.
Tune—" Hey, ca' through."
Up wi' the carles o' Dysart,
And the larls o' Buckhaven,
And the kinimers o' Largo,
And the las.ies o' Leven.
Hey, ca' through, en' through,
I''ur we hae muckle ado :
Hey, ca' through, ca' through,
Pot ice hae muchle ado.
We hae tales to tell,
And we hae sangs to sing ;
We hae pennies so spend,
And we hae pints to bring,
Hiy, ca' through, ifc.
We'll live a' our days ;
And them that comes bellin',
Let them do the like.
And spend the gear they win.
Hey, ca' through, Sfc,
I LO'ED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT .\NS
CLUNIE.
Tune — " My lodghig is on the coid ground."
I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane ;
He lo'cd ne'er a lassie but me.
He's willing to m.ik me his ai.i ;
And his ain I am willing to be.
He has colt me a rokeiay o' blue,
And a pair o' mittens »' green ;
The price was a kiss o* my mou' ;
And I paid him the debt yestri-en.
Let ithers brag weel o* their gear,
Their land, and their lorilly degree,
I cireiia for (night but my dear,
I'or he's iika thing lordly to me :
His words ate sae sugar'd, sae sweet '
His sen.-e diives ilk tear far awa!
' liMteti — poor fool ! .ind 1 greet ;
Vet how -iweet are the tears as thev f«''
156
BURNS' WORKS.
AYE WAUICING, O.
THE ORIGINAL SONG, FROM RECITATION.
0 I'm wet, wet,
O I'm WL't and weary !
Yet fain wad I ri'*e and rin.
If I tliought I w juld meet my deary.
Ay iviiuk'uig, O !
Wanking aye, and weary,
Sltep I can f/et nane
For thinking o' my dtjry.
Simmer's a pleasant time.
Flowers of every cc»our.
The water rins ower Iz^e heiiKh—
And I lang for my true lover
Ay wauking, Sfc
When I sleep T dream.
When I wauk I'm eerie ;
Sleep I can get nane
For thinking o' my deary.
Ay wauking, §t.
Lanely night comes on ;
A' the lave are sleeping ;
1 think on my love.
And blear my een wi' greeting.
Ay wauking, §"c.
Feather-beds are soft,
Painte-l rooms are bonnie ;
But a kisg o my dear love
U better kr than ony.
Ay wauking, Sfc.
I To the streamlet winding clear,
j To the fragrant-scented brier,
E'ea to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O,
For the frowns of fortune low'r, bonnie lassie, O
On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O •
Ere the golden orb of day.
Wakes the warlders from the spray.
From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O.
And when on a distant shore, bonrie lassie, O,
Should I fall 'midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O,
Wilt thou, Helen, when you hear
Of thy lover on his bier.
To his memory shed a tear, b .nn!e lassie ? O.*
KELVIN GROVE.
JOHN LVl.E.
Turji—" Kelvin Grove."
Let u3 hr.ste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O ;
Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O ;
Where the rose in all its pride
Decks the hollow dingle's side.
Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O.
We will wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O,
To the Cf ve l>"side the rill, bonnie lassie, O ;
Where the glens rel)ound the call
Of the lofty w iterfall,
Through the iiiuuntain's rocky hall, bonnie
lassie, O.
Then we'll up to yonder glade, bonnie lassie, O,
Wlieie s.) oft, beneath its shade, bonnie lassie, O,
With tl'.e songsters in the grtvc,
We have told our tale of love.
And have sport ivegarla. ids wove, boa lie lassie, O.
All I I soon miivt hid ad <'ii, hotiiiie lassie, O,
lu tins t.iiiy sii'iii- ai.d \nii, Iminiie lassie, (),
BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Tvmi — " Blue Bonnets over the Border."
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,
Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward is
order ?
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesd'.Ie ;
All the l)lue bonnets are over the Border.
Many a banner spread flutters above your head;
Many a crest that is famous in story ;
Mount and make ready, then, sons of the mouit-
tain glen ;
Fight for your Queen and the old Scottish
glory.
Come from the hills where your hirsels are grai-
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ;
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing ;
Come with the l>jickler, the lance, and the how
Trumpets are sounding, war steeds are hounding \
Stand to your aims, and march in good order.
England shall many a day tell of the bloody fray^
When the blue bonnets came over the Border,
COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE.
7^n^~" Gin a Body meet a Bodv.
Gin a body meet a body
Coniin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body.
Need a body cry ?
Ev'ry las-ie has her lau'Ue,
Nane, they say, hae I !
Yet a' the lads they smile at me,
Whin comiii' through the rye.
Aniang the train there is a 8»'aiu
I dearly lo'e uiysell ;
But whaur his h.ime, or what his name,
I dinna care to tell.
* Kelvin firovp is n bpaiitifiilly wooiled dell, abnu*
two iiiiic fr nil (il.itjjow, roriiiiii);a soit oHovcr^ ua
fur the l.iiiii and lai>e> ^X that citv.
SONGS.
ir)7
G.n a body nioet a body,
Oomiii' tiae the town,
Gin a. body greet a body,
Need a body frown ?
Kv'ry lassie has her laddie,
Naiie, they say, hae I !
Vet a' tlie lads they smile at nic,
When comin' through the rye.
Amanji; the train there is a swain
1 dearly lo'e mysell ;
Bui whaur his hame, or wliat his name,
I dinna care to tell.
DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE.
Tune—" The Smith's a gallant fireman."
0 DiNXA think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to
leave thee ;
Dinna iliink, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave
thcc ;
Dinna thiniv, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave
thee ;
I'll tak a stir.k into my hand, and come again
and see thee.
Far's the gate ye hae to gang ; dark's the
night and eerie ;
Far's the gate ye hae to gang ; dark's the
night and eerie;
Far's the gale ye hae to gang; dark's the
night and eerie ;
0 stay this night wi' your love, and dinna
gang and leave me.
It'.o but a night and hauf a day that I'll leave
my dearie ;
But a niglit and hauf a day that I'll leave my
dearie ;
Bnt a nigla and hauf a day that I'll leave my
dearie ;
Whene'er the sun gaes west the loch I'll
come again and see thee.
Dmna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang ajid
leave nie ;
Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and
leave me ;
When a' the lave are sound asleep, I'm dull
and eerie ;
And a' the lee-lang nig-ht I 'm sad, wi' think-
ing on jny dearie.
0 diima think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to
leave thee ;
D.nna tliink, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave
thee ;
Dmna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave
thee ;
When e'er the sun gaes out o' sight, I'll come
again and see thee.
Waves dre ri.sing o'er the sea; winds blaw
loud and fear me ;
Wivc^are risiii",^ o'er the sea ; winds blaw
load and fear me.
While tlic winds and waves do roar, 1 ani
wae and dreary ;
And gin ye lo'e me as ye say, ye winna gang
and leave me.
0 never mair, bonnie lassie; will I gang and
leave thee ;
Never mair, bonnie lassie .will I jTRn-^ and
leave thee ;
Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and
leave thee;
E'en let the world gang as it will, I'll stay
at hame and cheer tbce.
Frae his hand he coost his slide ; I winna
gang and leave thee ;
Tlu-ew his plaid into the neuk ; never can I
grieve thee ;
Drew his boots, and flang them by ; cried my
lass, be chcerie ;
I'll kiss the tear frae afT thy check, and
never leave my dearie.
BONME MARY HAY.
CRAWFORD
Bonnie Mary Hay, I will li.e thee yet ;
For thine eye is the slae, and thy hair is the jet ,
The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy
cheek ;
O, bonnie Mary Hay, I will loe thee yet !
O, bonnie Mary Hay, will ye gang wi' me,
When the sun's in the west, to the hawthorn
tree,
To the hawthorn tree, and the bonnie bciTV
den ? '
And I'll tell thee, Mary Hay, how I loe thoa
then.
O, bonnie Mary Hay, it is haliday to me.
When thou art couthie, kind, and free ;
There's nae clouds in the lift, nor stcnms in
the sky,
Bonnie Mary Hay, when thou art nigh.
O, bonnie Mary Hay, thou mauna say me nay.
But come to the bower, by the hawthorn 1^-ae ;
Butcometothe bower, and I'll tell ye a' what's
true,
How, wnnie Mary Hay, I can loe nanc but
_fou.
CARLE, AN THE KING COME.
Tune — " Carle, an the King come."
Carle, an the kin": come,
Cai-le, an il)e king come,
Thou shall dau'-e and I will sing,
Caile. an li e ki"jr com©
158
BURNS' WORKS
An somebody were come again,
llicn sonieliody maun cross the main ;
And every man shall hae his ain,
Carle, an the king come.
I trow we swappit for tlie worse ;
We ga'e the ))oot and better horse ;
And that we'll tell them at the corse,
Carle, an the king come.
When yellow corn grows on the rigs,
And gibbets stand to hang the Whigs,
O, then we'll a' dance Scottish jigs,
Carle, an the king come.
Nae mair wi' pinch and drouth we'll dine,
As we hae done — a dog's propine —
But quaff our draughts o' rosy wine,
Carle, an the king come.
Cogie, an the king come,
Cogie, an the king come,
I'se be fou and thou'se be toom
Cogie, an the king come. •
Come
Come
Come
There
Come
I'll hi
Come
There
COME UXDER MY PLAIDIE.
MACNIEL.
Tune—'' Johnny M'Gill."
under my plaidie ; the night's gaun to f.i' ;
in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the
snaw :
under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ;
's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for
twa.
under my plaidie, and sit down beside me;
p ye frae every cauld bhist that can blaw:
under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ;
s room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for
twa.
Gae 'wa wi' yere plaidie ! auld Donald, gae '\ra ;
' fear na t'le cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw !
Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie ! I'll no sit beside ye:
Ye micht be my giitcher ! auld Dnnald, gae 'wa.
I'rn gaun to meet Johnnie — he'* you-.ig and he's
boiinie ;
lie's been at Meg's bridal, fou trig and fou braw !
Niine dancjs sae lichtly, s.ie graeefu', or tichtly.
His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like
the snaw I
Dear IMarinn, let that flee stick to the wa' ;
Your Jock's but a gowk, and has naething ava ;
The haill o' his pack he has now on his back ;
He's thretty, and I am but threr score and twa.
• ThisinanoUl favourite cav.-ilior song : thcchoruB,
it lea-i, lb as 1)1(1 a--' the time of tlie Cominoiiwealtti,
whin the retiir;! Ill Kiiii; Charles II. was a mailer of
tail)' iiiayer to the LuyaliaU.
Be frank now and kindly — I'll busk ye aye
finely ;
To kirk or to market there'll few gang sae braw ;
A bien house to bine in, a chaise for to ride in,
And flunkies to 'tend ye as af'c as ye ca'.
My father aye tauld me, my mother and a',
Ye'd mak a gude husband, and keep me aye
braw ;
It's true, I lo'e Johnnie ; he's young and he's
bonnie ;
But, wae's me ! I ken he has naething ava !
I hae little tocher ; ye've made a gude offer ;
I'm now mair than twenty ; my time is but
sma' !
Sae gie my your plaidie ; I'll c;*ep in beside ye ;
1 thocht ye'd been aulder than three score and
twa !
She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa',
Whare Johnnie was listnin', and heard her tell a'.
The day was appointed ! — his proud heart it
dunted.
And struck 'giinst his side, as if burstin' in
twa.
He wander'd hame wearie, the nicht it was
diearie,
And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep
snaw :
The howlet was screamin*, while Johnnie cried,
Women
Wad marry auld Nick, if he'd keep them aye
braw.
O, the deil's in the lasses ! they gang now sae
braw,
They'll lie down wi' auld men o' fourscore and
twa ;
The hail o' their marriage is gowd and a car-
riage:
Plain love is the cauldest blast now th.it can
blaw.
Auld dotards, be wary ! tak tent when ye
marry ;
Young wives, wi* their coaches, they'll whip
and they'll ca',
Till they meet wi' some Johnnie that's youtk-
fu' and bonnie,
.Vnd they'll gie ye burns on ilk hafiet to claw.
DUSTY MILLER.
Turn—'' The dusty Miller."
IIkv, the dusty miller.
And his dusty coat !
He will win a shilling.
Ere he spend a groat.
Dusty was the coat.
Dusty was the colour;
Dusty was the kiss.
That 1 gat frae the millei (
SONGS.
159
Hey, tlie dii'.fy miller,
Ami hii (lit-ity sack J
Lt't'zo me on the calling
Fills t'le (lusty peck ;
Fiil-i tlic (lusty pei-k,
Biiuiis the (lusty sillef
I w.id gie my coatie
For the dusty miller.
THE WEARY FUND O' TOW.
FROM RECITATION.
TVjnf — " Tlie weary pund o' tow."_
1 BOUGHT my wife a stane o* lint
As good as ere did grow,
And a' that she could make o' that
Was ae weary ])uik1 o' tow.
The weary pund, the weary pund,
Tlw weary pund o' tow,
I thought my wife would end her life
Before she span her tow.
I lookit to my yarn-nag.
And it grew never mair ;
I lookit to my beef-stand—
i\Iy heart grew wonder sair ;
I lookit to my meal-boat,
And O, but it was howe !
I think my wife will end her life
Afore she spin her tow.
But if your wife and my wife
Were in a boat thcgither,
And yon other man's wife
Were in to steer the ruthcr ;
And if the boat utre bottomless,
And seven mile to row,
I think they'd ne'er come hame again,
To spin the pund o' tow 1
KEEP THE COUNTRY, BONNIE
LASSIE.
T^ne—" Keep the Country, bonuie Lassie
Keep the country, bonnie lassie.
Keep the country, keep the country ;
Keep the country, bonnie lassie ;
Lads will a' gie gowd fur ye :
Gowd for ye, bonnie lassie,
Gowd for ye, gowd for ye :
Keep the country, bonuie lassie ;
Lads will a' gie gowd for ye.
THE LANDART LAIRD.
TirETxE lives a landart* laird in Fife,
And he has married a dandily wife :
She wadna shape, nor yet wad she sew.
But sit wi' her cummers, and fill hersell fu'
She wadna spin, nor yet wad she card ;
But she wad sit a:;d crack wi' the laird.
Sae he is doun to the sheep-fauld,
And cleekit a wetherf by the spauld. ^
He's whirled afl the gnde wether's skin,
And wrapped the dandily lady therein.
• I downa pay you. for your gentle kin ;
But weel may I skelp my wether's skin.§
" Landuard — that is, living in a part of the country
It some (lisiaiice from any town.
♦ VVcddor. t Shoulder.
S I'hisiuriiius and most .iTnusini; old dittv is from
<tz. Jainieson's " Pcnular Ballads and .Songs;" 1806.
HAP AND ROW THE FEETIE O'T
WILI.IA5I CREECH.*
Tiint—" Hap and Rowe the Teetfe ot."
Well /up and row, ivell hap and row.
We'll hap and rmu the feetie o't.
It is a tree bit weary thing :
I downa hide the greetie o't.
And we pat on the wee bit pan,
To boil the lick o' meatie o't ;
A cinder fell and spoil'd the plan,
And burnt a' the feetie o't.
M'e'll hap and row, Sec.
Fu' sair it grat, the puir wee brat,
And aye it kicked the feetie o't,
Till, puir We elf," it tired itself;
And then began the sleepie o't.
We'll hap and row, §-c.
The skirling brat nae parritch gat.
When it gaed to the sleepie o't ;
It s waesome true, insteid o' t's mou%
They're round about the feetie o't.
We'll hap and row, S^c.
JU.MPIN' JOHN
Tune — " Jumpin' John
Her dad'lie forbade, her minnie forbade ;
Forbidden she \vadna be.
She wadna trnw't, the browst she brewed,
Wad taste sae bitterlie.
The liuip tail tilt!/ ca' .Tinnpin John
liepiiited the bonnie bissie ;
The lanri lad the)/ ca' Jun.pin John
lieguiled the bonuie Uissie.
• A pcntleman loner at the head of the bookselling
trade In F.diiihurfih, and who hnd Icon Lord Provost
of (lie city. A volume of his mi.^ecll.inf ous prose cs-
snys h.is been published, under thelitleof " Kdmburfjh
Fuj-itive Pieces." He was not only remarkable tof
his literary accomplishments, but also for his conver-
sational powers, whieh were such as to open to hirr
tJie sexiiety of the highest literal y men of his day.
'60
BURNS' WORKS.
A cow ana a cauf, a ynwe and a hauf.
And thretty eiide >hilling;s and tliree ;
A vei-y gude mcliei-, a cortarmau's doc.hter.
The lass wi' tlie lionnie black ee.
The laity lad, SfC.
O DEAR ! IMINNIE, WHAT SHALL I DO ?
Time—" O dear ! mother, what shall I do ?"
" Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do?
Oh dear ! mitinie, what shall I do ?
Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ?"
" Daft thing, doiled thing, do as I do."
'' If I be black, I canna be lo'ed ;
If I be fair, I caiina he gude ;
If I be lordly, the lads will look by ine ;
Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ?"
" Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do?
Oil dear ! minnie, what shall I do ?
Oh dear ' minnie, what shall I do?"
' Ddl't thing, dolled tiling, do hs I do."
KILLIECRANKIE, O.
Tune — " The braes o' Killiccrankie."
Where hae ye been sae braw, lad ?
Where hae ye !)een sae brankie, O ?
Wiiere hae ye been s.ie braw, lad ?
Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O ?
uin ye had been where I hae been.
Ye wadna been sae cantie, O ;
An ye had sien what I hae seen
On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O.
I've faught at land, I've faiight at sea;
At liame I faiiglit niv auntie, O ;
But 1 met the detvil and Dundee,
On the braes o' Kdlieurankie, O !
An ye hud been, ^-c.
The bauW Pitcur fell in a far.
And Claverse gat a elankie, O;
Or I hail fed an Atliole gled.
On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O.
An yp, had been, 3fc.
DONALD COUPER.
Tun*—" DonaJ J Couper and his man."
Het Donald, howe Donald,
Hey Donald Couuer !
W'h gane awa to seek a wife,
And he's come hame w'thoilt her.
O Donald Couper and hi i tea*
Held to a Highland fair, ir.aa •
And a' to seek a bonnie la;^ —
But fient a ane was theie, man.
At length he got a carline gray,
And she's come hirplin haoie, man ;
And "he's fawn owre the butfet stool,
And brak her rumple-bane, man.
LITTLE WAT YE WHA'S COMING
T^ne — " Little wat ye wha's conainjj,"
Little wat ye wha's coming,
Lirtl. wat ye wha's coming,
Litrl • ,vjt ye wha's coming ;
Jock iiid Tarn and a' 's coming !
Dunciti's coming, Donald's coming,
Colin'- ^'Dining, Ronald's coming,
Douj^.ii'- coming, Lauchlan's coming^,
Alister and a' 's coming !
Little wat ye wha's coming,
Little wat ye wha's coming,
Little wat ye wha's coming ;
Jock and Tani and a' 's coming !
Borland and his men's coming.
The Camerons and Maclean's coming.
The Gorrlons and Macgregor's coming,
A' the Duniewastles coming !
Little wat ye wha's coming,
Little wat ye wha's comjng.
Little wat ye wha's coming;
MacGilvray o' Drumgloss is coming !
Winton's coming, Nithsdale's coining,
Carnwath's coming, Keninuie's coming,
Derweiitwater and Foster's coming,
Withrington and Nairn's coming ■
Little wat ye wha's coming,
Little wat ye wha's coming.
Little wat ye wha's coming ;
Blythe Cowhill and a' 's coming !
The Laird o' Macintosh is coming,"
Macrabie and INIacdoiiald's coming.
The Mackenzie's and Macphersons comiag^
A' the wild JlacCraws cominsr '
Little wat ye wha's coming,
Little wat ye wha's coming,
Little wat ye wha's coming ;
Donald Gun and a' 's coniii.g '
They g'oom, they glowr, they look sac bi^
At ilka stroke they'll fell a Whig;
They'll fright the fuds of the Pockpuds ;
For luony a buttock hare's comicg.
161
Little wat ye wha » coining,
Little wat ye wha J cimiing.
Little w;it ye wlia's i-oining ;
Mony a buttock bare's coming !
OCH HEY, JOHNNIE LAD
TANNAHILL.
OcH hey, Jonnnie lad,
Ye'ie no sae kind's ye sou'd hae been ;
Ocli hey, Joiinnie lad.
Ye didna keep your tryst yestreen.
1 waited lang beside the wood,
Sae wae and weary a' my lane :
Oci) iiey, Johnnie lad,
It was a waefu' niciit yestreen !
I lookit by the whinny knowe,
I lookit by the firs sae green ;
I lookit ower the spiinkie howe,
And aye I thoclit ye wad hue been.
The ne'er a sujjper crossM my craig,
The ne'er a sleep has closed my een
Och hey, Johnnie lad,
Ye're no sae kind's ye sou'd hae been
Gin ye were waitin' by the wood,
It's I was waitin* liy the thorn ;
I thocht it was the place we set.
And waited niaist till dawnin* morn.
But be nae beat, my bimnie lass,
Let my waitin' stand for thine ;
We'll awa to Craigton shaw,
And seek the joys we tint yestreen.
OUR GUDEMAN CA^Sr HAIME AT E'EN.
Our gudeman cam hame at e'en.
And hame cam he ;
And there he saw a saddle-horse,
Where nae horse should be.
Oh, how cam this horse here?
How can this be ?
How cam this horse here ?
Without the leave o* me?
A horse ! quo' she ;
Aye, a horse, «|U'.)' he.
Ye auld blind dotard carle,
And blinder n\at ye be !
It 8 but a bonnie milk-cow,
My mither sent to me.
A milk-cow ! quo' he ;
Aye, a milk- cow, quo' she.
Far hae I riilden,
And muL'kle hae I seen ;
But a saddle on a mi Ik-cow
Sanr 1 never naue.
Our gudeman cam hame at e en,
And hame ram he ;
He spifil a pair o' jark-boots.
Where nae boots should Ije.
^V^lat■s this now, gudcwife ?
What's this I see ?
How ram thue boots here,
Without the leave o' me ?
I'.iiots ! quo' she ;
Aye, boots, quo' he.
Ye aulil blinil dot.ird carle.
And blinder mat ye be .
It's but a pair o* water-stoups,
The cooper sent to me.
Watcr-stoups ! quo' he ;
Aye, water -stoujjs, quo' she.
Far hae I ridden,
Au<l inuckle hae I seen ;
But siller-spurs on water-stoups
Saw I never nane.
Our gudeman cam hame at e'ecn,
And hame cam he ;
And there he saw a siller sword.
Where nae sword should be.
What's this now, gudewife ?
What's this I see ?
O how cam tkis sword here.
Without the leave o* me ?
A sword . que sne
Aye, a sword, quo' he
Ye auld blind dotard --arle.
And blinder mat ye be !
It's but a parridge-sj)urtle,
My minnie sent to me.
A parridge-spurtle I quo* he ;
Aye, a parridge-spurtle, quo* sL).
Wcel, tar hae I ridden,
And niuckle hae I seen ;
But siller-handed parridge-spurtlet
Saw 1 never nane.
Our gudeman cam hame at e'cu,
And hame cam he ;
And there he spied a powder d wig,
Where nae wig shoulil be.
What's this now, gudewile ?
What's this 1 see ?
IIow cam this wig here,
M'ithont the leave o' me ?
A wig ! quo' she ;
Aye, a wig, quo' he.
Ye aulil blind dotard carle,
And bimder mat ye be !
Tis iiaetliing but a clockcn-he.a
My minnie sent to me.
A clocken-hen ! quo' he ;
Ave, a docken-ben, quo* she-
Far hae I ridden.
And niuikle hae I seen,
But pnuther on a clocken-hen
Saw 1 never nane.
Our gudeman cam hame at e'en.
And hame cam he ;
1G2
BURNS' WORKS.
And thoie he saw a inickle coat.
Where nae coat should be.
How cam this coat here?
liow can this he ?
How cam this coat here,
Witliout the leave o' me?
A ciat ! quo' she ;
Aye, a coat, quo' he.
Ye auM blind dotard carle,
And blinder mat ye be !
It's but a pair o' blankets
My minnie sent to me.
Blankets ! quo' he ;
Aye. blankets, quo' she
Far hae I ridden,
And muckle hae I seen ;
But buttons upon blankets
Saw 1 never nane !
Ben gaed our giidenian,
An<l ben gaed he ;
And there he spied a sturdy man,
Where nae man should be.
How cam this man here?
How can this be ?
How (Mm this man here.
Without the leave o' me?
A man ! quo' she ;
Aye, a man, quo' he.
Puir blind t)ody,
And blinder mat you be !
It's but a new milkin' maid,
My mither sent to me.
A maid ! quo' he ;
Aye, a maid, quo' she.
Far hae 1 ridden,
A.nd mufkle hae I seen.
But lang-bearded maidens
Saw 1 never naae.
GO TO BERWICK, JOHNIE.
Ttine — " Go to Berwick Johnie."
Go to Berwick, Juhnie ;
Bring her frae the Border ;
Yon sweet bonnie lassie.
Let her gae nae fartlier.
En;;li^li loons will twine ye
O' the lovely tre.i?-ure ;
But we'll let them ken,
A sword wi' them we'll measure.
Go to Berwick, Johnie,
And regain your lioiiour ;
Drive them owcr the Tweed,
And show our Scottish banner.
1 am Uol) the kini;.
And ye are Jock, my brither ;
But, before we lose her.
We'll a' there thegither.*
• Till"! popular r.mt i? from Jolin-jon's Miisi»al Mu-
Kum, vol. VI., It>u5. Kitson, in his ScuttUh iioutfs-
IF YE'LL BE MY DAWTIE, \^D SIT
IN MY PLAID,
Tune — " Hie, Bonnie Laisie.**
Hie, bonnie lassie, blink over the burn.
And if your sheep wander I'll gie them a turn
Sae happy as we'll be on yonder green shade.
If ye'll be my dawtie, and «it in my plaid.
A yowe and twa lammies are a* my haill stock.
But I'll sell a lammie out o' my wee flock.
To buy thee a head-piece, sae bonnie and braid.
If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid.
I hae little siller, but ae hauf-year s fee.
But if ye will tak' it, I'll gie't a' to thee ;
And then we'll be married, and lie in ae bed)
If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid.
I'LL NEVER LEAVE THEE
RAJISAT.
JOHNNT.
Though, for seven years and mair, honaur
should reave me
To fields where cannons rair, thou needsns
grieve thee ;
For deep in my spirit thy sweets are indented ;
And love shall preserve ay what love has im-
printed.
Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee,
Gang the wai'ld as it will, dearest, believe me '
NELLT.
Oh, Johnny, I'm jealous, whene'er ye discover
My sentiments yielding, ye'll turn a, loose rover ;
And bought in the world would vex my heart
sairer.
If you prove inconstant, and fancy ane fairer.
Grieve me, grieve me, oh, it wad grieve me,
A' the lang night and day, if you deceive me !
J OWN NT.
My Nelly, let never sic fancies oppress ye ;
For, while my blood's warm, I'll kindly caress
Your saft blooming beauties first kmdled love I
fire.
Your virtue and wit m<ik it ay flame the higher
Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee.
Gang the world as it will, dearest, belie\e me!
179", ment'ons, that he li.nl licanl it Rravcly asserted
at KilMiburgh, that " a Joolisli song, bcgunnng,
Go, go, Ro, go to Berwick, Johnie I
Tliou »lialt liave the horse, aiul I shall have the poney
was made upon one of Wnllaoc's marnuding cxI>e'l^
iKiMs, ami liiiit ilie iicrson thus adilrc.-i-nl was uo othef
I than his_fidiit Achates, bir John Gral.ani."
SONGS.
163
NKLLT.
Th'.n, Jolinny ! I frankly this minute allow ye
To think ine your niistrws, for love gars me
trow ye ;
And gin ye prove false, to yoursell be it said,
then,
Ye win but s:na' honour to wrang a puir maiden.
Reave nie, reave me, oh, it would reave me
Of ray rest, night and day, if you deceive me !
JOHNNY,
Bill ico-shop^les hammur red gauds on the studdy.
And fair s-iiinnier nuunings nae mair appear
ruddy ;
Bia Britons think ae gate, and when they obey
thee.
But never till that time, believe I'll betray thee.
Leave thee, leave thee ! I'll never leave thee !
The starns shall gae withershins ere I deceive
thee !
KATIIERINE OGIE.
As walking forth to view the plain.
Upon a morning early.
While iMay's sweet scent did cheer my brain,
From flowers which grow so rarely,
I chanced to meet a pretty maid ;
She shined, though it was foggy ;
ask'd her name : sweet Sir, she said,
My name is Katherine Ogie.
I stood a while, and did admire.
To see a nymph so stately ;
So brisk an air there did appear,
In a country maid so neatly :
Such natural sweetness she display'd.
Like a lilie in a bosrie :
Diana s self was ne'er array'd
Like this same Katheiiue Ogie.
Thou flower of females, beauty's queen.
Who sees tliee, sure must ])iize thee ;
Though thou ait drest in robes but mean,
Yet these cannot disguise thee :
Thy handsome air, and graceful look,
tar excels any clownish rogie ;
Thou art a match for lord or duke.
My charming Katherine Ogie.
O were I but some shepherd swain !
To feed my flock beside thee.
At boughting-time to leave the jilain,
In milking to abiile thee ;
I'd think myself a happier man,
^^ith Kate, my chil), and dogie,
Than he that bugs bis thousands ten,
Had I but Katherine Ogie.
OWER BOGIE.
ALLAN HAMSAT.
JHtne — " O'er Bogie,*
I WILL awa' wi' my love,
I will awa' wi' her.
Though a' my kin had sworn and uid
I'll ower Dogie wi* her.
If I can get but her consent,
I dinna care a strae ;
Though ilka ane be discontent,
Awa' wi her I'll gae.
For now she's mistress o' my heart,
And wordy o' my hand ;
And weel, 1 wat, we shanna part
For siller or for land.
Let rakes delight to swear and -jrink^
And beaux admire fine lace;
But my chief [jleasure is to blink
On Betty's bunnie face,
I will awa' wi' my love,
I will awa' wi" her.
Though a' my kin had sworn and loijf
I'll o'er Bogie wi' her.
LASS, GIN YE LO'E ME.
JAMES TVTLER.
Tune — " Lass, gin ye !o'e me.'
I HAE laid a herring in saut —
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell ma now ;
I hae brew'd a forpit o' maut,
An I caiina come ilka day to woo:
I hae a calf that will soon be a cow-
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, lell me now ;
I hae a stuok, ami I'll soon hae a mowe,
And I canna come ilka day to woo:
I hae a house upon yon moor —
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ;
Three sjiarrows may (hince upon tl e floor,
And 1 canna come ilka d.iy to woo :
I hae a but, an' I hae a ben —
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ;
A penny to keep, and a penny to s|)en*.
An' 1 cauna come ilka day to woo:
I hae a hen wi' a happitie-leg— .
Lass, gin yc lo'e _me, tell me now;
That ilka day lays me an egg.
An' I canna come ilka day to woo :
I hae a cheese upon my skelf —
Lass, gin ye ln'e me, tell me now ;
And soon wi' mites 'twill rin itself,
And I caima c >ine ilka day to woo.
161
BURNS* WORKS.
LASSIE, LIE NEAR ME.
DR. BLACKLOCX.
T^ne—" Laddie, lie near me."
Lang hae we parted been.
Lassie, my deerie ;
Now we are met again.
Lassie, lit "sear me.
Near me, near me,
Lassie, lie near me.
Lang hast thou lain thy lane ;
Lassie, lie near me.
A* that I hae endured,
Lassie, my dearie,
Here in thy arms is cured ;
Lassie, lie near me.
LOW DOUN r THE BRUME.*
7^71*—" Low doun 1' the Broom."
Mv daddie is a cankert carle,
He'll no twine wi* his gear ;
My minnie she's a scauldin' wife,
Hauds a' the house asteer.
Uiit let them say, or let them do,
It's a' atie to me,
For he's low doun, he's in the brume,
Thnt's woitin on me:
'Wailing on me, my love.
He's waiting on me :
For he't low doun, he's in the brume,
That's wuitin' on rue.
My auntie Kate sits at her wheel,
And sair siie lightlies me ;
But weel 1 ken it's a' envy.
For ne'er a joe his she.
And let them say, Sfc.
My cousin Kate was sair beguiled
Wi' Johnnie o' the Glen ;
And aye sinsyne she cries, Beware
O' fause deluding men.
And let iJiem say, Sfc.
deed Sandy he nam wast yestreen.
And speir'd when I saw Pate ;
And aye sinsyne tiie neebors round
They jeer nie air and late.
And let them say, §"c.
• The chorus of this song is Tery old : tradition
ascribes the verses to a Lairil of Balnaraoon in Forfar-
shire: but upon that jioict the learned iltfler. It is
one of lh( must pofiular duties in ticutland.
THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING.
U-4.\.v-— " The Campbells are coming."
JTie Campbells are coming, O-ho, 0-ho I
The Campbells arc cnning, O-ho !
The Campbells are coming to bonnie Loctt
leven I
The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho
Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay ;
Upon the Lomonds 1 lay ;
I lookit doun to bonnie Loehleven,
And saw three perches play.
The Campbells are coining, l^c.
Great Argyle he goes before ;
He makes the cannons and guns to roar ;
With sound o' trumpet, pipe, and drum ;
The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-bo !
2'he Cumpbells are coming, Sfc,
The Campbells they are a' in arms,
Their loyal faith and truth to show,
With banners rattling in the wind ;
The Campbells are coming, O-ho, O-ho ! •
The Campbells are coming, Sfc.
MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHING A
HECKLE.
Tune — " Lord Breadalbane's March."
O MERRY hae I been teething a heckle,
And merry hae I been shai)in a spunc ;
O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle.
And kissin my Katie when a' was dune.
O a" the lang day 1 ca' at my hammer.
And a' the lang day I whistle and sing ;
A' the lang nicht I cuddle my kimmer,
And a' the lang nicht as happy 's a king.
Bitter in dule I lickit my winnins,
O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave :
Blest be the hour she cooled in her linens.
And blythe be the bird that sings over Let
grave !
Come to my irras, my Katie, my Katie,
And come to my arms, my Katie again !
Drucken or sober, here's to thee, Katie!
And blest be the day 1 did it again !
• From Johnson's Musical Museum, Part III., 1790,
where it is insinuated, as an on dil, that it was com-
posed on the nnprisonmcnt of Queen Mary in Loch-
leven Castle. The Lomonds are two well-known
hills, overhanging Lochleven to the east, and visiblt
from Kdinburgh. The air is the well-known famil)
tuue or march of the Clau Camplwll.
^-
SONGS. 165
MY AULD MAN.
Betty, Iissy, say't thyell.
Tfite—" Saw ye my Father 1'
Thoip^jh tliy dame be ill to shoe :
First we'll luickle, then we'll tell ;
In the l.inil of Fife there li%'e<l a wicked wife,
Let her flytc, and syne come to.
And in the town of Cupar then,
What signilies a mother's i;loom.
Who sorely did l.iment, and made her complaint,
When love and kisses coine in play?
Oh when will ye die, my auld man ?
Should we wither in our bloom.
And in siinnier in.ik nae hay ?
n cam her cousin Kate, when it was growing
late,
For the sake of somebody, §*c.
She saiil, What's fjude for an aiild man ?
Bonny lad, I carena bv,
0 wlieit-hreid and wine, and a kinnen new
Though I try my luck wi' thee.
slain ;
Since ye are content to tie
That's gude for an auld man.
The half-mark bridal-band wi' me.
I'll slip haiiie and wash my feet.
Cam ye in to jeer, or cam ye in to scorn,
And steal <m linens fair and clean;
Ajd .vhat for cam ye in ?
Syne at the trystltig-place we'll iceet,
For bear-hread and water, I'm sure, is much
To do but what my dame has done.
iHjtter —
For the sake (f somebody.
It's ower gude for an auld man.
For the sake of somtbody,
I could woke (I iri liter nlcht,
.Vow the auld man's deid, and, without remeid.
For the sake of somtbody.
Into his ciuld grave he's gane :
Lie still wi' my blessing ! of thee I hae nae
missing ;
I'll ne'er mourn for an auld man.
SANDY O'ER THE LEE.
Within a little mair than three quarters of a year.
Tune~" Sandy o'er the lee."
She was married to a young man then.
Whd drank at the wine, antl tippled at the beer,
I WiNNA marry ony man but Sandy ower the
And spent more gear than he wan.
lee.
I winni marry ony man but .Sandy ower the !e- ;
0 black grevr her brows, and howe ^rew her
I winna hae the dominie, for gude he canna be;
een.
But I will hae my Sandy lad, my Sandy ower
And cauld grew her pat and her pan :
the lee :
And DOW she sigh<, and aye she says,
For he's aye a-kisslng, kissing, eye a-kiss
I wish I had my silly auld man ! *
ing me ;
He's aye a-hissing, kissing, aye a-kissing me.
I winna hae the minister, for all his godly looks ;
FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY
Nor yet will I the lawyer hae, for a' his wily
crooks ;
OLD VERSES,
I winna hae the ploughman lad, nor yet wiU I
Tune—" Somebody."
the miller.
But I will hae my Sandy lad, without a penny
For the sake nf somtbudy.
siller.
Fur the siike nj' somehiirfi/.
For he's aye a-kissing, Sf^c.
I could wake a winter nivht.
For the sake of suniebodij.
I winna hae the .soldier lad, fur he gangs to the
wars ;
I AM gaun to seek a wife,
I am gaun to buy a pl.iidy ;
I winna hae the sailor lad, because he smells o'
tar ;
I have thiee stane o' woo' ;
I winna hae the lord, or laird, for a' their meikle
Carline, is thy d iu'.;hter ready ?
gear,
But I will hae my Sandy lad, my Sandy o'ef
the muii-.
Fur the sake of somebody, §-c.
• From RKson's " Scottbth Songs" 17'''. into
For he's aye a-kissing, i-c.
which the editor mentions that it was copiuil from
lome cominon colk-cilon, wliose title he ilicl not re.
member. It has often been the Uisk of the Scottish
muwtoimint out the evils of ill-assorted alhaiKcs;
but she has scarcely ever done so wuh so much hu-
m.mr, and. at the same time, so much force of moral MY LOVE, SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET
paintmj». as in the present ea~e. \o tune is isslgncd
to the song in Rits.m's Oiliection; but the present Tun^f— " Mv Lovp is hut a lasmp vrt •
editor has ventiircl to suu-ge^t the fine air, '• Saw ^e i-^rie- aiy iM\e is Dut a lastie yet.
iiiy father," rather as Iwiiig suitable lo the pe<'uliar j,r. ;^. i ' i . i
rhythm of the verses -Uin to the ipirit of the couiikj- ""^^ '""'' ^''^ * ''"' « '«*»'« y«' :
'^on- 1 My live, she's but a lassie vet
266
/'// let her stand « year or twa ;
She'll no he hulf sae saucij yet.
BURNS' WORKS.
THE BONNIE LASS O' BRANKSOME
t RUE tlie d.'.y I souj^lit her, O ;
I rue the day I sought her, O ;
Wia gets her, needna say he's woo'd,
But he may say he's bnught her, O.
My love, slit's, Sfc.
Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet ;
Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet ;
Gae seek fcir pleasure where ye will —
But here I never miss'd it yet.
lily love, she's, §t.
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ;
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ;
The minister kiss'd the fiijillei's wife,
And couldna [ireac-h for thinking o't.
3Iy love, she's, ^c.
MY WIFE HAS TA'EN THE GEE.
Tkh*— " My Wife has ta'en the Gee."
A FHiEND o' mine cam here yestreen,
And he wad hae me down
To drink a liottle o' ale wi' him
In the neist burrows town :
But oh, indted, it was. Sir,
Sao far the waur for me ;
For, lang or e'er that I cam hame,
My wife had tane the gee.
We sat sae late, and drank sae stout,
The truth I tell to you,
That, l:ing or e'er the midiiicht cam,
We a' were roarin' fou.
My wife sits at the fireside,
And tht tear blinds aye her ee ;
The ne'er a *xd wad she gang to,
But sit and tuk' the gee.
In the mornin' sune, when I cam doun,
The ne'er a word she spake ;
But mony a sad and sour look.
And aye her head she'd shake.
Jly dear, ijuoth I, what aileth thee,
To look sae sour on nie ?
I'll never do the like again.
If you'll ne'er tak' the gee.
Wlicn that she hearci, she ran, she flang
Her arms about my neck ;
And twenty ki»es, in a cr.nk ;
And, poor wee tiling, she grat.
If you'll ne'er do the like again,
But bide at hame wi' me,
I'll lay my life, I'll be the wife
That never taks the gee.*
• From Heri's collection, 1776.
ALLAN RAMSAY.
Tune — " The Bonnie Lass o' Branksome.*
As I came in by Teviot side.
And by the braes of Branksnme,
There first I saw my bonny bride.
Young, smiling, sweet, and handwmft
Her skin was safter than the down,
And white as alabaster ;
Her hair, a shining, waving brown ;
In straightness nane surpass'd her.
Life glow'd upon her lip and cheek,
Her clear een were surprising.
And beautifully turn'd her neck.
Her little breasts just rising :
Nae silken hose with gushats fine,
Or shoon with glancing laces,
On her bare leg, forbade to shine
Weel-shapen native graces.
Ae little coat and bodice white
Was sum o' a' her claithing ;
E'en these o'er mucklc; — mair delfte
She'd given clad wi' naething.
We lean'd upon a flowery brae,
By which a burnie trotted ;
On her I glowr'd my soul away,
While on her sweets I doated.
A thousand beauties of desert
Before had scarce alarm 'd me.
Till this dear artless struck my heart,
And, hot designing, charm'd me.
Hurried by love, close to my breast
I cla>p'd this fund of blisses, —
Wha smiled, and said. Without a pibst.
Sir, hope for nocht but kisses.
I had nae heart to do her harm.
And yet 1 couldna want her ;
What she demanded, ilka charm
O' heis pled I should grant her.
Since heaven had dealt to me a routl».
Straight to the kirk I led her ;
There plighted her my faith and trouth,
And a young lady made her.*
MY WIFE'S A WANTON WEE THING.
Tu7te — *' My wife's a wanton wcc thing."
Mv wifi''s a wanton wee th.fig.
My wife's a wanton wee thing.
• This sone, whic'i appeared in the Tea- Table
Mi-nllany, (rt'D, was f luiuUd upon a real ineiileiit.
'Vbi; Ixmii.-e liiss v-n^ (l.ni{;liter ti> a wcinan «h(> kcj'l
.nn alehouse al the haniUtn ar Ilranksoine Castle, in
Teviotilale. A vnoni; odiier, cif sdiiie riiiikj— hisn.iine
we believe was 'Maliiiiiil,— liapiieucil to be be (piarter-
Cil soniewliere in the neichhiiuthnod, saw, loviil, and
married her. So strange was such an alliance detnied
in llio-edavs, that the old inntlier, uiidur whosa aus-
pices it wa-s peifuiined, did uoi e»(ape the impulatioD
of witehcraJL
SONGS.
167
Mv wife's a w.intjn wee tliinj :
Slie wiuna hi; guiili-il hy me.
Rhc pl:iy'il the Inon fre slie was niarried,
She |>'iy'<i the hion ere slie was niairieil,
She |il,iy'(l the liion eie she was married ;
She'll du't again ere she die !
She sellM her coat, and she drank i
She sillM her enat, and she dratik »(;,
She row'd hersell in a hlanket ;
She wiatia be guided by ine.
She m'nd't iia when I forbade her,
She iiiiiid't n.i ulien I fnrliide her;
I to..k a riiiii; and I elaw'd her,
And a braw gude bairn was she !•
l\iV NATIVE CALKDONIA,
WE'RE A' NOD])[X.
Tune—" Nid noddin.'
O, we're a nndilin, nid, nid, voddin,
O, we're a' noddin, at our /louse at hame.
flow's a' wi' )e, kimnier? and how do ye
thrive ?
And how nuiiiy bairns hae ye n )w ? — Bairns I
hae five.
And are tiiey a' at hame wi' yon ? — Na, na, na ;
For twa ()' them's JK-eii herilia' siu' Jamie gaed
awa.
^nd we're ti' noddin, nid, nid, noddin ,-
And u-cre a noddin, at our house at hame.
Grannie nods i' the neiik, and fends as she may,
And braus that we'll ne'er be what she's been
in tier dav.
Vow ! but she was bonnie ; and vow ! but she
Was braw.
And she had rowtii o' wooers auce, I'se warrant,
great and sma.'
And wt're a' noddin, §-c.
Weary fa' Kate, that sl;e winna nod too ;
She s:ts i' the coiner, su|i|iin' a' the broo ;
And when tlie bit bairnits wad e'en hae their
siiare,
Bhc gies them the l.idle. but dcil a drag's there.
And we re a' noddin, A-c,
Now, farewecl, kimmer, anrl wecl miy ye thrive ;
They sae the Frencii is rinnin' for't', and we'll
hae peaee belyve.
The heiir's 'i the bi ear, arjd th ; hay's i' the stack,
And a" 'II be right wi" us, gin Jamie were come
Sair, sair was my heart, when I parted frae tnj
Joan,
j And sair, sair I sigh'd, wliiie the tears stood ic
my een ;
For my daildie ii hut poor, and my fortune it
but sma' ;
Which gars me leave my native Cale onio.
When I tliink on days now gane, and how hap-
jiy 1 h le been.
While wandering wi' my dearie, where the prim-
rose blaws unseen ;
I'm wae to leave my lassie, and my dandie's sim-
ple ha'.
Or the hills ami healthfu* breeze o' Caledonia.
Hut wherever I wander, still happy he my J.vin !
Nae care disturb her bosom, where jiLuce h;is
ever been !
Then, though ills on ills befa' me, for her I'll
bear them a',
Though aft I'll heave a sigh for Caledonia.
But should riches e'er he nr.iiie, and my Jeanit,
still be true.
Then blaw, ye favourin' breezes, till my nitivi"
land 1 view ;
Then I'll kneel im Scotia's shore, while th«
heart-felt tear shall fa".
And never leave my Jeau and Caledonia.
back.
And we're n noddin', |-c.
_* From Jolinson's Sc Its M'l'iical Museum, vol. IJI,
1790. Tlie two (list stanzas, however, aiipear id
Htid'seolltrtioii. 1776.
O, AN YE WERE DEID, GUID.MAN
T'inf—" O, B!i yp war dciil, Ouidman."
O, AN ye were deid. guidman,
.And a green truffon your heid, gnidir.aa.
That I ini;;lit ware my w idowheid
Upon a raiitin Highlandman.
There's sax eggs in the pan, guidman,
There's sa.\ eggs in the pun, guidman;
There's ane to you, aiul twa to me.
And tliree to our John Ilighlandman.
There's beef info the pot, guidmin.
There's beef into the pipt, giiiilman ;
The banes for you, and the liroe tor me,
And the beef fur our John Ilighlandman.
There's sax horse in the sta", guidman.
There's sax horse in the sta', guidman;
There's ane to you, and twa to me.
And tliree to our John Hiyhlandman.
There's sax kye in the Iiyre, guidman.
There's sax kye in the liyre, guidm in •
There's nane o' them yours, but tiiere's t\r» i
them mine,
I And the lave is our John Ilighlandman's.
BURNS' WORKS.
on, WHAT A PARISH !
ADAM CKAWFOllD.
Tutu;—" Donnie Dundee."
O, tehat a parish, trfial a terrible parish,
O, wliiit a parish is that I'f DrnthM !
They line linnijt. the minister, ilrouned the
precentor,
Dunti ilown t'r.e steeple, and drucken the
'bell!
FilCJCH the steeple was doB::, the kirk was still
8taniii[i ;
They l)igt;it a lum where tlie hell useil to hang ;
A steii-p^it they gat, and they brewed llieland
whi^ky ;
On Sundays they dr.ink it, and rantit and sang!
Of what a parish, §t.
Oh, had yru hut seen how gracefu' it Inikit,
To see the •■rainiiied pews sae socially join !
Maedonald, the piper, stuck up i' the poiipit,
He made the pipes skirl sweet music divine !
O, what a parish, ^c.
\^Tien the heart-cheerin spirit had inountit the
garret.
To a l):ill on the green they a' did adjourn ;
Maiils, wi' their cuuts kiltit, they skipjut and
liltit ;
When tired, tliey shook hands, and a hame
did return.
(J, what a parish, §•<;.
Wad the kiiks in our liritain haud sic social
mi'ituiics,
Is'ae warning they'd need frae a far-tinkling
bell ;
For true love and friemlship wad ea' them the-
gither,
Far better than roaring o' horrors o' heJl. •
O, what jiarish, §'C.
OLD KING COUL.
Olu King Coul was a jolly old soul,
And a jolly o'..', soid was he ;
And old King Coul he had a brown bowl,
And ther brought him in fiddlers three ;
And every tidd.er was a very good tidiller,
And a very good tiddler was he ;
'"iddlo-diddle, fiddle-duidle, went the fiiidlers
three :
And there's no a l.iss in a' .'scotland,
Compared to our sweet Marjone.
Old Kino: C<iul WIS a jolly old soul,
And a jolly olil snul was he ;
• Crawforil, Die imliter of this niriou'i fro ic, was ii
tailor in EdUibiO);li, aiui tlieauthor of somt' <)ur good
Old King Coul, lie had a brown bowl,
And they brought him in pipers three :
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, hi-diddle, how-didifh,
went the pipers three;
Fiddle-didille, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlen
three :
And there's no a lass in a the land,
Compared to our sweet ftlarjorie.
Old King Coul was a j(dly old sou?,
And a jolly old soul \v,i< he ;
Old King Coul, he hid a brown bowl,
And the V brought him in harpers three;
Twingle-twan.^le, twingle-twunglt, went the
harpers ;
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how -diddle,
went the pipers ;
Fiddle-didiile, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddler*
three :
And there's no a la<;s in a' the land,
Compared to our sweet Marjorie.
Old King Coul was a jolly old soul,
And a jolly old soul was he ;
Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl,
Auil they brought him in tiumpeters three:
Twarra-rang, twarra-rang, went the trumpet-
ers ;
Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the
harpers ;
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle,
went the pijiers ;
Fiddle-diddle, tiddle-did.ile, went the fiddleri
three :
And there's no a lass in a' Scotland,
Compared to sweet Waijorie.
Old King Coul was a jolly old soul,
And a jolly olil soul was he ;
Old King Coul, he bad a brown bnwl,
And they brought him in drummers three;
R'lb-a-dub, rub-a-dub, went the drummers ;
Twarra-rang, twarra-rang, went the trumpet-
ers;
Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the
harpers ;
Ha-diddle, bow-diildle, ha-diddls, how-diddlp,
Went the pipers ;
Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers
three ;
And there's no a lass in a' the land,
Compared to sweet Marjorie.
I'C VERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIB
JOANNA BAILI.IE.
Tune — " Todlin hamc
Ti'ur.N white was my o'erlay as foam ii' the linn,
And siller was vlinkin' uiy pouches withiu •
30NGS.
Wben mv laiiit>kin9 were bleating on meadow
ami liiao ;
As 1 pii'd to i!iy love in new deeding sae gay,
Kind UMs >\\e.
And my ftieiids were free ;
But poverty parts gude companie.
Uou' swift p;iss'd tlie iiiiiuitcs and hours of de-
iij,'ht !
riie ])ipfr pliy'd dieerly, the crusie burn'd
hri;;ht ;
And iink'd in my bund was the maiden sae dear,
As bhe footed the Hour in her iiohday gear.
Woe is me,
And can it then he,
Tliat p'lviTty parts sic companie !
We met at the fiir, we met at the kirk,
We met in the sunshine, and met in the mirk ;
And the so\inds of her voice, and the bliidis of
her een,
The cheering and lil' of my bosom have been.
Leaves frae the tree
At Martiimias flee ;
And j)overty paits sweet companie.
At bridal and infare I've braced me wi' pride ;
The hruse I hae won, and a kiss o* the briile ;
And lou<l was the laughter gay fellows among.
When J utter'd niy l)anter and chorus'd my song.
Duwie to dree
Are jesting and glee,
When poverty parts gude companie.
Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet.
And mithers and aunties were mair than dis-
creet.
While kehhuck and bicker were set on the
board ;
But now they pass by me, and never a word.
So \f.l it be,
For the worldly and slie
Wi' poverty keep nae companie.
WILLIE WAS A WANTON WAG.
WILLIAM WALKINGSHAW OK WALKINGSHAW.
Tune—" Willie was a wanton Wag."
WiLl.iE was a wanton wag.
The blythc'st lad that e'er I saw:
At bridals still he bore the brag.
And carried aye the gree awa.
His doui>let was of Shetland shag.
And wow but M'illie he was hraw ;
Kail at his shouthers hung a tag
That pleased the lasses best of a*.
He wag a man without a clag ;
His heart was frink, without a flaw;
And ay<; whatever Wdlie said.
It stui was hadiien as a la'.?.
His boots they were made of the jag,
When he went to the weapon-'-hawr ;
Upon the green nane duist him brag.
The fient a ane uniang them a'.
And was not Willie weel worth gowd ?
He Win the love o' grit ami sma* ;
For, after he the bride had kiss'd,
He kiss'd the lasses haill-sale a*.
Sae mei-rily round the ring they row'd,
When by the haird he le^l them a' ;
And smack on smack on them bestow *(1,
By virtue of a standing law.
And was na Willie a great loun.
As shyre a lick as e'er was seen ?
When he danced with the lasses round,
The bridegroom spier'd where he had beeo
Quoth Willie, I've been at the ring;
Wi' bolihin', faith, my shanks are sair ;
Gae ca' the bride and maidens in.
For Willie he dow do na mair.
Then rest ye, Willie, I'll gae out,
And for a wee fill up th.e ring ;
But shame licht on his souple snout '
He wanted Wilhe's wantim fling.
Then straight he to the bride diil fare,
Says, Weel's me on your bonny face ;
With bobbin' Willie's shanks are sair,
And I am come to fill his place.
Bridegroom, says she, you'll spoil the daaca
And at the ring you'll aye be lag,
Unless like Willie ye advance ;
Oh, Willie has a wanton leg !
F(U' wi't he learns us a* to steer,
And foremost aye bears up the ring;
We will find nae sic dancin* here.
If we want Willie's wanton fling. •
THE AULD MAN'S MEAR'S "^EAD.
Tune — " The auld man's mear's dead "
The auld man's itiear's dea/l ;
The pvir Loi/i/'s mear's ditut ;
Tlie auld man's mear's (lead,
A. mile abuun Dundee.
There was hay to ca', and lint to lead,
A hunder hotts o' muck to si-re.id,
And peats and trufTs and a' to lead^
And yet the jaud to dee !
The auld man's, SfC.
She had the fiercie and the fleiik,
The wheezloch and the wanton yeuk
On ilka knee she had a breuk —
What ail'd the beast to di*""
The auld man's, if.
• From the Te-i-Table Miscellany, 1724. A« it it
there signed l)y ilie inilijHs of llie auth.ir, ihfe ariici
a prestimption tliat he was a'i\c, a >l <i fi irnd uf Ram
•ay, at Uie iierioU of the publicaliou ul that woKl.
170
BURNS' WORKS.
She was lann-tontliM and b'encli-Iippit,
Heam-lioiij^li'd and ha^gi>-tittit,
Lang-ni'ckit, chanircr-chifcit,
And yet the j.iiid tn dee ! •
Tlie auld man s, S^c.
ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCII.
MRS. Cr.AKT OF CAURON.
Tune—" The RuiRan's Rant."
Riu/s wife rif Aldivdlloch,
Jtoi/s wife nf Aldivtillt)ch,
"Wat ye how she chented me,
As I came u'er the braes of Ualloch ?
Shb vowM, she swfire, she wad be mine ;
She sai<l she lo'cd me best of onie ;
But, ah ! the tickle, fa'^liless quean,
She's ta'eii the carle, and left her Johnie.
Hoys wife, §-c.
Oh, she was a canty quean.
And wcel could dance the Hieland walloch !
How hap y I. h.id she been mine,
Or 1 been R.iy of Aldivalluch !
Hoy's wife, SfC.
Her hair sae fair, her een sae clear,
Her wee bit inou' sae sweet and bonnie !
To me she ever will I)e dear.
Though slie's for ever left her Johnie.
Hoy's wife, &-C.
STEER HER UP AND HAUD HER
GAUN.
Tune—" Steer her up and haud her gaun."
O sTF.Eii her up and hand her gaun ;
Her mother's at the mill, jo :
^But gin she winna talc a man.
E'en let her lak her will, p.
Pray thee, lad, leave feili/ thinkings ;
Cast thy cares of love awav ;
Let's our sorrows drown in drinking ;
*Tis ddfEn langer to delay.
See that shining glass of claret,
How invitingly it looks !
Take it alf, and let's have mair o't ;
Pox on fighting, trade, and books !
Let's have pleasure, while we're able;
Bring us in the meikle bowl ;
Place't on the middle of the table ;
And let wind and weather gowl.
Call the drawer ; let him fill it
Fou as ever it can hold :
Oh, tak tent ye dinna spill it ;
'Tis mair precious far than gold.
By you've drunk a dozen bumpers,
Bacchus will begin to prove.
Spite of Venus and her mumpers,
Drinking better is than love.
• The late Rev. Mr. flunie, minister of the parish
of ISdrlliwuk, near E(liiibiir_:h. (who was so enthiisi.as.
tically fond of Moving Scottish songs, ihat he Used to
hang his w.itch ronn.l the c.indle on Sundnv eveinngs,
and wai: anxiously till the coninnction of the liaiKls".!!
12 o'cloi-k pcrniit'cd him lo bri'.ik out in cne cf his
favourite ditties), was noted for the adniirable nviiiner
in which he song " Bonny nnndcc," " Waly, iv.ilv
up yon hank, Flie Anld Man's Meai'sdead.' witli
many othiT old Scotiuh ditties. One (lav, liappeinng
to meet w Ih some fru-nds at a ta\cin in Dalkvitii, he-
was solicited to favnur the eompanv with llie latter
humorous dittv ; which he wis aciionl riglv singing
with Ins nsiialcfVec' 3' <l bri llancv, when the «omaii
who kept the house thrusi her hc.ail in at the door, and
Bdiled, .it th eon liision of nne of the choruses, •• Od,
the auld nnn's mcai's dead, sireene i h Vour horse,
minister, his hanged it.sell at inv door" iiucli was
rcal'v the fact, •jlu' minister, on going into the li.nis?,
had tied his h rse bv a rii|ie to a i\, ok. or ring, near
the door, and as he «as iiiduicil to tt.iy nui /h' longer
th in he intiu led, the poor animal, either Ihrongh ex-
haustion, or a sndde . tit ol diease, IVIl down, and was
ttr&!iRleil. He wari so iimeli mort ficil by tliis iinh:ip|iy
aecidiiit, the C'liuneniT of »hi li h1,Ii the subject ot' i
his song «as not a litile stiik-ng. iliat, aH his life d'lor,
he could n.ver bo persuaded to' sing " Tlie .\uld Maii't
Hear g dead" a^a.n I
SYMON BRODIE.
Tune—" Symon Brodie."
SvMON BiiODiE had a cow.
The cow was lost, and he cou'd na find har
Wheti he had done what man could do,
The cow cam hame, and her tail behind ha
Honest auld Symon limdie,
Stupid auhl doitit iodic !
I'll awa to the North countrie.
And see my am dear Syvwn Hrodie.
.Symon Brodic had a wife.
Ami, wow ! but she was braw and bonaie j
She took the dish-clout alf the hiiik.
And pieen'd it to her cockeiiuwiie.
Honest auld Symon Hrodie, §•&
NEIL GOWS FAREWELL TO
WHISKY.
Tunt-'- Farwell to Whisky."
You've surely heard o' famous Neil,
The man that played the fiddle weel ;
I wat he was a canty cliiel.
And dearly loe'd the whisky, O.
And, aye sin he wore the tartan trews,
He dearly lo'ed the Athole brosc ;
Atid wae was he, you may suppose,
To play farewell to whi.sky, O.
Alake, quoth Neil, I'm frail and auld,
And find my bluile grow nm-o cauld ;
I think 'twad iiMke me blythe ;uid biuldL
A wee drap Highlaud whi^kv, O
SONGS. 171
Yet tlie doctors tht-y do a' aj^reR.
We'll tak her hame and mak her fain,
Tluif whisky's no the drink t'.ir me.
My ain kiml-hearted lammie.
Saul I quoth Neil, 'twill spoil iny glt-e,
We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise,
Should thi'y j):irt nio and whisky, 0.
We'll be her comfort a' her days.
The wee thing gies her hand, and says-
Thoudh I can haith sjet wine and ale,
There ! gang and ask my mammy.
And find my head and finjjeis hale,
I'll be content. thoni,'h h-gs should fail.
Has she been to the kirk wi' thee.
To pi ly fireu'ell to whisky, O
My boy Tammy ?
Tint still I lliink on aiild hinu; syne,
She has been to the kirk wi' t3e.
When Par:idise oui friends did tyne,
And the tear was in her ee :
Because soinetains; ran in their mind,
For O ! she's but a young thing.
Forbid like Highland whisky, 0.
Just come frae her mammy.
Come, a' ye powers o' music, come ;
I find my heart grows unco i;luni ;
My fiddle-strins^s will no play bum,
To say, Farewei 1 to whisky, O.
THE WEE WIFIKIE.
Yet I'll take my fiddle in my hand.
And screw the pe^s up while they'll stand,
DR. A. CEUDES.
To make a lamentation grand.
On glide auld Highland whisky, 0.
Tune—" The wee bit Wifikie."
There was a wee bit wifikie was comln' itm
the fair,
Had got a wee bit drappikie, that bred her
Hinckle care ;
THE LAMMIE.
It gaed about the wilie's heart, and she began
to spew .
HECTOR MACNi:iI.L.
0 ! quo' the wifikie, I wi^h I binna fou.
Tune — " Whar hae ye bsen a' day."
I wish I binna fou, I wish I binn i fou.
0 ! quo' the wifikie, I wish I binna fou.
WiiAR liae ye beeu a' day,
Wy boy Tammy?
If Johnnie find me barley-siek, I'm sure he'll
I've been by burn and flow'ry brae,
claw my skin ;
Meadow green and iiio\nitain grey.
But I'll lie doun and tak a nap before that I
Courting o' this young thing.
gae in.
Just come frae her mammy.
Sittin' at the dyke-side, and takin' o' her nap.
By cam a packman laddie, wi' a little pack.
Aui whar gat ye that young thing,
Wi' a little pack, quo she, wi' a little pack,
l^Iy boy Tammy ?
By cam a packman laddie, wi' a. little pack
I got Ler down in yonder howe,
Smiling on a bonnie knowe,
He's clippit a' her gowden locks, sae bonnie and
Heeding ae wee lamb and ewe,
sae lang ;
For her jioor mammy.
He's ta'en her purse and a' her placks, and fast
awa he ran :
What said ye to the bonnie bairu,
And when the wifie wakened, her head was
My boy Tammy ?
like a bee,
I praised her een, sae lovely blue,
Oh ! quo' the wifikie, this is nae me.
Her dimpled cheek and diet ry inou ;—
This is nae me, quo' she, this is nae me ;
I piee'd it aft, as ye iiiiy trow ! —
Somebody has been fellin' me, and this is iiae
She said she'd tell her mammy
mo.
I held lier to my beating heart,
I met wi' kindiv company, and birl'd mv baw-
My young, my smiling lammie !
bee !
I hae a house, it cost me dear.
And still, if this be Bessikie, three placks re-
I've wealth o' plenidien and gear ;
main wi' me :
Ye'se get it a', were't ten times iiiair,
And I will look the pursie neuks, see gin the
Gm ye will leave your mammy.
cunyie be ; —
There's neither jiursc nor plack about me
The smile gaed aff her bonnie face —
This is nae me,
I maunna leave my mammy.
This is nae me, &c.
She's gien me meat, she's gien me clalsCf
She's been my comfort a' my days : —
I have a little housikie, but and a kindly man .
My father's ileath hiou^lit ni.inie waes—
A dog, they c,i' liini Doussikie ; iJ' this be m?,
I cauui leave my mammy.
he'll fawu •
172
BURNS' WORKS.
And JoLnnie he'll come to the door, and kiudly
welcome gie,
And a' the liairns on the floor-head will dance,
if this \)f me.
Will dance, if this be me, &c.
T'he nicht was late, and dang out weet, aad,
oh, l)ut it was dark ;
The dog;;ie heard a body's fit, and he begin to
bark :
O, when she heard the doggie bark, and ken-
nin' it was he,
O, weel ken ye, Duussiekie, quo she, this is nae
me.
This is nie me, &e.
When Johnnie heard his Bessie's word, fast to
the door he ran :
Is that you, Bessikie ? — Wow, na, man !
Be kind to the baiins a', and weil mat ye be ;
And fareweel, Johnnie, quo' she, this is nae me.
This is nae me, &c.
John ran to the minister ; his hair stood a' on
end :
I've gotten sic a fright, Sir, I fear I'll never
mend ;
My wife's come hanie without a head, crying
out most |)iteouslie :
Oh, faievveei, Johnnie, quo' she, this is nae me !
This is nae me, &c.
The tale you tell, the parson said, is wonderful
to me,
How that a wife wi:hniit a head should speak,
or hear, or see I
But things that happen hereabout so strangely
alter'u be.
That I cou.- muist wi' Bessie say, *Tis neither
you nor sr.e ! *
Neither you nor she, quo' he, neither you
nor slie ;
Wow, na, Johnnie man, 'tis neither you nor
she.
Now Johnnie he cam hame again, and wow,
but he was fain.
To see his little I}es>ikie come to hersell itgain.
He go^ her sittin' on a stool, wi' Tibbock on
her knee :
O come awa, Johnnie, quo' she, come awa to
Hi'
For I've got a drap wi' Tilibikie, and this is
now me.
This ii now irie, quo' she, this is now me ;
I've got a drap wi' Tibbikie, and this is now
me.
• A Jacobite allusion, prolwbly to the change of the
Sliurl for (tie Urunswick dynatty, jn I'M.
FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE
GALL.
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew,
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure.
Now a sad and last adieu !
Bonny Doon, sae sweet and gloamiDj
Fare thee weel before I gang !
Bonny Doon, whare, early roaming,
First I weav'd the rustic sang I
Bowers, adieu, whare Love, decoying.
First icthrall'd this heart o' mine,
There the saftest sweets enjoying,—
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tyne !
Friends, so near my boson ever,
Ye hae rendered moment's dear ;
But, alas ! when forc'd to sever.
Then the stroke, O, how severe !
Friends ! that parting tear reserve it,
Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me I
Could I think I did deserve it,
How much happier would I be !
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure.
Scenes that former thoughts renew,
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure.
Now a sad and last adieu !
TIBBIE FOWLER.
Tune—" Tibbie Fowler."
Tibbie Fowler h' the Glen,
There's ower miiny wooing at her ;
Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen,
There's ower mony wooing at her.
Wiifiin at her, pii'in at her,
Coiirtiii her, nrnf canna get her ;
Fil/hi/ elf, it's for her pelf
That a' the lads are wooing at her.
Ten cam east, and ten cam west ;
Ten cam rowin' ower the water ;
» Sain ti-) nxve be^n written by the Rov. Dr.
J^tnch.in, late minister of C'ariiwalh, although cer-
lainly gro\inilc(l upon a soii<; of older slamliiii;, tUe
ii.Tiiie of which is miiitioncd in tlic Tea-Table Miscel-
lany. The two first verses of the song appeared in
Herd's Collection, 1776.
There is a tradition at I.cith that Tibbie Fowler wat
a real person, am! married, ^cme time ciiiriiii,' the se-
venlcciith ccnt'iiry, to the reprrsciitative of the attaint-
elC'milyof l,0),'an of lieslalriR, whose i(>«ii-honse,
dated \C,'G, is still poiii'cd out at the heart of a sirert
ill Leith. called Ihr Sherid' biae. Ihe inarria;;e.coii.
traet !)■ twien !,n{;an and l-.ilMlia Fowl' r is still cxtliit.
in the possession of a giiitlrmaii resident at Lcitl r—
See CaiujibeU's Uhlury of Leith, note, p. ?14.
SONGS. 17S
Twa csm down tlie l.-xnjT j!yVp-«i(le :
THE BRISK YOUNG LAD.
Tlieie's twii-anil-tliirty wooiii' at her.
Wooin' at her, ^-c.
T^ve-" Bung your eye in the morning."
TiiEiiE cam a young man to my daddie's door
There's 5cven Iiiit, and seven ben,
My d.iildie's door, my daddie's <iiior ;
Seven in the puntry wi* her ;
There cam a vouns' man to my daddie's door.
Tn'enty Iiea.1 al'oiit tlic iloor :
Cam scekmg me to woo.
There's fkne-and-forly wooin' at lier.
yi.iil irow ! hut he iva.i a hraw ynnnc/ Jarl,
Wuoiu' at htr, ^c.
A brisk young lad, and a liruw young lad •
An<{ wnw ! but he was ti hraw young lad,
She's fjnt pendletf in her lii!;« ;
Cam seeking me to woo.
Cockle-shells wjd set her lietter !
High-heel'd shoon, and siller tags ;
B;it I was baking when he came,
And a' the l.ids arc wooin' at her.
When he came, when he came ;
Wooiii at her, §-c.
I look him in aud gied him a scone,
To thowe his rozen mou.
Be a lassie e'er sac black,
And wow ! but he was, §*c.
Gin she hae the penny sdlcr,
Set her up on Tintock tap,
1 set him in aside the hink ;
The wind will blaw a man .ill her.
1 gae him bread and ale to drink ;
IToom' at her, Sfc.
Am. ne'er a blythe styme wad he blink,
Until his wame was fou.
Be a lassie e'er sae fair,
And wow 1 but he teas, S^c.
An she want the penny siller,
A. flie may fell her in the air,
Gae, get you gone, you cauldrife wooer.
Before a man be even'd till her.
Ve <<our-looking, caulilrife wooer !
Wooin' at her, Sec
I ittaightway show'd him to the door.
Saying, Come nae mair to woo.
And wow ! but he was, §c
There lay a deuk-rfub before the door,
ANNIE LAURIE.*
Before the door, before the door ;
There lay a deuk-dub before the dooi,
Maxwelton banks are bonnie,
And tb«re fell he, I trow !
Where early fa's the dew ;
And wow 1 hut he was, ^c.
Where me and Annie Laurie
Made up the promise true;
Out cam the guidman, and high he shouted ;
Made up the promise true,
Out cam the guidwife, and laigh she louted ;
And never forget will I ;
And a' the toun-neebnrs were gather'd about it ;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
And there lay he, 1 trow !
I'll lay me doun and die.
And wow! but he was, SfC.
She's backit like the peacock ;
Then out cam I, and sneer'd and smiled;
She's breistit like the swan ;
Ye cam to woo, but ye're a' beguiled ;
She's jimp about the niidille ;
Ye'vL' fa'en i' the dirt, and ye're a' befvled ;
Iler waist ye weel micht span :
We'll hae nae mair o' you !
Her waist ye well micht span,
And wow ! but he was, §-c.
And she has a rollinfi; eye;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'll lay me doun and die.
KIND ROBIN LO'ES ME.
• These two rerses, which are in a st>le wonderful-
ly tender anil chaste for their age, were written by a
Tune—" Robin lo'ej me."
Mr. Douglas of Frngland, upon Anne, one of the four
Paiightcrs of Sir Robert Laurie, first Baronet of Max-
Robin is my only jo.
For Rubin has the art to lo'e ;
welton, by his second wife, who was a daughter of
Riddcll of Minto. As Sir Robert was created a ba-
ronet in the year I6S5, it is probable that the verses
Sae to his suit I mean to !)ow,
were composed about the end of the seventeenth or the
beginning of the eighteenth century. It is painful to
Because I ken he lo'es me.
Hiippy, hap|)y was the shower.
record, that. notwithsLinding the ardent and chival-
rous affection displayed by Mr. Douglas in his |)oem,
he did noi obtain the heroine fora wife: She was mar-
ried to Mr. Ferguson of Craigdarroch.— See " yl Hal-
Tliit led me to his birken bower.
Where fust of love I fan<l the power.
tad Bouh," ( otinted at Edinburg/i In 1824), p. 107.
And kenn'd that Robin lo'ed me.
They spcik of napkins, speak of .jng».
Spe.ik of gluves and kissin' string* ;
L - . 1
BURNS' WORKS.
And nime a thousand lioniiie tilings.
And fa' them signs he lo'es me.
But I'd pitfer a smack o' Rob,
Seati'd on the velvet fuj,
To i;ilts as lan-^'s a plaiden wnb ;
Because I ken lie lu'es me.
He's tall and sonsie, frank and free,
lo'ed \,y a', and dear to me ;
Wi' him I'd live, wi' him I'd dee,
Bcc,;use my Ruhin lu'es me.
My tittie Mary said to me,
Our court>liip hut a juke wad be,
And I or lan^ be made to see
That Rubin didna lu'e me.
But little kens she what has been,
Me and my honest Rob between ;
And in his wooing, O sae keen
Kind Robin is that lo'es me.
Then fly, ye lazy hours, away.
And hasten on the happy day,
When, Join your hand-i, Me-s John will say,
And mak him mine that lo'es me.
Till then, let every chance unite
To fix nor love and give delisjnt,
Anrl I'll Inok down on such wi' spre.
Wha doubt that Robin lo'es n.j.
O ney, Robin ! quo' she,
O hey, Robin ! quo' she,
O hey, Robin ! quo' she ;
Kmd Robin lo'es me.
THE POETS, WHAT FOOLS THEY'RE
TO DEAVE US.
ROIiERT GILFILLAN.
Tune—" Fy, let us a* to the bridal."
The poets, what fools they're to deave us.
How ilka ane's lassie's sae fine ;
Tlie taue is »n angel — and, save us !
The neist ane you meet wi's divine.
An<l tiiCM tl;eri.'s a lang-nebbit sonnet,
lie't Katie, or Janet, or Jean ;
And the moon, or some fir-ajfa planet's
Compajcd to the blink o' her een.
The cartli an' the sea they've ransackit
For sim'iies to set off their charms;
And no a wee P.ov/'r but s attackit
liy poets, like bumbees, in swarms.
Now, what siijniries a' this clatter,
I'.y chiels that the truth winna tell?
Wad it no be settlic' ':'.-.£ matter,
To say. Lass, ye're jiiit like your sell ?
An' then there's nac end to the evil.
For they are no deaf to the din—
liiat like me ony puir luckless difevil
D.iur scarce IvA/k iiie ijate they are in !
But e'en let them be, xvl' their scornin* ;
There's a lassie whase name I could taljt
Her smile is as sweet as the mornin'
But whisht ! 7 am ravin' mysell.
Cut he that o' ravin's convickit.
When a bonnie sweet lass he thinks oc,
May he ne'er get anithcr strait jacket
Than that buckled to by Mess John !
An' he wha — though cautious an' cannv—
The charms o' the fair never saw,
Though wise as King Solomon's grannia-
I swear is the daftest of a'.
'TWAS WITHIN A ]\[TLE OF EDIN-
BURGH TOWN.
Tusj— " Within a mile of Edinburgh."
'TwAS within a mile of Edinburgh town,
In the insy time of the year ;
Sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass was down.
And each shepherd woo'd his dear.
Bonny Jockey, blythe and gay,
Kiss'd sweet Jenny, making hay,
Tl:e lassie blush'd, and frowning, cried, " No,
no, it will not do ;
I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buc
kle too."
Jockey was a wag that never would wed,
Though long he had followed the lass ;
Contented she earned and eat her own bread,
And nu'rrily turn'd up the grass.
Bonny Jockey, blythe and free.
Won her heart right merrily :
Yet still she blush'd, and frowning, cried, " No,
no, it will not ilo ;
I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buc-
kle too."
But when ha vow'd he would make hef hit
bri<le.
Though his flocks and herds were not few.
She gave him her hand, and a kiss beside,
And vow'd she'd for ever be true.
Bonny Jockey, blythe and free,
W<in her heart right merrily ;
At church she no more frowning, cried, " Na,
no, it will not do ;
I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot bua-
kle too."
MY LUVE'S IN GERMANIE.
Tune—" My luve's in Gemvinie."
My luve's in Germanic ;
Send him hame, send him luo^ej
Jly luve's in Germanic;
Send him home.
SOXGS.
lib
My luve's in Ojrtnanid,
Fif^lititi'T liravc for royalty ;
Ele may ne'er his Jcanie see ;
Si'iiil him lianu', send him hame ;
lie niiy ne'er l]is Joanie see;
Send him hame.
He's as I)rave as biave can be ;
Send him hame, send hiin hame ;
Our faes are ten to three ;
Send him hame.
Our f.ies are ten to three ;
He maun eitlier fa' or flee,
In the cause of Kiyalty ;
Send him hame, send hitn hame;
la the cause of Kiyalty ;
Send him hame.
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee,
lionnie dame, winsome dame ;
Ydur luve ne'er learnt to flee,
Winsome dime.
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee,
Hut he fell in Germanie,
Fightin;^ l)rave for loyalty,
jMournfu' dame, mournfu* dame ;
Fij,'!.ting lirave for loyalty,
Jlouinfu' dame.
He'll ne'er come ower the sea ;
Willie's slain, Willie's slain ;
He'll ne'er come ower the sea ;
Willie's Ejane !
He will ne'er come ower the sea,
To his luve and ain countrie.
This waild's nae mair for me ;
Willie's gane, Willie's gane ;
This warld's nie mair for me ;
Willie's gane !
TO THE KYE WI* ME.
0 WAS na* she worthy o' kisses,
Far niie than twa or three,
And woithy o' biid.il blisses,
Wha gaeil to the kye wi* me.
O gang to the kye wi' me, my love.
Gang to the kye wi' nie,
Ower the burn and through the broofflj
And I'll be merry wi' thee.
1 hae a house a biggin,
Anither that's like to fa'.
And 1 love a scorn fu' lassie,
Wha grieves nie warst of a'.
O gang to the kye wi' me, my love,
O gang to the kye wi' me.
Ye'll ti. ink nae mair o* your mithcr
Amang the broom wi' me.
I hae a hnn^^e a bi<;^in,
Anither that's like to fa'.
I hae noo the lass'e wi* bairn,
Which vexes me warst of a'.
0 gang to the kye wi' me, ray lovsj,
Gang to the kye wi' me,
1 hae an auld mither at hame.
Will doodle it on hei knee.
THE IMILLER O' DEE.
Tune—" The Miller of Dee."
There was a jolly miller once
Lived on the river Dee ;
Ho wrought and sung from morn till uighik
No lark more blythe than he.
And this the burden of his song
For ever used to be ;
I care for nobody, no, not I,
If nobody cares for me.
A.iid this, §"c.
AYlien spring began its merry career,
O, then his heart was giy ;
He feared not summer's sultry heat.
Nor winter's cold decay.
No foresight marred the miller's cheei
Who oft (lid sing and sav,
Let others live from year to year,
I'll live from dav to dav.
No foresiglif, §'c.
Then, like this miller, bold and free,
Let us be glad and sing ;
The days of youth are made for glee,
And life is on the wing.
The song shall pass from me to you.
Around this jovial ring.
Let heart, and hand, and voice agree :
And so, God save our kin?.*
Tlie song, §-c.
SAW YE MY FATHER?
Tune-'" Saw ye my father }"
" O SAW ye my father, or saw ye my mother,
Or saw ye my true love John ?"
" 1 saw not your father, I saw not vour mother
But I saw your true love John."
" It's now ten at night, and the stars gie nae
light.
And the bells they ring ding dong ;
He's met with some delay, that cauacth him to
stay ;
But he will be here ere long."
The surly auld carle did naething but snarle.
And Jennie's face it grew red ;
♦ From an old MS. copy. The s.ong seems to hatt
been first printed in Herd's Colleevion, 1776.
176
BURNS* WORKS.
Yet, though he often sighed, he re'er a word
icplieil,
Till all were asleep in bed.
Up Johnie rose, and to the door he goes,
And gently tilled at the pin.
The lassie, taking tent, unto the door she went,
And she opened and let him in.
•' And are ye come at last, and do I hoid ye fast ?
And is my .Fohnie true ?"
" I have nae time to tell, but sae lang's 1 like
mysell,
Sae lang sail I love you."
" Flee up, flee up, my bonnie grey cock,
And craw wliau it is day :
Your neck shall be like the bonnie beaten gowd,
Aad your wings of the silver grey."
The cock proved fiuse, and untrue he was ;
For he crew an hour ower sune.
The lassie th<iught it day, when she sent her
love away,
\nd i"; was but a blink o' the mune
TAM O' THE BALLOCH
H. AINSLEY.
Tune—" The Campbells are coming.
In the Nick o' the Balloch lived Muirland Tarn,
Wcel stcntit wi' brochan and braxie-ham ;
A breist like a build, and a back like a door,
And a wapping wame that hung down afore.
But what's come ower ye, Muirland Tara ?
For your leg's now grown like a wheel-barrow
tram ;
Your ee it's faun in — your nose it's faun out.
And the skin o' your cheek's like a dirty clout.
0 ance, like a yaud, ye spankit the bent,
Wi' a fecket sae fou, and a stocking sae stent,
The strength o' a slot — the wecht o' a cow ;
Now, Tammy, my man, ye're grown like a grew.
1 mind sin' the blink o' a canty quean
Could watered your mou and lichtit your een ;
Now yc leuk like a yowe, when ye should be a
rain ;
O what can be wrang wi' ye, IMuirland Tarn ?
Has Rome dowg o' the yirth set your gear abrced ?
Hac they broken your heart or broken your head ?
Hae they rackit wi' rungs or kittled wi' steel ?
Ot, Tammy, my man, liae ye seen the deil ?
Wha ance was your match at a stoup and a tale ?
Wi' a voice like a sea, and a drouvh like a whale ?
Now ye peep like a piiwt ; ye glumph and yi
gaunt ;
Oh, Tammy, my man, are ye turned i saunt ?
Come, lowse your heart, ye man o' the muir;
We tell our distress ere we look for a cure:
There's laws for a wrang, and sa's for a sair ;
Sae, Tammy, my man, what wad ye Lae mairl
Oh ! ncebour, it neither was thresher nor thiefi
That deepened my ee, and lichtened my beef;
But the word that malves me saewaefu' and wan,
Is^Tam o' the Balloch's a married man I
HAUD AWA FRAE ME DONALD.
Haud a.va, bide awa!
Haud awa frae me, Donald :
I've seen the man I well could love,
But that was never thee, Donald.
Wi' plumed bonnet waiving proud.
And claymore by thy knee, Donald,
And Lord o' Moray's mountains high,
Thou'rt no a match for me, Donald.
Haud awa, bide awa,
Haud awa frae me, Donald,
What sairs your mountains and your lochty
I caima swim nor flee Donald :
But if ye'll come when yon f lir sun
Is sunk beneath the sea, Donald,
I'll quit my kin, and kilt my cots.
And take the hills wi' thee, Donald.
One of the old verses runs thus :—
Hand awa, bide awa,
Ilaud awa frae me, Donald,
Keep awa your cauld hand
Frae my warm knee Donald.
AULD ROB MORRIS.
,Tune—" Auld Rob Morris."
MOTHER.
AuLD Rob Morris, that wons in yon glen.
He 8 the king o* guid fallows, and wale o' auld
men ;
He has fourscore o' black sheep, and fourscor*
too ;
Auld Rob IMorris is the man yc maun lo'e.
DAUGHTER.
Haud your tongue, mother, a id let that abee ;
For his eild and my eild can never agree :
They'll never agree, anil that will be seen ;
For be is fourscore, and I'm but fifteen.
SONGS.
177
MoTiini.
Hand yoiir tonp:in>, iloclitor, and lay l)y your iniJc,
Fur he is tlie bi idcgriimn, and ye'se he tb.e bride ;
lie A\:\\\ lie l>y yi'nr sidf, and kiss yi'u too ;
Aald Rob Moi is is the nuu ye maun lo'e.
DAUGHTER.
Auld Rob RInrris, 1 kt'ii iiini fu' weel,
His back stii-ks out like ony peat-creel ;
He's outsliinn'd, in-kneed, and ringle-eyed too ;
Auld Rob Jl'jrris is the man I'll ne'er lo'e.
MOTHER.
Though auld Rob Morris be an elderly man.
Yet his anld brass will buy you a new pan ;
Then, dochter. ye should iiu be sa ill to shoe,
For auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun Ip'e.
DAUGHTF.K.
Rut auld Rob Morris I never will hae,
Ria back is so stiff, and his beard is grown grey ;
I had rather die than live \vi* him a year ;
6ae mair o' Rob Morris I never will hear.
THE MALT-MAN.
The m,i!t-man comes on Munday,
He craves wonder sair.
Cries, Dame, come gi'e me my siller.
Or malt ye sail ne'er get mair.
I took him into the pantry,
And gave him some good cock-broo,
Syne paid 'aim upon a gantree,
As hostlcr-wives should do.
When malt-men come for siller,
And gaugers with wands o'er soon.
Wives, tak them a' down to the cellar,
And clear them as I have done.
Tliis l-ewith, when cunzie is scanty,
Will lieep them frae making din ;
The knack I learu'd frae an auld aunty,
The snackest of a' my kin.
The malt-man is right cunning,
But I can be as slee.
And he may crack of his winning,
WHien he clears scores with me ;
For come when he likes, I'm ready;
But if frae home I be,
Let him wait on our kind Uidy,
She'll answer a bill for me.
THE AULD WIFE BEYONT THE FIRE.
There was a wife wnn'd in a glen,
And she had dnchters nine or ten,
That sought the house baith but and ben,
To find their mam a snishiug.
Tlic avid trife heijriitt the /ire,
Tlif. aulil wiff. luiieit tfifjire,
Tlie auld u'ije uIddii the fire,
IShc (lied for lac/i if syiislting.*
Her mill into some bole had fiwn,
Wh.itrccks, (|iiotb she, let it be gavf n,
For I maun hie a young goodiiian
Shall furnish me with snishing.
The auld wife, §*c.
Her eldest dochter said right batild,
Fy, mother, mind that now ye' re auld.
And if ye with a youiiker wald.
He'll wa^te away your snishing.
2'lie auld icij'e, ^'C.
The younijest dochter ga'c a shout,
O mother dear ! your teeth's a' out.
Besides ha'f blind, you have the gout.
Your mill cm had nae snishing.
The auld wife, SfC.
Ye lied, ye llmmers, cries auld mump,
For I hae baith a tooth and stump.
And will nae langer live in dump,
By wantins; of niv snishinjj.
'The auld wife, Sec
Thole ye, says Peg, th,at pawky slul^
Mother, if ye can crack a nut.
Then we will ii' consent to it.
That you shall have a siiisUing.
The auld wfe, S^c.
The auld ane did agree to that.
And they a pistol-bullet gat ;
She powerfu'ly began to crack,
To win lieisell a snishing.
The auld wife, §'c.
Rraw sport it was to see her rhow't.
And 'tween her gums sae squeeze and ro^r'V,
While frae her jaws the slaver flow'd,
And ay she cuis'd [loor stumpy.
The auld wife, §t.
At last she ga'e a desperate squeei.
Which brak the lang touth by the ceee.
And syne pmir stum|)y was at case,
But she tint hopes of snishing.
The auld wife, §-c.
Slie of the task begin to tire.
And frae her dochters did retire^
Syne lean'd her down ayont the fire^
And died lor hick of snishiag.
The anld wfe, SfC.
Ye auld wives, notice well this truth,
Assoun as ye"re past murk of mouth.
• Siiishing, in its llleial meaninir, is snuff m.ide ol
tobnceo ; but, in tins soni;, it nie;u)s soraeUme* coa-
tentment, a husbanij, lovc» money, d^c.
03
178
BURNS' WORKS.
Ne'er do what's only fit for youth.
And leave utT thoughts of snishin^ :
Else, like t/iis icife beyimt the fire,
I'eV bairns against you will conspire ;
JS'^or will ye get, unit is ye hire,
A. young man with your snishing.
BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY.
O BESST Bell and Mary Gray,
Thev are twa bonny lassies,
They bigg'd a how'r on yon burn-brae,
And theek'd it o'er wi' rashes.
Fair Bessy Bell I loo'd yestreen.
And thought I ne'er could alter.
But Mary Gray's twa pawky een,
They gar my fancy falter.
Now Bessy's hair's like a lint tap ,
She smiles like a May morning.
When Phoebus starts frae Thetis' lap,
The hills with rays adorning :
WTiite is her neck, saft is her hand,
Her waist and feet's fu' genty ;
fl'ith ilka grace she can command ;
Her lips, O wow ! they're dainty.
And Mary's locks are like a craw.
Her een like diamonds glances ;
She's ay sae clean, redd up, and braw.
She kills whene'er she dances ;
Blvtlie as a kid, witli wit at will.
She blooming, tight, and tall is ;
And guides her airs sae gracefu' still.
O Juve, she's like thy Pallas.
Dear Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,
Ye unco sair oppress us ;
Our fancies jee between you twa,
Ye are sic bonny lassies :
Wae's me ! for baith I canna get,
To ane by law we're stented ;
Then I'll diaw cuts, and take my fate.
And be with aue contented.
BONNY BARBARA ALLAN.
It was in and about the Martinmas time,
Wiicn the gieen leaves were a-failing,
That Sir J(d:n Graeme in the west country
Fell in love with 13urbara Allan.
He Bont his man down through the town.
To the place where she was dwelling,
O ha-<te, and come to my master dear,
Gin je be I!.trbara Allan.
O hooly, hdoly ruse she up,
To the |ilacc where he was lying.
And when she drew the curtain by.
Young man, I think you're dying
O its I'm sick, and very very sick.
And 'tis a' for Barbara Allan.
O the better for me ye's never be,
Tho' your heart's blood were a-spilling
O dinna ye mind, young man, said she.
When he was in the tavern a-drinking,
That ye made the healths gae round and rouad
And slighted Barbara Allan ?
He turn'd his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealing ;
Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all.
And be kind to Barbara Allan.
And slowly, slowly raise she up,
And slowly, slowly left him ;
And sighing, said, she cou'd not stay.
Since death of life had reft him.
She had not gane a mile but twa.
When she heard the dead-bell ringing,
And every jow that the dead-bsll gied
It cry'd, Wo to Barbara Allan.
O mother, mother, make my bed^
O make it saft and narrow.
Since my love dy'd for me to-day,
I'll die for him to-morrow.
ETTRICK BANKS.
On Ettrick banks, in a summer's night,
At glowmiug when the sheep drave haiMj
I met my lassie braw and tight,
Came wading, barefoot, a' her lane :
I\Iy heart grew light, I ran, I flang
IMy arms about her lily neck.
And kiss'd and clipp'd her there fou lang ;
Sly worda they were na niony, feck.
I said, my lassie, will ye go
To the highland hills, the Earsc to leam -
I'd baith gi'e thee a cow and ew,
When ye come to the brigg of Earn.
At Leith, auld meal comes in, ne'er fash.
And herrings at the Brooiiiy Law ;
Choar up your heart, my Ijonny lass.
There's gear to win we never saw.
All d:\y when we have wrou<Tht enough,
When winter, frosts, ami snaw begin,
Soon as the sun gaes west the loch.
At nis,'ht when you sit down to spin,
I'll screw my pipes and play a spring :
And thus the weary night will end,
Till the tender kid and laMib-tinic bnnjj
Our pleasant summer back aj;ain.
SONGS.
179
Svne wVicn the trees are in tlicir bloom,
And gowans glent o'er ilka fieiil,
r II meet my 1 i>^s anionjj; the hroum,
And lead yoii to my suiiimei-shield.
Then far frae a' their scorntu' din.
Tint make the kindly hearts their s|)ort,
We'll laui^h and kiss, and dance and sing.
And gar the langest day seem short.
THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY.*
DAVID MALLKT.
T^ne—" The Birks of Invennay.
The smiling morn, the breathing spring.
Invite the tiinefu' birds to sing ;
And, while they warble from the spray,
Love melts the universal lay.
Let us, Amanda, timelv wise.
Like them, improve the hour that flies •
And in soft raptures waste the day.
Among the birks of Invermay.
For soon t!ie winter of the year.
And age, life's winter, will appear ;
At this thy living bloom will fade,
As that will strip the verdant shade.
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er,
The feather'fl songsters are no more ;
And when they drop, and we decay,
Adieu the i)irks of Invermay !
THE BRAES O" BALLENDEAN.
DR. BLACKLOCK.
T^ni—" The Braes o' Ballendean."
Beneath a green shade, a lovely young swain
Ae evening reclineil, to discover his pain ;
So sad, yet so sweetly, he waibled his woe.
The winds ceased to breathe, and the fviuntain to
flow ;
Rude winds wi' compassion could hear him
complain,
Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain.
• Invermay is a small woody plen, watered by the
rivulet May, which there joins tlie river Earn. It is
Bboiit five miles above ihe bridsjf of Earn, and nearly
nine from Perth. The feat of Mr Belsches, the pro.
prictor of this jioctical region, and wlio takes from it
his territnrial dcsii^nation, stands at the bfjltom of the
glen. Beth sides of the lit t'e vale are com pletelv wood-
ed, chiefly witli birehes; and it is altogether, in point
of natural loveliness, a ^celle worthv of ihe attention
of the amatory muse. The com se of the May is so
sunk among rocks, that it cannot lie seen, but it can
Msdv be traced in us I rogress by another sense. The
peculiar sound which it makes in rushing through one
p.u-iiciilar part of its narrow, rugged, .ind tortuous
thoDnel, has occasioned the descriptive appellation of
the Hiimbtc-nuitili/e to be attached to that quarter of
the vale. Invermay may be at once and correctly de-
scribed as the fiiirest possible little miniature si>eciincn
i>f cascade scenery.
The Sling appeared in the 4th \olumeof the Tea-
vable Miscellaiiv.
How happy, he cried, my moments nice flew,
Ere Chine's bright charms first llasli'd in my
view !
Those eyes then wi' pleasure the dawn eoulii
snivey ;
Nor smiled the fair Kiorning mair cheerful than
they.
Now scents of distress |)lease only my sit'ht ;
I'm tortured in pleasure, and languish in light
Through changes in vain relief I pursue,
All. all but con^jiiie my griefs to renew ;
From suri^liine to zejiliyrsand shades we lepair—
To sunsliine we fly from too piercing an air ;
But love's ardent Are burns always the same.
No winter can cool it, no summer iutlame.
But see the pale moon, all clouded, retires ;
The breezes grow cool, not Streplion's desires :
I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind.
Yet nourish the madness that preys on my mind.
.Ml, wretch ! how can lil'e be worthy thy care?
To lengthen its moments, but lengthens despair. •
THE BRUME O' THE COWDEN-
KNOWES.
Tune — " The Brume o' the Cowdcnknowes."
How blyth, ilk morn, was I to see
My swain coine ower the hill !
He skipt the burn and flew to me :
I met him with good will.
()/(, r/ie brume, the. honntc, hnintie brume I
The lirinue ii' the Cmfi/eit/nit wes /
I wish I u-(re ivith my dear swain,
}Vilh his pijie and ini/ yowes.
I wanted neither yowe nor lamb,
While his flock near me lay ;
He gatlirr'd in my sheep at night.
And cheer'd me a' the day.
Oh, the brume, §'C.
He tuned his jiipe, and play'd Sie 8weet»
The birds sat listening bye ;
E en the dull cattle s.'ood and gazed,
Chann'd with the nielodye.
Oh, the brume, S^c.
While thus we spent our time, by turns.
Betwixt our flncks and play,
I envied not the fairest dame,
Though e'er so rich or g ly.
Oh, the brume, §c.
• The cdcbrated Tenducci \\fei\ losing thi; sorR,
wih great ifiVet, in St. (Vi ilia's Hall, at Edinburgh,
about (ilty \ears Ago. Mr 'l'\tler, who was a great pa.
tr.in ol that oliMilile place of anuisiniciK, says, in nis
Dis-eitation on Scottish Music, " Wlio could heal
with iiiseii«.bi!ity, oruiihoul being moved in the high-
est degree, le diicfi -iiii.', ' I'll i ever leave thee," or,
• The Uraes o' Bjlleudean." Tlic air uai cunipuscd b»
Oiw.ild.
^80
BURNS' WORKS.
Hard fate, that I should banish'd be,
Gang heavily, and mourn,
Because I loved the kindest swain
That ever yet was burn.
Oh, the brume, Sfc.
He did obli;re me every hour ;
Cou\d 1 but faithful' be ?
He stawe my heart ; could I refuse
Whate'er he ask'd of me ?
Oh, the brume, §"c.
My doggie, and my little kit
That held my wee soup whey,
My plaidie, brooch, and crookit stick,
May now lie useless by.
Oh, the brume, ^t.
Adieu, ye Cowdenknowes, adieu !
Farewjel, a' pleasures there !
Ye gods, restore me to my swain—.
Is a' I crave or care.
Oh, the brume, y-c*
THE CARLE HE CAM OWER THE
CRAFT.
Tun^— •• The Carle he cam ower the Craft."
The carle he cam ower the craft,
Wi' his beard iiew-.«haven ;
He looked at me as he'd been daft, — •
The carle trowed that I wad hae hira.
Hnut awa ! I winna hae him !
Na, forsooth, I winna hae him !
For a' his beard new-shaven,
Ne'er a bit o' uie will hae him.
A siller brooch he gae me neist,
To fasten on my curchie nookit ;
I wore 't a wee upon my breist,
IJut soon, alake ! the tongue o't crook' ;
And sae may his ; I winna hae him !
Na, forsooth, I winna hae him !
Twice-a-bairii's a lassie's jest ;
Sae ony foul for me may hae him.
The carle hiis nae fault but ane ;
For he has land an<l dollars plenty ;
Dut, wae's me for him, skin and bane
Is no for a plump lass of twenty.
Hout awa, I winna hae him !
Na, forsooth, I winna h,u; him !
What signifies his dirty riggs.
And cash, without a man wi' them ?
• As the reader may be supposed nrxious to know
•omcthiiiK of the pl.ne wliiili h.is thus hccii the subject
of lo much poetry, thocdilor Ihniksit proper to iiitorm
him, that, ■' the (."owdcnknowcs," or, as sometimes
(pt'lk'il 111 old writings, the Ciildinpkiiowcs, are two
little hills on the east side of the vale of l.audcidale,
BiTwickshiie. They lie immediately to the south of
the village of Krirlston, ccliflnated as the ru^id^•llce of
>hc earliest known ijeotlish poet, Thomas the Khyiner,
But should my ankert daddie gar
Me tak him 'gainst my inclination,
1 warn the fumbler to beware
That antlers dinna claim their station
Hout awa ! I winna hae him !
Na, forsooth, I winna hae him !
I'm flee'd to crack the haly band,
S.ie lawty says, I shou'd na hae him
THE WEE THING.
MACKEIL.
TuTK — " Bonnie Dundee."
Saw ye my wee thing ? saw ye my ain thing?
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea ?
Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloaii>-
in'?
Sought she the burnie whar flow'rs the haw-
tree ?
Her hair it is lint-white ; her skin it b milk
white ;
Dark is the blue o' her saft-roUing ee ;
Red red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses :
Whar could my wee thing wander frae me ? —
I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain
thing,
Nor saw I your true love down on yon lea ;
But I met my bunnie thing late in the gloaniin.
Down by the burnie whar flow'rs the haw-
tree.
Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was
milk-white ;
Dark was the blue o' her saft-iolling ee ;
Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses;
Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me ! —
It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain
thing,
It was na my true love ye met by the tree :
Proud is her leal heart ! and modest her nature !
She never loed onie till ance she loed me.
Her name it is Mary ; she's frae Castle- Cary;
Aft ha? she sat, when a bairn, on my knee ;
Fair as your face is, war't fifty times fairer.
Young bragger, she ne'er would gie kisses to
thee !—
It was, then, your Mary ; she's frae Castle-
Cary ;
It was, then, your true love I met by the
tree :
Proud as her heart is. and modest her nature.
Sweet were the kisses that she gae to nie. —
Sair gloom'd his dark brow — blood-ieJ hi#
cheek grew —
Wild flasli'd the tire frae his red-rolling ee '
SONGS.
81
\e'se rue sair, this morning, your boasts and Tl r widow slie's youthful, ■*.iii lu'ver ae hair
Viiui" si-oi Mill;; I'l l.e \v;iiir ul' cln' wciniig, iiiiit Ikis a poivl skaii*
Defend ye, faust- traitor! iur lunliy m- lie. — ( )l' fvci y thj-.ii iini-lv ; she's witty anil fuir,
And li.is a rich jniiituii', uiy kiiiilie-
Awa wi' h/Pguilini^ cried the youth, sinilm!^ :
Aff went the binnet; tlie liiit-wlii:e locks
floe ;
V\'kat could vc wi>h l)ctti.-r, your pleaiure tc
crown,
I Than a widow, the honniest toast in the town.
ebcltcd plaid la'injj, her white bosuni shaw- I With, Naetliin>; hut — iIimw in yotii- stool and sit
Fair stoiid the loved uia.d ui' the daik-roll-
.,. I
Is It ipy wee thin^ ! is it mine ain thing !
Is it my true love here that I see ! —
0 J.iniie, foi-jjie me ; your lieart's constant to
me ;
I'll never mair wander, dear ' ddie, frae thee !
THE WHITE COCKADE.
Ttinr—" The White Cockade."
Mv love wa-. imrn in Aberdeen,
The bonniest l,;d that e'er was seen ;
But now he utakei our hearts fu' sad —
He's ta'en the field wi' his white cockade.
O, lie's a riinting nming blade I
O, lie's a hrisk and a honni/ lad !
Bitide rcliat mny, r<iy hctut is pl'id
To see my lad wi' hi.i tcliite coclidde.
O, leeze me on the phllabee;.
The hairv houj^h, and gaiter'd leg !
Rut aye the thing that glads my ee,
Is the white coc-kade uboifu the bree.
O, lit's a ranting, &-c.
I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel.
My rii)i)l;ng kunie, and s))iimiug wheel,
To buy my lad a tartan plaid,
A hraidswoid and a white cockade.
O, he's a ranting, Sfc.
I'll fell my rokely and my tow,
Jly gude grey mare atid hawket cow,
That every loyal Isuchan lad
May tok the field wi' his white cockade.
O 'le's a ranting, Sfc.
THE WIDOW,
ALLAN RA.MSAY.
The widow can bake, and the widow can brew,
The willow can shaiie, and the widow can sew,
And niony braw thing* the widow can do ;
'1 hen have at the widow, my l.uldie.
With courage att.iek her, baith early and late:
To kiss her aiul dap her ye inaunna he blate :
Speak Well, and do better ; fur that's the best
gate
To win a young widow, m> LuiOie.
down.
And sj'ort with the widow, my laddie.
Tl'.en till her, and kill her with courtesie dead.
Though staik love liiid kindness be all you cac
plead ;
Be heartsouie and airv, and hope to succeed
With the Ixinnie giv widow, mv laddie.
Strike iron while 'tis het, if ye'd Lave it to
vrald ;
For fortune ay favours the active and bauld,
But ruins the wooer that's thowless and cauld
Unfit for the widow, my laddie.
THE YELLOW-HAIR'D LADDIZ.
OLD VERSES.
Tung — " The ycllow-haii'd LadiUt."
The yellow-hair'd laddie sat down on yon brae,
Cried, Milk the yowes, lassie, let nane o' them
gae;
And aye as she niilkit, she merrily sang.
The yellow-hair'd luddle shall be n.y gudenaan.
And aye as she jnilkit, .she nierrily sang.
The ydluw-hair^d laddie shall be my aude-
man.
The weather is cauld, and my cleadin is thin.
The yowes are new dipt, and they winna buch*
in;
They winna bucht in, although I should dee;
Oh, yellow-haird'd laddie, be kind unto me.
Attd aye us she milhit, ifc.
The gudewife cries butt the house, Jennie, come
ben ;
The cheese is to mak, and the butter's to kirn.
Though butter, and cheese, and a' should gang
sour,
I'll crack and I'll kiss wi' my love ae half hour.
It's ae tang half huur, and we'll e'en inuk it
three.
For the y Mow-hair'' d laddie my gudeman
shall be.»
• From the Tea-Table Mi.scclLuiy, 17S4.
183
BURNS' WORKS.
IHE YOUNG LATRD AND EDINBURGH
KATIE.
RAMSAy.
Tune — " Tartan Screen."
Now wat ye wha T met yestreen,
Coming down the street, my joe ?
My mistress, in her taitan screen,
Fu' boniiie, braw, and sweet, my joe !
]My dear, quoth I, thanks to the nicht
That never wiss'd a lover ill.
Sin' ye're out o' your niither's sicht,
Let's tak' a walk up to the hill.*
Oh. Katie, wilt thou gang wi' me,
And leave the dinsome toun a while ?
The blossom's sprouting frae the tree,
And a' creation's gaun to smile.
The mavis, nichtingale, and lark.
The bleating lambs anil whistling liynd,
In ilka dale, green slww, and park,
Will nourish health, and glad your mind.
Sune as the clear gudeman o' dny
Does bend his niornin' draught o* dew,
We'll gae to some burn-side and plav,
And gather (louirs to busk your brow.
We'll pou the daisies on the groen.
The luc-ken-^owans frae the bog ;
Between hands, now and then, we'll lean
And sport upon the velvet fog.
There 's, up into a pleasant glen,
A wee piece frae my f ither's tower,
A canny, saft, and Hou-ery den.
Which circling birks have form'd a bower.
Whene'er the sun grows high and warm.
We'll to the caller shade lemove ;
There will I lock thee in my arm,
And love ai. I kiss, and kiss and love.
MY MOTHER'S AYE GLOWRIN' OWER
ME;
IN ANSWER TO THE VOUN'G LAIRD AND
EDINUUKUII KATV.
RA.MSAV.
A une — " My Mother's aye glowrin' ower me.**
tJlv mother's aye glowrin* ower nic,
Though she did the same before me ;
* It i-i qnilp ns rRmarka'ilfl as it Is Irtit'. tliiit llic
mod" iif hoiirtsliip iimiiii; prople oftlio iiiiiMli' ranks
ill Kdinbnrili Ims uiidiTiiOiio a cumiilite <liiin.M>
in the course of no morr tli in Ihn I ist tlilrly yciirs.
It iis(,'(l to lie custdiiriry fell li>virs to wiilk tdsi'tlicr
for liciiiri, l>()lli iliirint; tlic diy an I llie evoiiii:;, in
ilio Mp ulows, i)r tlif Kiii'm I'iirk, or llio li-lils hum
D'i'upii'd l)y ilir New Touii ; pr'.eticrs now only
known ti) arlizuns iin:l srri iiiu'-ijirj''.
TliB song appeared in the Tea-Tublo Miscellany,
I canna get leave
To look at my love,
Or else she'd be like to devour me.
Right fain wad I tak' your oHTer,
Sweet Sir — but I'll tyne my tocher
Then, Sandy, ye'll fret,
And wyte your puir Kate,
Whene'er ye keek in your toom coffer
For though my fatlier has plenty
Of silver, and plenishing dainty,
Yet he's unco sweir
To twine wi' his gear ;
And sae we had need to be tenty.
Tutor my ])arent' wi' caution,
Be wylie in ilka i otion ;
Brag weel o' -our land,
And, there's tiiy leal hand,
Win them, I'll be at your devotion.
WANDERING WILLIE.
OLD VERSES.
Tune—" Wandering Willie."
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie '
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame :
Lang have I sought thee, dear have I bough!
tnce ;
Now I have gotten my Willie again.
Through the lang muir I have followed my
Willie ;
Through the lang muir I have followed liina
hame.
Whatever betide us, nought shall divide us ;
Love ni w rewa ds all my sorrow and pain.
Here awa, there awa, here awa, .Willie !
Here awa, there awa, here awa, hame !
Come, love, believe me, nothing can grieve me,
Ilka thing pleases, when Willie's at hame. •
CA.M* YE O'ER FRAE FRANCE.
Cam' ye o'er frae Frai.vC, came ye doun b)
Liinnoii,
Saw ye Geoidie Whelps and his bonny woman
War' ye at the place ca'd thi kittle-housie.
Saw ye Ueordie's grace, ridin' on a goosie.
Gporilio he's a man, there 's little doiiht o't,
He's (lone a' he can, wha can do without il ;
Down tlicro cam' a blade, .iiikiii' like alor<lie,
lie wad (Irlvu a trade at the loom o' Geurdie.1
* From II rd's Collft'-tion, I77I1.
t 'I'liiM piniiily alludes to Ciiunt Koui' gwnark
nnd tlie Cluuun.
SONGS,
I8a
TIic the cl;iitV wltl- bad, l)lytliely may we niffcr,
Gin we get a wati, it iiiak'n little ilitTcr ;
We liae tint our jilaiil, lidiinct, lielt anil sworriie,
lid's and nuillins braid, bat we hae a Geoidie.
Hoy fiT Sandy Don, hey for cockolorum,
Hey lor Bobbin' Juliu and his Highland qiin-
ruin ;
Many a sword and lance swings at Highland
hurdle,
Huw they'll skij) and daucc o'er the bum o'
Geui'die.
THE HIGHLAND LADDIE.
ANOTHER SET.
The lawland l.ifls think they are fine;
But O they're vain and idly i;auily !
How niudi unlike tn.it fjraeelii' mien.
And manly looks of my iili,'hl.ind Iidilie ?
O nil/ hiiiinij, biiiini/ liiyldnuil Imtilie,
Mg /lani/sonie, c/iirniniy liiylilnnil Iw/die ;
Mill/ heaven still guard, and lore nwnrd
Our lawland lass and lur hiyldand laddie.
If I were free at will to eluise
To be tile w<a!thie,-t lawland lady,
I'd take yoiin^ Donald without trews,
With bonnet blue, and belted jdaidy.
O my hunnij, ^c.
The brawest t)eau in borrows, town,
In a' his airs, with art made ready,
Coni|)ar'il to him, he's but a clown ;
He's finer far iii's taifan plaidy.
O my buiiuy, Ifc.
O'er henty hill with him I'll run.
And leave my lawland kin and darty ;
Frae winter's cauld, and suinmer's sun,
He'll sereen me with his highland plaidy.
O my bunny, ifc.
A painted room, ami silken bed,
May please a l.iwlind laird and lady ;
But I can kiss, and be as ulad.
Behind a bush m's liighland plaidy.
O my bonny, ^'c.
Few compliments between us pass,
1 ca' him my dear highland laddie,
And he ca's me his lawland l.iss,
Syne rows nie in beneath liis ulaidy.
O my bunny. &fc.
N'ae greater joy I'll e'er pretend.
Than thit his love provL" true and steady,
Like mine to bun, which ne'er shall end,
While heaven |)resei'ves my highland laddie.
O mj/ bonny, ^c.
JENNY NETTLES.
Saw ye Jenny Nettles,
Jenny Nettles. Jenny Nettles,
Saw ye Jenny Nettles
Coming frae the maiket?
Bag and baggage on her back.
Her fee and bountith in her lap;
Bag and baggage on her back,
And a babie in her oxtei ?
I met ayont the kairny,
Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles,
Singing till her bairny,
Robin Rattle's bastard ;
To flee the dool upo' the stool,
And ilka une that mocks her.
She round about seeks Robin out,
To staji it in his oxter
Fy, fy ! Robin Rattle,
Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle;
Fy. fy ! Robin Rattle,
Use Jenny Nettles kindly :
Score out the blame, and shun the shame,
Anil without mair debate o't,
Tak hame your wean, make Jenny fain
The Icel and leesome gate o't.
O MERRY IMAY THE MAID BE.
SIR JOHN CI.EnK or ITNKVCUICK.
Tune—" Merry may the Maid be."
O, MERRY may the maid be
That marries the miller!
For, foul day or fair day.
He's aye bringing till her.
H'as aye a penny in his pouch,
For dinner oi- for supper ;
Wi" beef, and pease, anil melting cheese,
An' lumps o' yellow butter.
Behind the door stands I)ags o' meal.
And in the ark is plenty.
And goorl hard cakes his iiiither bakes.
And mony a sweeter dainty,
A good lat sow, a sleeky cow.
Are standing in the byre;
Whilst winking puss, wi' mealy mou.
Is playing round the fire.
Good signs are these, my mitl.er says
An<l bids me take the miller;
A miller's wife's a merry wife.
Anil he's aye bringing till her.
For meal or maut she'll never want,
Ti'l wood and water's scanty ;
As king's there's cocks and clockin Leni»
She'll aye hae eggs in plenty.
184
BURNS* WORKS.
THE TAILOR.
The Tailni f.ll tliro' the bed tliinil)lcs an' a*,
The Tailiir fell thro' the lied thiiiililes an' a',
The blankets were thin ami the sheets they were
sma',
The Tailor fell thro' the bed thim'^l"s an' a*.
TTie lassie was sleepy and thoiir;ht nn nae ill ;
The weather was caiild and the hussie lay still ;
The ninth |)art o' m.mliood may sure hue its
will ;
She kent weel tlie Tailor could do her nae ill.
Tlie Tailnr grew dioo-^y, and thought in a
dream,
How he caulked out the claith, and then felled
in tiie seam ;
A while avonf midniu'ht, before the eocks craw,
The Tailor fell thro' the bed thimbles an' a".
Tlie day it has come, and the nicht it has gone,
S.iid the bonnie young lassie when sighing
alane :
Since men are but scant, it wad gee me n:je
pain,
To see the bit Tailor come skippin again.
AWA, WHIGS, AWA!
JACOBITE SONG.
TafU"— " Awa, \\Tiig3, awa !"
Our thistles fl.nirishVi fresh and fair,
And bonny bloimi'd our roses,
llut Whigs came, like a frost in June,
And witht-r'd a' our posies.
Awn, M'/iii/x, awa!
Awa, M'/iii/s, awa I
Yv're hut a puck o' trai'tnr loons ;
Yc'll neer do ff'wd at a'.
Our sad deciv in church and state
Surjtasses my ilescriving;
The Whigs can'ie v,'er us for a oirse.
And we have done wi' thriving.
Awa, Wliiys ! uwa, Sfc.
A foreign '\Miiggish loon bought seeds,
In Scottish yiiil to cover;
Lut we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks,
And pack him to Hanover.
Awa, WItiijsl awn, ^x.
Our nncient crown's fi'n i' the dust,
Deil iilinil them wi' the stour o't !
Ami writi; th.ir names in his black beuk,
Wha ga'e the Wliigs the j'nwL-r o't !
Awa, Wh\ ' awa, Jrc
Grim Vengeance lansj has ti'en a i:ap.
But we may see him wauken :
Gude hel(> the day, when royal heads
Are hunted like a m iiikin !
Aica, WhitjS .' awa, §ti.
The deil he heard the stour o' tongues,
And ramping cjime amang us ;
But he pitied us, sae curbed wi' VMiigs,—
He turn'd and wadiia wran? ns.
Awu, Wltitjs ! awa, fye
Sae grim he sat amting the reeK,
Thrang bundling brimstone matches ;
And cioon'd, 'mang the beuk-taJking Whigs,
Scra])s of auld Calvin's catches.
Au-a, Whiqs, awa !
Awa, Wliiijs, own !
Ytll Tin me out o' wiin spunks,
And ne'er do good at a'.
LOCH-NA-GARR.
BY BON.
Away ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,
In you let tiie minions of luxury rove ;
I'uistore me the rocks where tlie saovv-fiake re
poses,
If still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yet, Caledonia, deur are thy mountains.
Round their white summits tho' elements war,
Tho' cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing
fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-garr.
vShades of the dead ! have I heard your voices
Rise on the nistht-rolling breath of the gaJe,
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind, o'er his own Higldaad
dale.
Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist ga-
thers,
Winter jjresices in his cnM icy car ;
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers.
They dwell *mid the tempests of dark Loch-
na-Rarr.
TIIE IMERRY ]MEN, O.
WiirN I was red, and ripe, and crouse,
Ripe and crouse, ripe and crouse,
My father built a wee house, a wee hou»e.
To baud me fiae the men, O.
There came a lad and gae a shout,
Gae a shout, gae a shout.
185
The wa's fi'II In. and I fill otit,
Amaiiij the inciiy iiu'ii, O.
I dream sic swi'i'f fhin2^< in my sslucp,
In my sln-ii, in my s!i'e|).
My iniiiny says I wiima ke.:!p,
Aiii.iiitj sac iiii'tiy men, O.
^ Sen jiliims are ii|je, they sliiuild lie joo'd,
Slidii!.! he |mii'(l, shniilil lie jJoiiM,
Wlien maids are rip'", tliey sliould be woo'd
At seven yeais and ten, O.
My love, I erie<l it, at the port,
At the port, at tlie port,
The captain bade =1 tjuine.i for't,
Tlie cdldiiel he l)ade fen, O.
The chaplain lie haiie siller for't,
Siller I'or't, siller tor't,
Ihit the sergeant bade ine naetbing for't,
Vet he cam farthest ben, O.
KENMURE'S ON AND AWA, WILLIE.
T\nf — " Kciunure's on and awa."
D, Kfnml're's on ami awa, Willie,
(). Kenmure's on and awa;
And Kenmure's lord's tiie bravest lord
That ever Galloway saw.
Succes to Kemniire's band, Willie,
Success to Keiiimiie's banil !
There's no a heart that fears a Whig;,
That rides by Kenmure's hand.
Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie,
Here's Kemiuiie'.-. health in wine !
There ne'er was a coward o* Kenmure's bludc,
Aur yet o' (jordon's line.
O, Kermurc's lads are men, Willie,
O, Kenmure's lads are men !
Their hearts and swonK are metal true ;
And that their laes shall ken.
They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie,
They'll live or die wi' fame;
But tune wi' souml and vietoiie
May Kenmure's lord come hame !
Hire's hint, that's fir awa, Willie,
Here's him that's tar awa ;
And here's the flower that 1 lo'e best,
The rose that's like the suaw.
POLWART ON THE GREEN.
At Polwart on the green.
If you'll meet me the morn.
Where lasses do coiiveaf
To danee about the t..orn,
A kindly welcome you shall meet
Frae her wha likes to view
A lover an<l u lad complete,
The lad and lover you.
Let dorty dames say Na,
As lani; as e'er tiny please.
Seem caulder than the sna',
N\ hile inwardly they bleeze ;
Ikic I will frankly shaw my ipiod,
And yield my heart to «hee ;
Be ever to the captive kind,
Tiiat langs na to be free.
At Polwart on the green,
Aman^ the new-mawn hay.
With sanjj;s and dancing keen
We'll pass the heartsome day.
At night, if beds be o'er thrang laid,
And thou be twin'd of thine.
Thou slialt be welcome, my dear lad*
To take a jiart of mine.
HAJIE NEVER CAME HE.
SAUDLEn, and bridled, and booted rode he,
A plume in his helmet, a swiml at bis knee ;
liut toom cam' the saddle, all bluiily to see.
And hiime cam' the steed, but hame never cam
he.
Down cam' his gray father, sabbin' sap sair,
Diiwn cam' his auld mither, teai ing her hair,
Down cam' his sweet wife \vi' bunnie bairnj
three,
Ane at her bosom, and twa at her knee.
There stood the fleet steed all foamin' and hot,
There shriek'd his sweet wife, and sank on the
spot.
There stood his gray father, weeping sae free.
So hame cam' liis steed, but Iiame never cam
he.
THE BOB OF DUMBLANE.
Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle,
And I'll lend you my thripling kaii:e;
For fainness, deary, I'll gar ye keckle.
If ye'U go dance the Bob of Dumb! inc.
Haste ye, gang to the ground of your trunkies,.
Busk ye braw, and dimia think shame ;
Consider in time, if leading i;f .iionkies
Be better than dancing the Bub of Dumblase,
Be frank, my lassie, lest I grow fickle.
And tike my word and otfer again.
Syne ye may chance to repent it mickle.
Ye did ni accept the Bub of Dumblane
166
BURNS' WORKS.
The dinner, tlie jiiper, and priest slnll he roa'iy,
And I'm grcnvn d.nvy with lyinsf my laue ;
Away then, leave liaith ininny and dady.
And try with me the Bob of Dumbldue.
LOCHABER NO MORE
T\tne — " I.O(.jiaber no more."
Faueweli, to Lnchiher, and farewell uy Jean,
\\'here lieait^ume with thee I've mony day been ;
Fur Lociiaber no iiKire, Loehaber no more,
We'll in.iy lie return to Lochaber no more.
Tiiese tears that I sht-d, they are a' for my dear,
And no for the dinsrer* attemling on weir,
Tho Iiore on roii<^h seas to a far bloody shore,
May be to return to Lochaber no more.
Tho* hurricanes rise, and rise ev'ry wind.
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my
mind.
Thn* Iduilest of thunder on louder waves roar.
That's naethinp; like leavins; my love on the shore.
To leave thee behiud me my heart is sairpain'd,
By ease that's inolorious, no fame can bejrain'd.
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave,
And I mu>t deserve it before I can crave.
Then f;lory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse,
Since honour coniuiaiiris me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,
And without thv favour I'd better not be.
I gae then, my l.iss. to win honour and fame.
And if 1 shoulil luck to come gloriously hame,
I'd briufj a heart to thee willi love running o'er.
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.
JOCKY SAID TO JEANY.
JorjCT 8aiil to Jeany, Jeany, wilt thou do't ?
Ne'er a fit, quo' Jeanv, for my tocher -good,
For my tochi-r-good, I winna marry thee.
E'ens ye like, quo' Jockey, ye may let it be.
I hafi gowd and gear, I hae land enough,
I hae >even good owsen ganging in a plcugh,
Ganging in a pleugh, and linking o'er the lee,
And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be.
I hae a good ha' house, a barn .".nd a byre,
A stack afore the door, I'll make a rantin fire,
I'll make a rantin fire, a;d merry inall we be:
And gin ye winna tak mo, I can let ye be.
Jeany said to Jocky, Gin ye winna fell,
Ve (thall be the lad, I'll be the lass niysell.
Ye're u bonny lad, and I'm a lassie free,
V'e're weleomer to tak me than to let me be.
THE LOWLANDS OF HOI LANO
ANOTHER VEllSION
The luve that I hae chosen
I'll therewith be content ;
The saut sea will be frozen
Before that I repent ;
Repent it will I ne"»r
Until the day I die.
Though the Lowlands of Holland
Hae twined my love and me.
My luve lies in the saut sea,
And I am on the side ;
Enough to break a young thing's heart
Wha lately was a bride — ■
Wha lately was a happy bride
And pleasure in her ee ;
But the Lowlands of Holland
Hae twined my love aud me
Oh ! Holland is a barren jjlace,
In it there grows nae grain,
Nor ony habitation
Wherein for to remain ;
But the sugar canes are plenty,
And the wine diaps fi.ie the tree,
But the Lowlands of Holland
Hae twined my love and me.
My love he built a bonnie s'nip,
And sent her to the .-ea,
Wi' seven score guid mariners
To bear her companie.
Three score to the bottom gaed,
And three score died at sea ;
And the Lowlands of H<il!and
Hae twined my love aud me.
JENNY DANG THE WEAVE*
Jenny lap, and Jenny flang,
Jenny dang the weaver ;
The piper played as Jeiiny sprang.
An' aye she dang the weaver.
As I cam in by Fisherrow,
IMusselburgh was near ine,
I threw afT the niussel-[)uck.
And courtit wi' my deerie.
Had Jenny's apron bidden down
The kirk wad ne'er hae ken'd it 5
But now the word 's gane thro the towa,
The devil canna mend it.
Jenny lap, and Jenny fling,
Jeimy dang the weaver ;
The piper played as Jenny sprang,
A r;d aye bhe dang the weaver.
SONGS 1S7
1
A*J I WENT OUT AE MAY MORNING ,
We'll piss ye 'neath the claymore's shear.
Thou feckless German lairdie !
As I went oat ae M.iy mornins;.
Ae May niorniri!;; it hii|i|)eneil t) be,
Auld Scotland, thou'rt ewer cauld a hole
0 thore I saw a very bonnie lass
For nursin' siccan vermin ;
Cimie liiikin' o'ev the ItM to me.
But the very doui;s o' England's court
And O she was a wfL-l-f.iuii Kis'',
Tliey bark anil howl in German.
Swi'i't as the fli>wcr sae newly sprung;
Then keep thy dil)b!e in thy ain hand,
I sai<l, f.iir iiiiiiil, an* ye fancy me,
Thy spade but and thy yardie;
When she laughing said, I am too younj.
For will the deil hae we gotren for a kingi
But a wee, wee German laiidie ?
To be your bride I am too youngf.
And far our proud to be your loon ;
This is thi! merry month of May,
But I'll he aulder. Sir, in June.
The hawthorns flourished frer-h and fair.
THE FORAY.
And o'er our hcails the small birds sing,
And never a word the lassie said.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
But, gentle Sir, I am too young.
The last of our steers on *!ie board has bcea
spread.
And the last llask of wine in our goblets is rei :
Uj), up, my brave kinsmeu ! — belt swords and
begone ;
THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIH.
There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to
won !
WiiA the deil hae we gotten for a king,
The eyes that so lately mixed glances with ours,
But a wee, wee Geiman lairdie ?
For a space must be dim, as they gaze from th«
.\w\, when we gaed to brinij him,
towers.
He was delving in his yardie :
And strive to distinguish, through tempest and
Sheughing kail, and layin:; leeks,
gloom,
But the hose, and but the brceks ;
The prance of the steeds and the top of the
And up his beggar duds be cleeks —
plume.
This wee, wee German lairdie.
The rain is descending, the wind rises loud,
And he's clapt down in our gudemau's chair,
The moon her red beacon has veiled with a
The wee, wee German lairdie ;
cloud —
And he's l)rou'_;ht f<uitii o' foreign trash,
'Tis the better, my mates, for the warder's dull
And dibbled them in his yardie.
eje
He's |iu'd the rose o* English loons.
Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are
And broken the harp o' Iiish clowns;
nigh.
Rut our thistle tu])8 will jag his thumbs^
O
This wee, wee Geriiiaa lairdie.
Our steeds are impatient — I hear my blythe
Come up amang our Highland hills,
There is life in his hoof-clang and hope in his
Thou wee, wee German lairdie.
neigh ;
And see the Stuart's lang-kail thrive
Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his
We dibbled in our yardie :
mane
And if a stock ye daie to pu'.
Shall marshal your march through the dark-
Or baud the yoking o' a plough.
ness and rain.
We'll break your sceptre o'er your mru ,
Thou wee bit German lairdie.
The draw-bridge has dropped, and the bugle
has blown ;
Our hills are steep, our glens are deep,
One pledge is to quaiT yet — then mount and
Nae fitting for a yardie ;
begone :
And our Norland thistles winna pu*.
To their honour and peace that si>atl rest vv:th
Thou wee bit German lairdie :
the sl.iin !
And we've the trenching blades o* weir.
To tlieir heahh and their glee that see Teviot
^ id piuoe je o' your Gerinaa gear—
again !
' ' ■ ■ -- 1
18S
BURNS'S SONGS.
ADIEU: \ HEART-WARM FOND ADIEU!
Tune—" The Peacock."
Adieu ! a lieart-warrn fond adieu !
Dear brothers of the rnyst'c tie !
Ye fiivour'd, ye eiilighten'd few.
Companions of my sociiil joy !
Thougli I to foieion lands must hie,
PuiMiing Fortune's sliddry ba',
Witli melting iie.ut. and brimful eye,
I'll mind you stdl, though far awa*.
Oft have [ met ynnr social band,
And K|ietit tlit- cheerful festive night;
Oft, honour'd with supreme i-ommaDd,
Presideii o'er the sons of light ;
And liy that hieioglyphie. bright,
Which none but craftsnien ever saw !
Strong memiirv on my heart sliali write
Those lidpj'V scenes when far awa !
May fieedom, harmony, and love,
Unite vtiu in the grand design,
Beneath the Omniscient Eye above.
The glorious architect divine I
That you :..-/ keep th' unerring line,
Still rising Iv the plummet's law,
Till ordei- bright completely shine —
Shall be my prayer when far awa.
And yon, farewell I whose merits claim.
Justly, that highest bad.;e to wear!
Heaven bless your honour'd, noble name,
To niasjjnry and Scotia dear I
A last reiiuest permit me here,
When yearly ve as-euible a',
One round, 1 a-k it with a tear,
To him, the bard, that's far awa,*
AE FOND KISS.
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ;
Ae farewell, alas, lor ever !
Dfcp in beait-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
• Written as a Rori of farewell u, the Masonic com-
(>:tniona of liif vmiih, wticn ilic (ux'i was un the punil
of Icaktiiu Scoil^ul liii Jamaica, 'TUtJ.
MHio shall say that fortune grieves hisa.
While the star of hope she leaves him ?
Me, nae theerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.
I'll ne'er blame thy partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her, was to love her ;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved sae kindly.
Had we never loved sae blindly ;
Never met — or never parteil.
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Fare thee well, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee well, thou best and dearest !
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure !
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ;
Ae farewell, alas, for ever !
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge tbE9,
War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
AFTON WATER.
Tune—" The VcIIow-hair'd Laddie."
Flow pently, sweet Aflon, among thy greea
braes.
Flow gently, Fll sing thee a song in thy praise,
IMy Mary's asleep by thy murmuiing stream ;
Flow gently, sweet Afton, distuib not her dream.
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds througl
the glen,
Ye wild-whistling blackbirds, in yon flowery
den.
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for-
bear,
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills;
Far mark'd with the courses of clear-winding
rills ;
There daily 1 wander, as mora rises high,
My Cocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How jdcasant thy lianks and green valleys below
^\'lu•l■e wild in the woodlaiuls the jjriniioses blow
There oft, us nidd evening creeps o'e' the lea.
The swee! .scented birk shades my Marv and ma
rJ
SOXGS .89
Tliy crystni ftroam, Affon, now lovciy itjiliilos,
' But he still wa* faithful to his can,
And wimls l)y the cot whvrc my Mary icsidci !
My gallant, braw John Highlandnian !
How wanton tliy waters her snowy feet lave.
Sni'f /ley, mi/ hrmv Jo/m Iluihlamlman !
As, gatli'ring sweet flow'rets, she stems thy
SiiKj ho, nil/ hrtiw John /Jii/hlandmanl
clear wave !
Thire's ni.t a' lad in a the luntl.
Was match for my braw John IJiyhlandmanl
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green
braes ;
With his phllaheg and tartan plaid,
Flow gently, sweet river, tlie theme of my lays ;
And glide claymore down by his side,
My Mary's asleep by thy uiurmuring stream ;
The ladies* hearts he did trepan,
My gallant braw John Ilighlandinan.
riow gently, sweet Afton, di^turb not her dream.
Sing hey ifc.
We ranged a* from Tweed to Spey,
AGAIN REJOICING NATURE SEES.
And lived like lords and ladies gay ;
For a Lawland face he feared none,
TuHe—" Johnnie's Grey Breeks."
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
Siny hey, Sj-c.
Again rejoicing nature sees
Her rohe assume its vernal hues ;
They banished him beyond the sea ;
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
But, ere the bud was on the tree,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.
A down my cheeks the pearls ran.
Embracing my braw John Highlandman.
In vain to me the cowslips blaw ;
Siny hey, Sfc.
In vain to me the vi'lets spring ;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
But, och ! they catched him at the last.
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
And bound him in a dungeon fast;
My curse upon them every one.
The merry plouglihoy cheers his team ;
They've hanged my braw John Highlandman '
Wi" joy the tentie seedman stauks ;
Siny hey, Sfc.
Bat life to me's a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
And now, a widow, I must mourn
Departeil joys that ne'er return,
The wanton coot the water skims ;
No comfort but a hearty can,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry ;
When I think on John Highlandiran.
The stately swan niaie>tic swims ;
Siny hey, ^-c.
And every thing is blest but I.
The shepherd steeks his fauMing slips,
And o'er the moorland whistles shrill ;
Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.
AMANG THE TREES WHERE HUM
MING BEES.
And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Tune-" The King of France, he rade « Rar»
Blithe waukens by the daisy's side,
Amang the trees wliere humming befs
And mounts and sings on flutterino- win"-s.
At buds and flowers were hinging, 0 j
A woe-worn ghaist, I hameward glide.
Auld Caledon drew out her drone,
And to liei pipe was sin>;ing, O ;
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl.
'Twas Pibroch, sang, strathspey, or rcelf
Ai.J raging benil the naked tree ;
She dirl'd them afT, fu' clearly, O ;
Thy g'.oom will soothe my clieerless soul.
When there cam a yell o' foreign sque*'*
When nature all is sad like me !
That dang her tapsalteerie, O —
Their capon craws and queer ha ha's.
They made our lugs grow eerie, O
1
The hungry bike diil scrajie and pike
'Till we were wae and weary, O —
A HIGHLAND LAD MY LOVE WAS
BORN.
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd
A prisoner aiighteen year awa,
THE " RAUCLE CARI.INe's" SONG IN 111 E
He tir'd a fiddler in the North
" JOLI.Y BEGGARS."
That dang them tapsaltcerie, O.
Tune—" O an ye war dead, guTdinan !"
A Highland lad my love was born,
The Lawhnd laws he held in scorn ;
■■ . 1
100
BURNS' WORKS.
A JIAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT.
Tune—" For a" tliat, and a' that.
Is there, for honest pnvertyi
Tli;it hiinjijs his head, and a' that ?
The <'<)\vard-!-l.ive, we pass him by j
We daur lie puir for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils ot)scure, and a' that,
riie rank is hut the giinea-stamp—
The man's the goud fur a' that.
What though en hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodilin-ijrey, and a' that ?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A man's a man for a' that;
For a* that, and a' that.
Their tinsel show, and a' that,
riie honest man, though e'er sae puir,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,,
Wha struts, and stares, and a* that ;
Thou;;h humlreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that.
His ribbon, star, and a' that.
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.
A kin;; can make a belted knight,
A m.uquis, duke, and a' that ;
Bi\t an honest man's aboon his micht,
Glide faith, he maunna fa' that !
For a' that, and a' that.
Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o* sense, the pride o* worth,
.\re higher ranks for a' that.
Then let us pray, that come it may,
As come it will, for a' that.
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' th.at.
For a' tliat, and a' that.
It's coMiin' yet for a" that,
That man to nran, the warld o'er.
Shall brothe 3 be for a' that.
ANNA.
TKine—" Banks of Banna."
Yksti'.i:en 1 had a pint o' wine,
A place where body saw na ;
Ytt-treen lay on this breast o' mine
The raven locks of Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness,
krjoiciiig ower his UiSima,
Was naething to my hinriy bliss,
Ujxin the lips of Anna.
Ye r-onarchs tak the cast and west,
Frae Indus to Savannah 1
Gie me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna.
There I'll dt-spise imperial charms,
An empress or sultana,
While dying raptures, in her arms
I give and take with Anaa.
Awa, thou flaunting god of day !
Awa, thou pale Diana !
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray-
When I'm to meet my Anna.
Come, in thy raven plumage, night,
Sun, moon, and stars, withdrawn »* ^
And bring an angel pen to write
My transports with my Anna.*
ANNIE.
Tunt—" Allan Water."
I wAi.KFD out with theJIuseum in my hand,
and turning up Allan Water, the words appeared
to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, so I sat
and raved under the shade of an old thorn till I
wrote one to suit the measure.
Bv Allan stream I chanced to rove,
Wliiie Phoebus sank beyond Benledi,
The winds were whisp'ring through the grorc>
The yellow corn was waving readv :
I listen'd to a lover's sang.
And thought on )iiuthful pleasures many;
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang
O, dearly do I love thee, Annie !
O, happy be the woodbine bower ;
Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie ;
Nor ever so-row stain the hour.
The place and time I meet my dearie !
Her head U|]on my thro':bing breast,
She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever !
While many a kiss the seai impress'd.
The sacied vow, we ne'er should sever.
The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae ;
The Simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheerie, through her short'ning day,
Is Autumn in her weeds o." yellow !
But can they melt the glowing heart,
Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure.
Or through each nerve the rapture dart.
Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ?
» Thissong. like " Ilijhlaml Mary," aflxinls a strong
proof of the pciwer which I'oetry possesses of rHising
anil siihliiiiiiif; olijccts. Ilighlanil Mary was theilairv-
niaiil of L'olMitlil ; Anna is said to have l)ccn tome-
thind meaner. The poet sure was in a fine phrcnzy
rolhi)« when he s.iict, '< 1 think this is the best kiv*
long 1 ever wrote."
?ONGa
191
A RED RED ROSE.
Tune — " Low down In the Brume.'
0, JiY luve's like a red red r«se.
That's newly sprung in June ;
O, my luve's like the nielodie.
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bnnnie lass,
Sae dee|> in luve am I ;
Anil I will love thee still, my dear.
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gann; diy, my dear.
And the rocks melt \vi' the sun;
will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' lite shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve.
And fare thee weel a while !
And I will come again, my luve,
Thoujrh it were ten thousand mile.
A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK.
This song I composed on Miss Jenny Crnik-
shank, only child to my worthy friend Jlr.
William Ciuikshank of the High-School, Edin-
burgh. The air is by David Sillar, quondam
merchant, now schoolmaster, in Irvine : the
Davie to whom I address my poetical cpiitle.
A ROSE-BUD by my eirly walk,
Adown a corn-inclosed bawk,
Sue gently bent it-; thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimscm glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head.
It scents the early morning.
Within the bush, her covert nest
A little linnet tondiy piest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shdl sc^ her tender brood.
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amai;g the fVe>h green leaves bedewed.
Awake the early morning.
So thou, de ir bird, young Jeany fair,
On tremhiing siring or vocal air.
Shall sweetly ])ay the tender care
That tents thy early morning.
So thou, sweet ro^e-bnd, young and gay,
Sh.ilt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent's evening ray
That watched thy eajly morning.
A SOUTHLAND JENNY.
Tins is a popular Ayrshire song, though tlie
notes were never taken down before, — It, a»
Well as many of the ballad tunes in this co.lt;-
tion, was written from Mrs. Burns's voice.
A Southland Jenny that was right bonny,
Had for a suitor a Norland Jidnmie,
But he was sicken a bashlu* wooer.
That he could scarcely speak unto her.
But blinks o' her beauty, and hopes o' her siller
Forced him at last to tell his mind till her;
My dear, quo' he, we'll nae langer tarry.
Gin ye can lo'e me, let's o'er the moor and marry
Come awa then, my Norland laddie,
Tho' we gang neat, some are mair gaudy ;
Albeit I hae neither land nor money.
Come, and I'll ware my beiuty on thee.
Ye lasses o' the South, ye'rc a' for drei^sin ;
Lasses o' the North, mind mil!%iii and threshin ^
My minnie wad be angry, and sae wad nij
(laddie,
Should 1 marry ane as dink as a lady.
I maun h.ae a wife that will rise i' the mornin,
Cruddle a' the milk, and keep the house a
scauldin ;
Tulzle wi' her neebors, and learn at my minnie,
A Norland Jocky maun hae a Norland Jenny,
My father's only dochter, wi' faims and Si —
ready,
Vi'ad be ill bestowed upon sic a clownish body ;
A' that I said was to try what was in thee,
Gae hanie, ye Norland Jockie, and court yout
Norland Jenny !
AULD LANG SYNE.
SirouLD auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auUl acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne !
7'or auld lang syne, my jo,
Fur auld lan^ ■>yiie,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lanff syne !
And surely ye'll be your pint stoup !
And surely I'll be mine !
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For aulii lang syne.
Fur auld, §-c.
We twa hae run about the braes.
And pou't the gowans fine ;
But we've waiuler'd mony a weary fost
Sin auld lang syne.
Fur auld, ^-c.
192
BURNS' WORKS.
We twa Viae paMI't i' the biMn,
Fr:ie iniiriiiiis; sim 'till liiriL- ;
But seas Uetween ii;< braid hae roai'd,
Sin aiikl I.mt^ syne.
For aulJ, Sfc.
And there's a han", my trusty fiere,
And ^ifs a ban' n' thine !
Anil we'll tik a right gude willy-waught
For auld lang syne !
For auld, Sfc.
AULD ROB MORRIS.
There's auld Rob Morris, that wins in yon
glen,
He's the king o' gude fellows, and wale of auld
men ;
He has gowd in his coffers ; he has ousen and
kine,
And ae bounie lassie, his darling and mine.
She's fresh in the morning, the fairest in May ;
She's sweet as the evening among the new hay ;
As blytlie, and as artless, as the Limb on the
lea ;
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee.
But oh ! she's an heiress : auld Robin's a laird,
And niy d.iddie has nought but a cothouse and
yard.
A wooer like me mauna hope to come speed.
The woutids I must hide that will soon be my
dead.
The day comes to me, but delight brings me
n.me ;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ;
I wander my lane like a night-troubled gliaist.
And I sigii as my heart it wad burst in my
breast !
Oh had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae ho])'u she wad sniil'd upon
me ;
O how pa^t deserving Iiad then been my bless,
As now my distraction, no words can express.
DESSY AND HER SPINNING WHEEL.
Tune—" The uottom of the Punch Bowl."
O i.Ei ZK m-j on my spinning-wheel !
O leeze me on my lock and leel !
Frae tiip to tae that deeds me bien.
And haps me feil * and warm at e'en!
I'll set uic doun, atid sing, and spin,
While laigh dest-ends the simmer sun ;
• Covers me with a stuff »2n*e>il' fo the iKin.
Rlest wi' content, and milk, and meal'-«
O leeze nie oa my spinning-wheel !
On ilka hand the burnics trot,
And meet below my theekit cot ;
The scented birk and hawthorn white
Across the pool their arms unite.
Alike to screen the birdie's nest.
And little fishes' caller reist ;
The sun blinks kindly in the biel,
Where blythe I turn my spmning-whed
On lofty aiks the cushats wail,
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ;
The lintwhites in the hazel braes,
Delighted, rival ither's lays :
The craik amang the clover hay.
The paitrick whirring ower the lea.
The swallow jinkin' roumi my sluel
Amuse nie at my spinning-wheel.
Vt'i' sma' to sell, and less to buy,
Aboon distress, below envy,
O wlui wad leave this humble state*
Fi.r a' the pride of a' the great?
Amid their flaring idle toys,
An'.id their cumbrous, Jinsome jnvs
Can they the peace and pie i-ure feel
Of Bessy at her spiuuing-whcel i
BEWARE O' BONNIE ANf»
I COMPOSED this song out of cnnipUment to
Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of m^ triend;
Allan Masterton, the author of the air of Strath'
aUdti's Lament, and two or three others ia thif
work.
Ye gallants bright T red ye right,
Beware o' bonnie Ann ;
Her comely face sae fu' o' giace,
Your heart she will trepan.
Her een sae bright, like stars by night.
Her skin is like the swan ;
Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist.
That sweetly ye might span.
Youth, grace, and love, attendant moT-,
And pleasure leails the van :
In a' their charms, and conquering «rau,
1 ney wait on bonnie Ann.
The captive bands may chain the 'lands^
But Iiive enslaves the man ;
Ye gallants braw, I red you a'.
Beware o* bonnie Ann.
SONGS
193:
BEHOLD THE HOUU, THE BOAT
AUKIVi:.
Tunt — " Oran Gaoil."
BsHoi.n the hour, ttie Ixiat arrive ;
Tluiu »j(>est, t'.uiu (l.irlintr of my heart!
Sfvi'i'tl from tlifc. nil I survive?
But fitf h.is nillM, and we must part.
['11 often ijreet tlii* surijirig swell,
Yon distant isle wjII often hail :
*" y. cii heie I took my last farewell,
There latest mark'd her vauish'd sail."
.\lon?; the solitary shore.
While fllttin^' sea fowl round me cry,
Across the roiiiiisj, da-^hlug roar,
I'll westward turn my wistful eye :
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say,
Where now my Nancy s path may be !
While throu^'h thy sweets she loves to stray.
Oh, tell me, does she muse on me ?
BEYOND THEE, DEARIE.
It is remark ihle of this air, that it is the con
fine of that country where the greatest part of
our Lowland music, (so far as from the title,
words, &c. we can localize it), has heen com-
posed. From Crai^ie-hurn, near IMotfat, until
one leaches the West Highlands, wo have scarce-
ly one slow air of any antiquity.
The snna; was composed on a passion which
a Mr. Gillespie, a particular fiiend of mine, had
for a .Mis< Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Wlielp-
(iale. — The young lady was born at Craigie-
burn wood — Tne chorus is part of an old fool-
isii ballad. —
Beyond thee., dearie, hei/nnd thee, dearie,
And O til be li/inr) bujiind titee,
0 siveetlij, XDunilly, wiel may lie sleep,
I'liat's laid ill the btd beyuad thee.
CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD.
Sweet clones the evening on Craigie-burn wood,
And blythely awakens the morrow ;
But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn
wood,
Can yiel<l me to nothing but sorrow.
Jiiyond ihee, ^c.
I see the spreading leaves and flowers,
I heir the wild birds singing ;
But pleiiNure they hae nane for me.
While care my heart is wringing
Heyond thee, SfC.
eaniis tell, I maun na tell,
I dire Dd for your anger ;
But secret love will break my heart»
If I conceal it langer.
Jieyond, tliee, J-c.
I see thee graccfu', straight and talL
I see thee sweet and bonuie,
But oil, what will my torments be.
If thou refuse thy Jivjnie !
Heyond thee, ^c.
To see thee in anither's arms.
In love to lie and languish,
'Twad be my dead, that will be Keen,
My heart wad burst wi' anguish.
Beyond thee, S^c.
But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine,
Say, thou lo'es nane belote me ;
And a' my days o' life to cuiiie,
I'll gratefully adore thee.
Beyond thee, Jfc.
BLYTHE HAE I BEEN ON YOr ftHl.
Tunt — " Liggcram co«h."
Bltthe hae I been on yon hill,
As the lambs before me ;
Careless ilka thought and free,
As the breeze flew o'er me :
Now nae latiger sport and play,
IMirth or sang can please me :
Lesley is sae fair and coy,
Care and anguish seize me.
Heavy, heavy is the task,
Hiipeless love declaiiiig:
Trembling, 1 dow noclit but glonx
Sighing, dumb, despairing!
If she winna ease the tliiaws,
In my bosom swelling ;
Underneath the grass-green sod,
Soon maua be my dwelling.
BLYTHE WAS SHE.
Bh/tlie, llythe and merry teas shty
Blythe teas she but ntid ben ;
Bhjthe by the banks of Km,
And blythe in Gleiiturit glen,
Bv Oughtertyre grows the aik.
On Yarrow banks, the blrken shaW
But Phemie was a honnnier lans
Than braes o* Yarrow ever saw.
Blythe, ^c.
Her looks were like a flow'r in JTay,
Her smile was like a simmer mora :
194
BURNS WORKS,
She tripped by tlie banks of Ern,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.
Blytlm, Sfc.
Her bonny face it was as meek
As ony lamb upon a lee ;
The evening fin was ne'er sae sweet
As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.
Blythe, Sfc,
The Highland hill's Tve wander'd wide,
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ;
But Phemie was the blythest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.
nil/the, §-e.
BONNIE WEE THING
Tunir— " Bonnie Wee Thing."
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing;
Loveiy wee thing, wert thou mine,
I wad wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel I should tme
Wistfully I look and languish
In that bonnie face o' thine ;
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish,
Lest my wee thing be na mine.
WLt, and grace, and love, and beauty,
In ae constellation shine ;
To adore thee is my duty,
Goddess o' this soul o' mine 1
Bonnie wee thing, canuie wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,
I wad wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel I should tine.
BONNIE BELL.
The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing,
And surly Winter grimly flies ;
Now crystal clear are the falling waters,
And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ;
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the mor-
ning.
The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ;
All creatures joy in the sun's returning.
And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell.
The flow'ry Spring leads sunny Summer,
And yellow Autumn presses near.
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter,
Till smiling Spring as^ain appear.
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing,
Old Time and N.iture their changes tell.
But never rariijing, still unchanging
I adore mv bonnie Bell.
BONNIE LESLEY.
Tune—" The Colliei's bonnie Lacsie.
O, SAW ye bonnie Lesley,
As she gaed o'er the Border ?
She's gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther*
To see her is to love her.
And love but her for ever ;
For nature made her what she i«,
And never made anither '
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we before thee :
Thou art divine, fair Lesley ;
The hearts o' men adore thee.
The Deil he couldna scaith thee.
Or aught that wad belang thee ;
He'd look into thy bonnie face.
And say, I canna wrang thee 1
The Powers aboon will tent thee,
Misfortune shanna steer thee ;
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,
That ill they'll ne'er let near the*
Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie !
That we may brag we hae a lass
There's nane asrain sae bonnie.'
BONNIE JEAN.
TunC'-" Bonnie Jean."
There was a lass, and she was fair.
At kirk and market to be seen ;
When a' the fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.
And aye she wrought her maminie's wark,
And aye she sang sae merrilie ;
The blythest bird upon the bush
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.
But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite's nest;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers.
And love will break the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the brawest lad.
The flower and pride of a' the glen ;
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye.
And wanton naigies nine or ten.
He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste.
He (lanceil wi' Jeanie on the down ;
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist.
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.
• Written in hoiinur of Miss I.cslw Baillicof Ayf
sliirc, (now Mrs Cminnini; of l.ofjie), wlieu on bm
way to Kiigland, iiroiifih Dumfries.
SONGS
ISd
A» in the bosom o' the stream
The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en,
So treiiiblins^, pure, wms tender love,
Within the breast o' bonuie Jean.
And now she works her mamniie's wark,
And aye she sl^jhs wi' grief and pain;
Yet wistna what her ail might be,
Or what wad make her weel again.
But didna Jeanie's heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her ee,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love,
Ae e'ening, 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 of love :
O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ;
O canst thou think to fancy me ?
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi' me ?
At barn nor byre thou shalt na drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee ;
But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn 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.
HEY TUTTIE TAITTIE.
I have met the tradition universally over
Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in
the neighbourhood of the scene, that this air
was Robert Brace's march at the Battle of Baa-
nockburn.
BRUCE'S ADDRESS
TO HIS TROOPS BEFORE THE BATTLE OF
BANNOCKBURN.
Tune—" Hey tuttie taittie."
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled !
Scots, wham Bruce has al'ten led !
Welcome to your gory bi;tl,
Or to victorie !
Now's the day, and now's the hour :
Bee the front of battle lour :
See approach proud Edward's power —
Chains and slaverie !
Wha will be a traitor knave ?
MTia can fill a coward's grave**
MMia sae base as be a slave ?
Let hio: tun A flee <
Win, for Scotland's kf'/jf and law.
Fretdoin 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 drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free.
Lay the proud usurpers low,
Tyrants fall in every foe.
Liberty's ir< every blow.
Let us do, or die !
CA' THE YOWES TO THE KN0WK8
Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the burnie rowes.
My bonnie dearie.
Hark, the mavis' evening sang.
Sounding Chiden's woods amang;
Then a-faulding let us gang,
iMy bonnie dearie.
We'll gang doun by Cluden side,
Through the hazels spreading wide
O'er the waves that sweetly glide.
My bonnie dearie.
Yonder Cluden's silent towers.
Where, at moonshine midnight hours,
O'er the dewy budding flowers
The ♦"•liries dance sae checiie.
Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ;
Thou'rt to love aud heaven sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come thee near.
My 'ipnnie dearie.
Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stoun my very heart;
I can die — but canna part,
Jly bonnie dearie
CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, JH
KATY?
Tune—" Roy's wift."
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?
Casst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?
Well thou knowest my aching heart.
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ?
Is this thy plighted fond r'gard,
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy?
Is this thy faithful swain's reward—
An aching, broken heart, my Katv'
L_
196
BURNS vVORKS.
Fireweli ! and ne'er such sorrows tear
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy !
Thou may'st find those will love thee dear —
But not a love like mine, my Katy.
REPLY TO THE ABOVE
?T A YOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEWOMAN. FOUND
AMONGST BURNS'S MANUSCRIPTS AFTER HIS
DECEASE.
Stay, my Willie — yet believe me,
Stay, my Willie — yet believe me;
'Tweel, thou kiiow'st na every pans:
Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me.
Tell me that thou yet art true.
And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven ;
And when this heart proves false to thee,
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven.
But to think I was betray'd.
That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder !
To take the floweret to my breast,
And find the guilefu' serpent under !
Couin I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive me,
Celestial pleasures, might I choose 'em,
I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres
That heaven I'd find within thy bosom.
He wanders as free as the wind on his mountains,
Save love's willing fetters — the chains of hif
Jean.*
CHLOE.
ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SOUS
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,
Yonthful Chloe, chariiiing Chloe,
Tripjiing o'er the pearly litwn.
The youthful, charming Chloe,
The featber'd p' tile you might see
Perch'd all around on every tree,
CALEDONIA.
Their groves O sweet myrtles let foreign lands
reckon.
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per-
fume ;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,
With the burn stealing under the lang yellow
broom.
Far dearer to me yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue bell and gowan lurk bwly
unseen ;
I'or there, lightly tripi)ing amang the wild flowers,
A listening the liiinet, aft wanders my Jean.
Though rich is the breeze, in their gay sunny
vallics,
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ;
Their sweet-scented woodlauds, that skirt the
prou'l palace,
Wliat are tlicy ^. — the haunt o' the tyrant and
slave !
The g'live's npicy forests and gold-bubbling
f'uiQtains,
The br;ivc Cukduaian view* wi' disdain ;
• Bums wrote this song in eomp'iment to Mrs. Buraj
ri\iring Ihi ir honeymoon. The air. with many other»
ofe(]iial beauty, was the comiiDsJtion of a Mr. Mar-
shall, who, in Burns'i time, v.'as butler to the Duke
of Ciorilon.
This beautiful song — beautiful for iKith its amatory
ami its patriotic sentiment — seems to have been com.
posed by Bums during tlie period when he was court-
ing tlie lady wlui afterwards became his wife. The
present generation is much iiitLMC-ted in this lady, and
deservedly ; as, in addition to her (loetical history,
which is an extremeU interesting one, she is a persiin-
asze of the greatist private worth, and in every respect
deserving to be esitemeil as the widow of Scotland's
best and most endeared bard. The following anecdote
will pel haps be lield as testifying in no ineonsiderahle
degree, to a quality which she may not hitherto liave
been siip|>".seil to possess — her wit.
It isgcnerally known, that Mrs. liiirns has, ever since
her husband's ileaih, o ciipicd exactly the same house
in Dumfries, which she iiihabiti d before that event,
and that it is custrmiary for strangers, who happen to
piuis through or visit the town, to pay their rcs|iects to
her, with or without letters of introduction, prcci>ely
as they do to the churchward, the bridge, the harl«)ur,
or an\ other public object of curiosity about the pl.icc.
A gav young Kngli>h gentleman one day visited Mn
IJu rills, and after he hiid seen all that she had to show
— iheliedroom in vhich the jioct died, his original |)or.
trait by Nasmyth, his fainily-bible, with the name* and
birthd.iysof himself, his wife, and children, written on
a blaidi-leaf by his own hai^d, and some other little
trifles of the same nature — he piocccded to intreat that
she would have the kindness to present him wiih soiu»
relic of the poet, which he might carry away with him,
■as a wonder, to show m his own country. "Indeed,
Sir," said Mrs. Hums, " I have given awav so many re-
lics of Mr. Hums, that, to tell >e ihe truth, I have not
one Icit" — "Oh, you must surely have tiomelliing,"
said the persevering .Saxon ; " any thing will do— any
liitle scrap of his handwriting— :he le.ist thing you
please. All I want \$.ju.\t a relic <f the poet; and an»
thing, you know, will ito t'or a rilic." Some furihr
aiterc.-it-on took place, the lad. reasserting that she hi-
no relic to gi\«, and he as repeatedly renewing hi* r
quest. At length, fairly tiriil out with the man's i:»
portiinitics, Mrs. Hum's said to him, with a siiuU',
" 'Deed, Sir, unlcs.. ye tak mi/sell, then, I dinna si'e
how \ou are to get what you want ; for, really, i'm the
only relic o' him that 1 keu o'." The j>etiauner at once
, wiu-^rew his request.
SON
vJS. 197
In i.ttts ''sue test niflody
She, the fair sun oJ all her «eX)
Tlicy lia I the ch.iniiiiig Cliloe ;
1 1, IS blest my glorious day :
And shall a glimmering planet fix
Til', paintin;^ pay tlie eastfrn skies,
Wy worship to its ray ?
Tlie gliniiias sun lii'sjin to rise,
OutrivallM l>y the r.uliarit eyes
Of youthful, chai iiiins; Cliloe.
Luvely was Jie, ifc.
CONTENTIT WI' LITTLE.
Tune—" Lumps o' Puddin."
CIILORIS.
CoNTENTiT wi' little, and cantie wi" mair.
3^i»*— " My Lodging ia on the Cold Ground."
Whene'er 1 forgather wi' sorrow and care,
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin' alang.
My Chloris, mark how green the groves,
Wi' a cogue o' gude swats and an auld Scottisi
The primrose b.inks how fiir ;
sang.
The bahny gales awake the flowers.
And wave thy flaxeu hair.
I whiles claw the elbow o* troublesome thocht ;
But man is a sodii-jr, and life is a faucht :
The lav'rock >huns the palare gay,
My mirth and gude hutiiour are coin in ray pouch,
And o'er the cottiige sings;
And my freidom's ray lairdship nae monarch
For nature smiles as s-weet, I ween,
daur touch.
To shepherds as to kings.
A towmond o* trouble, should that be my fa ,
Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string
A nicht o' gude fellowship sowthers it a' :
In lordly lec'uit ha' ;
When at the blythe end o' our journey at last.
The shepherd s'cjjs his simple reed,
"yha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ?
Blythe, in the birken sbaw.
Blind chance, let her snapper and stoite 'u her
The princely revel may survey
way; ^
Our rustic dance wi' scorn ;
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let ..le jaud gae ;
But are their hearts as light as ours,
Come ease or cotne travail, come ])leasure or pxia^
BMeath the milk-white thorn?
My warst word is — Welcome, and wficome, a-
gain!
""'e shtrdierd, in the flow'ry glen.
In shepherd's phrase will woo;
The courtier tells a fairer tale.
But is his heart as true ?
COME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MY
V«-»e wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck
BREAST.
That s.potless breast of thine ;
The courtier's gems may witness love.
Tune—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen."
But 'tis na love like v
Come, let me take thee to my breast.
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder;
"
And 1 shuil *purn, as vilest dust.
The warld's wealth and grandeur :
.'tARINDA.'
And do I hear my Jeanie own.
That equal traiispoi ts move her ?
Clarikda, »r. stress of my soul.
I «^k for dearest life alone
The mea>ur'd time is run !
That I may live to love her.
The wretch beneath the dreary pole^
So marks his latest sun.
Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms.
I cla>p my countless treastiiH." ;
To what dark cave if frozen night
I'll seek nae mair o' heavei: to sharej
Shall poor Sylvander hie ; .
Than sic a moment's pleasure :
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
And, by thy een sae bminie blue,
The sun of all his joy.
I swear I'm thine for ever !
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
We part. — but by these precious drops,
And break it shall I never.
That fill t!iy lovel> eyes !
Nil other light sluill s^uide my steps.
Till ihy bright beams ari>e.
• Th widow alludec < In tlie Lift
98
BURNS' WORKS.
COUNTRY LASSIE.
In simmer when the hay was mawn,
And corn wavM green in ilka field,
While claver blooms white o'er the lea,
And roses blaw in ilka bield ;
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel,
Says, I'll be wed come o't what will ;
Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild,
O' gude advisement comes nae ilL
Its ye hae wooers mony a ane,
And, lassie, ye* re but young, ye k^n ;
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale,
A routhie butt, a routhie ben :
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen,
Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ;
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen,
It's plenty beets the luver's fire.
For Johnie o* the Buskie-glen,
I dinna care a single flie ;
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye.
He has nae luve to spare for nie :
But blythe's the blink o' Robie's e'e,
And weel I wat he lo'es me dear :
Ae blink o' him I wad na gie
For Buskie-glen and a' his gear.
O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught,
The canniest gate, the strife is sair ;
But aye fu' lian't 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.
O gear will buy me rigs o' land,
And gear will buy me sheep and kye;
But the tender heart o' leesome luve,
The gowd and siller canna buy :
AVe may be poor, Robie and I,
Light is the burden luve lays on ;
Content and love brings peace and joy,
What mair hae queens upon a throne ?
equal to their wit and humoui they would
merit a place in any col! (ction.— The liistetanu
is.
Being pursued by a drigoon.
Within my bed he was laid down ;
And well I wat he was worth his room.
For he was my daintie Davie.
DAINTIE DAVIE.
Tfns song, tradition says, and the composi-
tion itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev.
David Wilfiamsnn's getting the daughter of
Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of
ilragoons were searching htr house to apprehend
him for being an adherent to the sulemn league
and covenant. — Tbe pious woui lu had ])ut a
lady's ni^ht-cap on hini, and bad laid him a-h-.d
with her own daughter, iinil passed him to the
toldiery as a lady, her daughter's bed-fellow.
— A mutilated stanza or two are to be found in
HcrcFi, cnllirdon, but the original sung consists
sf five or six stanza'*, and were their dtlicacy
DAINTY DAVIE.
Tune—" Dainty Davie."
Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers,
To deck her gay green birken bowers,
And now come in ray happy hours,
To wander wi' my Davie.
Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Daint'j Davie, dainty Davie t
Tliere I'll upetid the day wi' you.
My ain clear dainty Davie.
The crystal waters round us fa',
The merry birds are lovers a',
The scented breezes round us blav,
A-wandering wi' my Davie.
3Ieet me on, §"c.
When purple morning starts the hare,
To steal upon her early fare.
Then through the dews I will repair.
To meet my faithfu' Davie.
Meet me on, S^c.
When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o' Nature's rest,
I'll flee to his arms I lo'e best.
And that's my dainty Davie.
Meet me on, ^'c.
DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE
Tune—" The Collier's Bonnie Lassie.**
Deluded swain, the pleasure
The fickle fair can give thee
Is but a fairy treasuie —
Thy hopes will boon deceive the&
The billows on the ocean,
The breezes idly roaming.
The clouds' uncertain motion.
They are but types of woman.
O ! art thou not ashamed
To doat upon a feature ?
If man thou wuuldst 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
SONGS. 199
DOES HAUGHTY GAUL.
DUNCAN GRAY.
Tuite-^" Push about tl.e Jorum.'
Dr. Blacklock informed me that he i.ad
AprU, l-'J5.
often heard the tradition that this air was cout-
posed by a carman in Glasgow.
Dors haiifjhty Gaul invasion threat ?
Then lot the loons beware, Sir,
Duncan Grav cam here to woo.
There's wooden walls upon our seas,
Ha, ha, the wonini/ o't.
And volunteers on shore, Sir.
On blythe yule night when we were foU|
The N!th shall run to Corsineon,*
Ha, ha, the wooini/ n't.
And CritTel sink in Sc)lway,f
^Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Ere we ])orniit a foreis^n foe
Look'd asklent and unco skeigji ;
Ou British ground to rally !
Gart poor Duncan stanil abeigh ;
Fall de rail, ^-c.
Ha, ha, the wool/iff o't.
0 let us not, like snarling tykes,
Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray d ;
In wrangling be divided ;
Ha, ha, Sfc.
Till slap come in an unco loon
Meg was deaf as .\ilsa Craig, •
And wi' a rung decide it.
Ha, hn, Src
Be Britain still to Britain true.
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in.
Ainang oursels united ;
Grat his e'en baith bleert and Win,
For never but by British hands
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn j
Maun British wrangs be righted.
Ha, ha, §-c.
FaU de rail, ifc.
Time and charvce are but a tide.
Tlie kettle o' the kirk and state.
Ha, ha, §-c.
Perhaps a clout may fail in't ;
Slighted love is sair to bide.
But deil a foreign tinkler loon
Ha, ha, Sfc.
Shall ever ca' a nail in't.
Shall I, like a fool, quo' he.
Our fathers' bluid tlie kettle b(Uight,
For a haughty hizzie die ;
And wha wad dare to spoil it j
She may gae to — France for me !
By heaven the sacrilegious dog
Ha, ha, §-c.
Shall fuel be to boil it.
FaU de rail, §-c.
How it comes let doctors tell.
Ha, ha, §-c.
The wretch that wad a tyrant own.
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal.
And the wretch his true-bo:n brother.
Ha, ha, Sj-c.
W^ho would set the mob aboon the throne.
Something in her bosom wrings.
May they be damned together !
For relief a sigh she brings ;
^Tio will not sing " God save the king,"
And O, her een, they spak sic things !
Shall hang is high's tte sterple ;
Ha, ha, §-c.
But, while we sing " God save the king,'
We'll ne'er forget the people.
Duncan was a lad o' grace.
Fall de rail, §-c.
Ha, ha, &fc.
Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, Sfc.
Duncan could na be her death.
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ;
Now they're crouse and canty baith.
DOWN THE BURN DAVIE.
Ha, ha, the wooirg o't.
TinSE ADDED BV BURNS TO THE OLD SOXG. 1
As down the burn they took their way,
And through the fliwery dale,
EVAN BANKS.
His clietk to hers he aft did lay.
Slow spreads *hc gloom my soui aesireC)
And love was aye the tjle
The sun from India's shore retires ;
With — Mary when shall we return,
To Evan banks, with teinn rate ray.
Such pleasure to renew ?
Home ol my youtn, it ieaUs me day.
Oh ! banks to me for ever dear !
Quoth Mary, love, I like the burn.
And aye will follow you.
Oh ! stream whose murmurs still I hear !
All, all my hopes of biiss reside,
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde.
1
> hiRhhillat thesoureeoftheNith. i
* A well-known niountanat the mouth of the lame
«ver.
• A wen-Known rock m tte Frith of Clyde
200
And Sfne, in simple bpntity drcst.
Whose ima<^e lives witliiii my breast;
Who trembling heir.l my pi'.'rcing sigh,
Aud long piiisuM me with her eye !
Does she, with he.irt unclringM as mine,
)ft in the vocal bowers recline ?
Or where yon grot o*eih mg** the tide,
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde.
Ye lofty banks that Evan bound !
Ye lavish woods that wave around,
And o'er the stream your shadows throw,
Which sweetly wiuils so far below ;
What secret charm to mein'ry brings,
All that on Evan's border springs?
Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side :
Blest stream, she views thee haste to Clyde.
Can all tht wealth of India's coast
Atone for years in alxence lo^t ?
Return, ye moments of delight,
With richer treasures bless my sight !
Swift from this desert let me part.
And fly to meet a kindred heart !
Nor more may aught my steps divide
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde.
BURNS' WORKS.
FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKsi,
FAIR ELIZA.
A GAELIC AIR.
TuRSf again, thou f.ur Eliza,
Ae kind blink before we part,
Rew on thy despairing lover !
Canst thou break his fiithfu* hear:
Turn again, thou fiii I^liza ;
If to love thy heart dt-iiies,
For pity hide 'lie crurl sentence
Uuiler fiienilship's Kind disguise!
Thee, dear maiil, hae I offended ?
The offence is loving tlicc .
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever
Wlia for thine wid t;l.id!y ilie !
While the life beats in my bosom,
Thou shalt \n'.x in ilka throe:
Turn again, thou lnvely inaidt-n,
Ae sweet suiile on me Ix'stow.
Not the bee upon the l>li)ssom,
In the pride o' siiiiiy imou ;
Not the little sporting fairy,
All beneath the sm'ioer moon;
Not the p>iet in the iiuimeut
Fancy lightens on his ee.
Kens the pleasure, fecU the rapture
That thy presence gies to me.
Tune — " Rothiemurchie.*
Fairest mniil nn Devrm hunks,
Cri/slitl Devon, wiml'my De-eon^
Wilt thnu 1(11/ thiit friiwn usuie.
And smile as Ihuu wert wont to da
Full well thou knowest I love thee deaTj
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear!
O did not love exclaim, " F'uibcar !
Nor use a fiithful lover so.
Fairest maid, ^c.
Then come, thnu fairest of the fair.
Those wonted smiles, O let me share;
And l)y that beauteous self I nweir.
No love but thine my heart bli«ll know.
Fairest maid, &i'c.*
FATE GAVE THE WORD>
Tune—" Finlaysion Houm."
Fate gave the word, the arrow sptnl,
And pierced my darling's heart:
And with him all the joys are fled
Life can to me impart.
My cruel hands the sapling drops,
In dust dishonour'd laiil :
So fell the pride of all my hopes.
My age's future shade.
The mother linnet in the brake
Bewails lier ravished young ;
So 1 for my lost darling's sake.
Lament the live-d ly long.
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fifal blow,
Now fond 1 bare my breast,
O do thnu kindly lay me low
With him 1 love at rest !
TOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY
Mr heart is sair, I dare nae tell.
My lieart is siii feu- sonubody ;
I could wake a vintcr in!;ht
For the sake of somel"idy.
Oh-hon ! foi siimeboily !
Oh-ln'y ! for soiuelioily !
• Tlioso verses, and the Ictler endosinR them, an
wnltiii ill .T eliar.icier Iti.ii iiia:k< ihc very l(«l>l. •si""
of tlirir aii;lii.r. Mr. -vmc » •'!' >>l'iii'>n tliil lie omM
iiol have '.) en m any ,';ii.i;cr ••f .i J.ul al Dionfriis,
where cerUiiilv he hi.l inanv linn Iruii.!.. (i.ir umlei
anv lucesMly "I iin,.l..riiit; ,i il fro n r,il.iil»ir(>h. Iliit
nl«iiil llu^liioe Ills m.iiJ !>.■,;, M l> lie .1 lures iiiisct-
tl.d. an.) (he horrors ,<l a ja.: |..ri.eliialK liauntnl hu
iiiLiciniUDO. lie aiLsl on tlie Jlsi of Ihiii moiilh.
SONGS. 201
I roulil ran^c tlii* wni-ld around,
But the last throb that leaves my hearl
For the s;ike of sonicliiidy.
While diMth stands victor by,
That throb, lil'za. is thy part,
Ye [>o\viT< tli.it smile on virttiniis love,
And thine tiiat latest si^h. •
0 swcitiv smili' on ■iiiiiiilinily !
Frae ilka d.iii'_"'i keep liiiii fur,
Anil send iiit vif(; my smiu-lxidy.
Oh -lion ! for somehody !
Oli-bey ! for sonii'lmdy !
GALA WATER.
I wad do — wiiiit wad I not,
Fo. the sake of soincliody !
Tune^" Gala Water.
There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow Vae«,
That wander through theblumiiii; healLer j
But Yarrow braes, nor littrick sliaws,
FORLORN, MY LOVE.
Can match the lads o' Gala Water.
Tune — " Let me in this ae night."
But there is ane, a secret ane,
Abiine them a' 1 loe him better;
FoRi.ORN', my love, no comfort near.
And I'll be his, and he'll be mine.
Far, far from thee 1 wander here ;
The bonnie lad o' Gala Water.
Far, far from tliee. the fate severe
At wliirli I mo^t ivpiiie, love.
Although his daddle wa.s nae laird.
O wert tlion lure, hnt near me,
And thougli I hae na miekle tocher }
Tint iienr, iifnr, nrtir me ;
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,
Huir khiiUy t/iiiit ifii'ili/st cheer me,
We'll tent our flocks ou Gala Wate'.
And mingle sicj/is with mine, love.
It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er wa.s wealth,
Around me seowls a ^rintry sky,
That coft contentment, jjeace, or pleasure;
Tliat hlists eacli Inid of linpe and joy ;
The bands and bliss o' mutual love,
And >lielti'r, shade, nor home have I,
0 that's the chiefest warld's treasure !
Save in these arms of thine, love.
0 wert, &c
Cold, altor'd friendship*'* cruel part.
To poison fortune's nitlilcss dart-
GLOOMY DECEMBER.
Let me not hreik thy faithful heart,
And say tli it fate is mine, love.
Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy Decemhei,
O wtrt, ij-c.
Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and cue;
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember;
But dreary tho' the moments fleet.
Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair
0 let me think we yet shall meet !
Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure,
That only ray of solaee sweet
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour
Can on thy Ciiloris shine, iove.
But the dire feeling, O farctvell for ever.
O wert, &-C,
Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure.
Wild as the winter now tearing the forest,
'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown.
FROM TIIF.E, ELIZA.
.Such is the tem])est has shaken my bosom.
Since my hist hope aiid last comfort is gone
Tun*—" Gilderoy."
Still as I hail thi'e, thou gloomy December,
Still shall 1 hail tliee wi* sorrow and care ;
Prom thee, Hliza, I must go.
For sad was the parting thoa makes me re-
And from my n.itive shore ;
member.
The cruel fates hetween us throw
Parting wi' Nancy, Ob, ne'er to meet mair.
A boundless ocean's roar :
But boundless oceans, roaring wide
Between my luve anil me.
• Miss Miller of Mauclilinc, (prolwh'y the sam«
lady wtiom the poet h.is eeiebraleil in tus catalogue of
They never, never can divide
tne beauties of 1 hat viliajje —
My heart and soul trom thee.
"Mils Miller is fine" )
afterwards Mrs. Tcmpleton, wai the heroine of this
Farewell, farewell. I^liia clear.
beautiful sonj^.
The maid that I ailore !
A hodiuf; voice is in mine ear.
We part to meet no more.
I'a
I
ki}'^
BURNS' WORKS.
GREEN GROW THE RASHES:
A FRAGMENT.
Green grow the rashes, O .'
Green prow the rashes, O f
The sweetest hours that e'er 1 spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O I
There's nought but care on every ban',
In every hour that passes, O ;
What ^ignifies the life o' man,
An* 'twere na for the lasses, O.
Green grow, Sfc.
The warly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O ;
Kii though at last they catch them fast.
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy tljem, O.
Green grow, Sec
But gie me a canny hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O ;
An' warly cares, an' waily men,
May a gae tapsalteerie, O.
Green grow, 8fc.
For you so douse, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O ;
The wisest man the warld e'er saw,
He dearly loved the lasses, O.
Green grow, Sfc,
Auld nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O ;
Her '|irentice han' she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow, Sfc.
GUDEWIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN.
TuTie—" Gudewife, count the Lawin."
Gane is the rlay, and mirk's the night;
Rut we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light ;
For ale and brandy's stars and moon.
And blude-red wine's the rising sun.
Then, gudewife, ciiiint the lawin.
The lawin, the lawin.
Then, gudewife, count the lawiit,
A.nd bring a coygie mair.
There's wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And seniple folk maun feclit and fen;
Rut here we're a' in ae accord,
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord.
Thai, gudewife, §-c.
\[y cdcgie is a li.i'v po(,l,
r;j,it iualii tlie uuiiiio's o" care «nd dor' ;
AnJ pleasure is a wanton tijut —
An' ye drink but deep, ye'll find him ocK,
Then, gudeicife, count the lawin.
The lawin, the lawin,
Then, gudewife, count the lawi».
And hring's a coggie mair.
HANDSOME NELL.
Tune — " I am a man unmarried
O, ONCE I lov'd a bonnie lass,
Ay, and I love her still,
And w ailst that virtue warms my bresst^
I'll love my handsome Nell.
Tal lal de ral, §-c.
As bonnie lasses I hae seen,
And mony full as braw,
But for a modest gracefu' mien
The like I never saw.
Tal lal de ral, Ifc.
A bonnie lass, I will confess.
Is pleasant to the ee.
But without some better qualities
She's no a lass for me.
Tal lal de ral, ^c.
But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet,
And what is best of a'
Her reputation was complete,
And fair without a flaw.
Tal lal de ral, Sfc.
She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel ;
And then th>jre's something in her guift
Gars ony dress look weel.
Tal lal de ral, §-c.
A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart,
But it's innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.
Tal lal de ral, Sfc
Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
Tis this enchants my soul ;
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.
Tal lal de ral, ^c.
It must be confessed that these lines give »
indication of the future genius of Rurns ; bu'
he himself teems to have been fond of them^
probably from the recollections they excited.
' The Golden hours , on angel -vvings ,
Hew. o'er me and my dearie;
For d(^ax to me ; a,s liglil and life ,
1113- sweet Sighl.-md Mai'v."
rrAD I A CAVK
SONGS.
203
jS' ,
'his wjti.
Aye, and Luke (i
Come love me an '
Rubin Adair.
i:? TTAKnr.
iawie up the tr
glance.
'•. that io''
uin my L :.;f,
Shall live my Highland Mary,
.,st,
')■'■
oil, fur him buik again J ^c.
HER FLOWl?
Oh, fur
tne M inlander's Karewell to Ireland, witl» some alter- 1
»tions, sung slowly. J
SONGS.
203
HAD I A CAVE.
Had I a cave on some wild distant shore,
V\Tiere the winds howl to tlie waves' dashing roar,
Tl'.cro would I weep niy woes,
There seek my lost repose,
Till grief my eyes should close,
Ne'er to wake more.
Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare
•All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air !
To thy new lover liie,
Laugh o'er th;^ perjury,
Then in thy bosom try
What peace is there.
Compare this with the old crambo-cHuk, — to
the same air —
You R wciCome to Paxton, younj Robin Adair,
Your welcome, but asking, sweet Robin Adair.
How does Johnnie Mackeral do?
Aye, and Luke Gardener too?
Come love me and never rue,"
Robin Adair.
HIGHLAND HARRY.
Mr Ha. ry was a gallant gay ;
Fu' stately strode he on the plain ;
But now he's bani>h'd far away,
I'll never see him back again.
Oh, for him brick again !
Oh, fir him back again !
I lead gie a Ktiockhaspie's land
Fur Highland Harry hack again.
Wlien a' the lave gae to their bed,
I wander dowie up the glen ;
I sit me down, and greet my fill,
And aye I wish him back again.
Oh, for him back again ! §-c.
Oh, were some villains hangit hie,
And ilka body had their ain,
Then I micht see the joyfu' sicht,
My Highland Harry back again.
Oh, for him back again ! §*c.
Sad was the day, and sad the hour.
He left me in his native plain.
And ru>h'd his much-wrong'd prince to join ;
i3ut, oh ! he'll ne'er come back again I
Oh, for him back again I Sfc.
Strong was my Harry's arm in war,
Unmatch'd in a' Culloden's plain ;
But vengeance marks him for her ain—
I'll never see him back again.*
Oh, for him back again ! Sfc.
• The first three verses of this soiif;, excejitinp the
thorns, are by Hiiriis. The air to which it is sung, is
the H ^'hlaiidcr's Farsweil to Ireland, wilh some alter-
»lions, sung slowly.
HIGHLAND MARY.
Tune—" Kathcrine Ogie."
Ye hanks, and braes, and streams arocnd
The Castle o* Montgomery ! *
Green be your woods, and fair your flow r%
Your waters never drum lie !
There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there they langest tarry !
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk i
How rich the hawthorn's blossom !
As, underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom '
The golden hours, on angel wings.
Flew o'er me and my dearie ;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender ;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
M'e tore ourselves asunder :
But, oh ! fell death's untimely frost.
That nipt my flower sae early !
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clsjr,
That wraps my Highland ]\Iary J
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly !
And closed for aye the sparkling glance.
That dwelt on me sae kindly ;
And mould'ring now in silent dust.
That heart that lo'ed me dearly !
But still within my bosom's core.
Shall live my Highland Mary.
HER FLOWING LOCKS:
A FRAGMENT.
Her flowing locks, the raven's winj,
Adown her neck and bosmn hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling.
And round that neck entwine her ,
Her lips are roses wat wi' dew,
O, what a feast, her bonnie mou !
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner.
• Coilsfield House, near Mauehlinc : but poetinUi
titled as above, on account of Oie name cf tb» pio.
pnetor.
204.
BURNS' WORKS.
HERE'S, A BOTTLE AND AN HONEST
FRIEND.
Here's, a bottle and an honest friend!
Wliat \VM(I ye wish for inair, man i
Wha kens, bifiire his life may end,
What his share may be of care, man.
Then catch the moments as they fly,
Aad Use them as ye ought, man :—
Believe me, happini^s is shy,
And comes not ay when sought, man.
HERE'S A HEALTH TO THE.M
THAT'S AWA.
PATRIOTIC — UNriNISHED.
Hzre's a health to them that's awa.
Here's a health to them that's awa ;
And wIm. winna wish gude luck to our cause,
Slay never gude luck be their fa' !
It's gude to be merry and wise,
It's gude to be honest and true,
It's gude to support Caledonia's cause,
And bide by the bufif and the blue.
Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa ;
Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan,
Altho' that his band be sma'.
May liberty meet wi' success !
May prudence protect her frae evil !
Xlay tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist.
And wander their way to the devil !
Here's a Lc£.h to them that's awa.
Here's a health to them that's awa.
Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie.
That lives at the lug of the law !
Here's freedom to him that wad read,
Here's freedom to him that wad write!
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should
be heard,
But they wham the truth would Indite.
Here's a health to them that's awa.
Here's a health to them that's awa.
Here's Chieftain Jl'Leod, a Chieftain 'vorth
gowd,
Tbo' bred amang mountains o' snaw I
Thou art sweet as the smile when kind lovert
meet.
And soft as their parting tear, Jessie !
Although thou maun never be mine—
Although even hope is denied —
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing
Than aught in the world beside, Jessie !
I mourn through the gay gaudy day.
As hopeless I muse on thy charms ;
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber,
For then I am look'd in thy arms, Jessie !
I guess by the dear angel smile,
I gue.-A by the love- rolling ee ;
But why urge the temler confession,
'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree, Jessie"
KERE'S A HEALTH TO ANE 1 LO'E
DEAR.
T^nt—" Here's a Health to them that's iwa."
Here's a health to ane I lu'e drar—
Hwe'ii a health to ane I lo'e dear ;
HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS
ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONQ.
Tune—" John Anderson my ja"
How cruel are the parents
\Vh» riches only prize,
And to the wealthy booby,
Poor woman sacrifice.
Meanwhile the hapless daughter
Has but a choice of strife ;
To shun a tyrant father's hate,
Become a wi etched wife.
The ravening hawk pursuing,
The trembling dove thus flie^
To shun impelling ruin
A while her pinions tries ;
'Till of escape despairing,
No shelter or retr'-at.
She trusts the ruthless falconer,
And drops beneath his feet.
HOW LANG AND DREARY IS niE
NIGHT.
Tune—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen
How lang and dreary is the night.
When I am frae my dearie •
I restless lie frae e'en to morn,
Though 1 we:e ne'er sae weary.
Fur, oil, her luneli/ nights are lang.
And, oh, htr itremns are eerie,
uind, oh, her wiJuw'd heart is sair,
That's ubsi nl frae her dearie.
• Written upon Mrss l.cwars, now Mrs. Thomson
of t)uii'fri(s; 3 true fr .end anri agre.it favourilc o-
thi' port, and, at liisi'rah, one of the most tyrap*
tliiziiig tnends ul' Ins althelcU widow.
SONGS.
205
Wlien I tliiiik on the lightsome days
I Kpent wi' thee, my dearie ;
And now what seas between us roar,
lluw can I but be eerie?
For, oh, Sfc.
How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ;
The joyless day how dreary !
It wisna sae ye glinted by,
When 1 wiis wi' my dearie.
1-^ur, oh, §"c.
I AM A SON OF MARS.
Tunc—" Soldier's Joy."
I AM son of Mars who lave been in mary
wars,
And show my cuts and scars wherever I conie ;
Tliis here was for a wench, and that other in a
trendi.
When welcoming the French at the sound of
the drum.
Z,al de dandle, §-c.
My 'prenticeship I past where my leader
hreith'd his last.
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of
Abram ;
I served out ray 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
batt'ries.
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ;
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to
head me,
I'd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum.
JjoI de daudle, &•€.
And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arm
and leg,
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum,
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my
callet,
As when I os'd in scarlet to follow a drum.
Ziol de daudle, Sec.
Whit tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the
winter shocks.
Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a
home,
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother
bottle tell,
could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the
drum.
JjoI de daudle, Sfc.
I DREAIM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS
WERE springi:ng.
These two staiuas I composed when I wa«
seventeen, and aie among the oldest of my prinU
ed pieces.
I DUEA5i'i) I lay where flowers were sprbg'.ng,
Gaily in the sunny beam ;
List'ning to the wilil blrd.i singing,
By a falling, crystal stream :
Strai;(ht the sky grew black and daring ;
Thro* the woods the whirlwinds rave ;
Trees with ageil arms were warring.
O'er the swelling, drumlie wave.
Such was my life's deceitful morning.
Such the pleasures 1 enjoy 'd ;
But lang or noon, loud tempests stormtDg,
A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd,
Tho' tickle fortune has deceiv'd me,
She promis'd fail-, and perforni'd but illj
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd mo,
1 bear a heart shall su])port me still.
I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOUW
Tune — " I'll gang nae malr to yon towa"
I'li, aye ca' in by yon tnun.
And by yon garden green again j
I'll aye ca' in by yon toun.
And see my bonnie Jean again.
There's nane shall ken, there's nane shall gnss
What brings me back the gate again,
But she, my fairest fiithfu' lass ;
And stowlins we shall meet again.
She'll wander by the aiken tree,
When trystin time draws near again ;
And when her lovely form I see,
O haith, she's doubly dear again.
I'll aye ca' in by yon toun.
And by yon garden green again;
I'll aye ca' iu by yon toun.
And see my bonnie Jean again.
I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY iif.
The chorus is old :
IS, is mine.
-the rest of it, such u h
I'm my mammy's ae bairn,
Wi' unco folk, I weary, Sir;
Anil lying in a man's bed,
I'm fley'd wad mak me irie. Sir.
I'm o'er young, I'm o'er ynurg,
I'm o'er poung to marry yet.-
Sru6 BURNS'
WORKS.
Tm o*er young, twad he « tin
If ye wad woo me, love,
To tah i<ie frae my n^rnmi/ yet.
Wha can espy thee ?
I'm far aboon fortune, love,
Hallowmas is :;orae and gane,
When I am by thee.
The nights are lang in winter, Sir ;
And you and I in ae bed,
I come from my chamber
In trowth I darena venture, Sir.
When the moon's glowing ;
/'m o'er young, ^c.
I walk by the streamlet
'Mang the broom flowing.
My minnie coft me a new gown.
The bright moon and stars, loT6>*
The kirk maun hae the gracing o't ;
None else espy me ;
War I to lie wi' you, kind Sir,
And if ye wad win my love.
I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o't.
Jamie, come try me.
Fm o'er young, S^c.
Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind
Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, Sir ;
But should ye come this gate again,
JOCKIE'S TA'EN THE PARTING KIS&
I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir.
I'm o'er young, Sfc,
Jogkie's ta'en the parting kiss,
Ower the mountains he is gane ;
And with him is a' my bliss ;
Nought but griefs wi' me remain.
Spare my love, ye winds that blaw,
IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE.
Flashy sleets, and beating rain !
Spare my love, thou feathery snaw,
These were originally English verses : — I
Drifting o'er the frozen plain !
gave them their Scotch dress.
When the shades of evening creep
It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face,
Ower the day's fair gladsome ee.
Nor shape that I admire,
Sound and safely may he sleep.
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace
Sweetly blythe his waukening be !
Jlight weel awauk desire.
He will think on her he loves.
Something in ilka part o' thee
Fondly he'll repeat her name ;
To praise, to love, I find ;
For, where'er he distant roves.
Pdt dear as is thy form to me.
Jockie's heart is still at hame.
StiJI dearer is thy miud.
Nae raair ungen'rous wish I hae,
Nor stronger in my breast,
JOHN BARLEYCOR^. •
Than, if I canna mak thee sae,
At least to see thee blest.
A BALLAD.
Content am I, if heaven shall give
But happiness to thee :
There were tLree kings into the east/
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live,
Three kings both great and high.
For thee I'd bear to die.
An* they hae sworn a solemn oath
,
John Barleycorn should die.
They took a plough and plough'd him iiWHf
Put clods upon his head.
JAMIE, COJIE TRY ME.
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was deM.
Jamie, come try me,
Jamie, come try me ;
But the cheerful spring came kindly on.
If ye wad win my love.
And show'rs began to fall ;
Can ye na try me ?
John Barleycorn g(it up again.
If ye should ask my love.
And sore surpris'd them all.
Could 1 deny thee ?
If ye wad win my love,
The sultry suns of summer came,
Jamie, come try me.
And he grew thick and strong,
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
My heart leaps light, my lore.
That no one should him wrong.
When ye come nigh n\e ;
If 1 had wings, my love.
• This is partly composed on the plan of an oU
Think na I'd fly thee.
■ODg known by the same name.
SONGS.
20"
Ye'll blear out a' your een, John, ar«i why
should you do so,
Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Ajader'son,
my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first
began
To try her canny hand, John, her master-wc:k
was man ;
And you amang them a', John, sue trig fra#
tap to toe.
She proved to be nae journey-work, John An
derson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my fire*
conceit,
And ye na think it strange, John, tho* I ca' y*
trim and neat ;
Tho' some folk say ye're auld, John, I never
think ye so.
But I think ye're ave the same to me, John An-
derson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, Joho, we've seen our
bairns' bairns.
And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm haiipy
in your arms.
And sae are ye in mine, John — I'm sure ye',
ne'er say no,
Tho' the days are gane, that we have seen, Joht
Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasuni
does it gie
To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up 'tween
you and me.
And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go,
Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John An-
derson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were
first acquaint.
Your locks were like the raven, your bonnia
brow was brent.
But now your head's turned bald, John, your
locks are like the snaw,
Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Ander-
son, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to yeai
I we've past,
' And soon that year maun come, John, will
bring us to our last :
But let nae that affright us, John, our heart*
were ne'er our foe,
While in innocent delight we lived, John An-
lOIIN ANDERSON, MY JO, IMPROVED. Person, my jo.
John Akdersok, my jo, John, I wonder what Jjhn Anderson, my jo, John, we clam the hi!
you metn, thegither, ,
To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up M And mony a canty day, John, we've had wi
late f.t e en, J aue aoither ;
The doher autumn ent«r'd mild,
^VTicn he grew wan and pale ;
Il'i bending joints and drooping head
Show'd lie 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'e» a weapon long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee ;
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart.
Like a rogue for forgerie.
They laid him down upon his back.
And ciidgell'd him full sore ;
Tliey hung him up before the storm,
And tum'd him o'er and o'er.
They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink oi swim.
Ihey laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe,
And still as signs of life appear'd.
They toss'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,
For he crush'd him between two stones.
,\nd they hae ta'en his very heart's blood
And drank it round and round ;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise.
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.
Twill make a man forget his woe ;
'Twill heighten all his joy :
Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand ;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fai in old Scotland !
208
BURNS' WORKS.
Now we mriun totter down, Jolin, but hand in
hand we'll go.
And we'll sltep the^ither at the foot, John An-
deisou, my jo.
LAST MAY A BRAW AVOOER.
Tune—" The Lothian Lassie,"
Last May a braw wooer cam' down the lang
glen,
And sair wi' his Inve he did deave me ;
I said there was naethlng I hattd like men :
The deuce gae wi' him to believe me, believe
me.
The deuce gae wi' him to believe me !
He spak' o' the darts o' my bonnie black eea.
And Vdw'd for my love he was dcein'.
I said he niicht dee when he liked for Jean ;
The giiid forgi'e me tor leein', for leeiu',
The guid forgi'e me for leein' !
A wecl-stockit mailin', himsell for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffer.
I never loot on that I kfiin'd it or cared ;
But thoch» I might hae a waur offer, waur
offer,
But thought I might hae a waur offer.
But, what wad ye think, in a fortnicht or less, —
The deil's in his taste to gang near her ! —
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess —
Guess ye how, the jaud ! I could bear her,
could bear her.
Guess ye how, the jaud ! I could bear her !
But a' the neist week, as I fretted wi' care,
I gaed to the tryst o" Dalgarnoek ;
And wha l)ut ray braw fickle wooer was there ?
Whd glowr'd as he had seen a warlock, a
warlock,
Wha glowr'u as he had seen a warlock.
Out ower my left shouther I gi'ed him a blink,
Lest necbors micht say I was saucy ;
My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink,
And vow'<l I was his dear lassie, dear lassie.
And vow'd I was his dear lassie.
I speir'd for my cousin, fou couthie and sweet.
Gin she had recover'd her hearin' ?
\nd how my auld shoon fitted her shauchled
feet ?'•
Gude sauf us ! how he fell a-swearin', a-
swearin',
Gude sauf us ! how he fell a-swearin'.
• In Scotland, when a cast-ofT lover pays his ad.
dresses to a new mistress, tliat new mistress is saiil to
have pot the auld slioon (old shoes) of the former one.
Here the mota])hor is made to cirrv an extremely in-
genious sarcatm at tlie ciunisiuess of 'he new mislrc'sit'i
person.
He begged, for gudesake ! I wad be hi» wl£g^
Or else I wad kill him wi" sorrow ;
Sae, e'en to preserve the piiir body in life,
1 think I maun wed hitn to-morrow, to-BiiK^
row,
I think I maun wed hiin to-morrow.
LASSIE WI* THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS
T^ne — " Rothiemurchus' Rant."
Lassie tci' the Ihii white locks,
Jionnie luisie, itrtless lassie.
Wilt thou wi' me tend thejincks ?
Wilt thou be mi/ dearie, O ?
Now Nature cleads the flowery lea.
And a* is young and sweet like thee,
O, wilt thou share its jv)ys wi' me.
And say thou'lt be my dearie, O ?
Lassie ud', ^c.
And when the welcome simmer shower
Has cheer'd ilk dniopinj^ little fliiwer.
We'll to the breathing v/nodhine bower,
At sultry noon, my dearie, O.
Lassie wt, §x.
MHien Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray,
The weary shearer's hameward way,
Through yellow-waving fields we'il stray,
And talk o' love, my dearie, O.
Lassie, wi', §-c.
And whem the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassie's midnignt rest,
Enclasped to my faithiul breast,
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O.
Lassie, wi', §-c.
LAY THY LOOP IN MINE, LASS
Tune—" O lay tlie loof in mine. Ism.*
O LAY thy loof in mine, lass.
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ;
And swear on thy white hand, lass,
That thou wilt be my ain.
A slave to love's unbounded sway,
He aft has wrought me niuckle wae ;
But now he is my deadly fae,
Unless thou be ray 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 breaity
For ever to remain.
SONGS. W9
I.Ef NOT V\'OMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.
Again the merrv mor.th o* l^fay,
Has made our hills and valleys gay;
The birds lejoice in leafy bowel s.
Tune—" Duncan Gray."
Let not woman e'rr complain
The bees hum round the breathing flo77aa ,
Of inconstancy in love ;
Blythe morning lilts his rosy eve,
Let not u-dtiKin e'er complain,
And evening's tears are tears of joy :
Fickle man is a()t to rove.
My soul, (lelightless, a' surveys,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
Look abroad tlirouijh nature's range,
Natnrc's mighty law is change;
Within yon milk-white hawthorn buzh)
Ladies, would it not l)e strange,
Ainang her nestlings sits the thrush :
Man should, then, a monster prove ?
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil.
Or wi' his song her cares beguile ;
Hark the winds, and mark the skies ;
But I, wi" my sweet nurslings licre,
Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow.
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Snn and moou bnt set to rise ;
Pass wiilow'd nights and joyless days,
Hound aiid round the seasons go.
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
Wiy, then, ask of silly man,
To oppose great nature's plan ?
O wae upon you, men o* state.
That brethren rouse to deadly hate '
We'll be constant while we can,
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn,
You can Ih; no inoie, you know.
Sae may it on your heads return !
How can your flinty hearts enjoy.
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry;* •,
But soon may jjeace bring happy days,
LONG, LONG THE NIGHT
And Willie, hame to Logan braes !
Tuve—" Aye wakin'."
ZtOnp, long tlie night.
J/ravg ciimrs the mnrrow,
While my soul's delight.
Is on her bed of sorrow.
LORD GREGORY.
Can I cease to care.
Oh, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour.
Can I cease to languish,
And loud the tempests roar ;
While my darling fair
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower.
Is on the conch of anguish ?
Lord Gregory, ope thy door !
Zfong, §-c.
An exile frae her father's ha'.
Every hope is fled.
And a' for loving thee;
Every fear is terror
At least some pity on me shjw.
Slumber e'en I dread,
If love it may na be.
Every dream is horroi
■Long, ifc.
Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the gr:3!»'
By bonnie Irvine side.
Hear me, pow'rs divine !
Where first I own'd that virgin love
Oh, in pity hear nie !
I lang lang had denied ?
Take aught else of mine,
But my Chloiis s])are me !
How aften di(Nt thou pledge the vow,
jLung, Sfc.
Thou wad for aye be mine !
And m.y fond heart, it-ell sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted tliiae.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
LOGAN BRAES.
And flinty is thy breast !
Tune—" Logan Water."
Thou dart of heaven that flashes by.
0, Logan sweeetly didst thou glide.
Oh, wilt thou give me rest !
That day I was my Willie's bride ;
' And years sinsyne hae o'er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
Ye mustering thunders from above,
Your willing victim see ;
But now the flowery banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark an drear,
• Originally,
While my dear lad maun face his faei.
" Ye mind na 'mid yoor criirl joy:,
} Far, fur frae me and Logan braes.
•• I lie widow's tears, the orpli;i."'s*ijri»i!
1
21C
BURNS' WORKS.
Bat spare anf» pardon my false love
His wrongs to heaveu and me ! •
LINES ON LORD DAER.
This wot ye all whom it concerns,
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,
October twenty-third,
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,
Sae far 1 sprackled + up the brae,
I dinner'd wi' a Lord.
I've been at dru.:kenyt'r(7er5' | feasts,
Nay, been bitch fou 'mang godly priests,
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ;
I've even join'd the honour'd jorura,
When mighty Squireships of the quorum.
Their hydra drouth did sloken.
But wi a Lord — stand out my shin,
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son,
Up higher yet my bonnet ;
An' sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa.
Our peerage he o'erlooks them a'
As I look o'er a sonnet.
But O for Hogarth's magic power !
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr,§
And how he stared and stammer'd,
Whan goavan || as if led wi' branks,^
An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks.
He in the parlour hammer'd.
I sidling shelter'd in a nook.
An' at his Lordship steal't a look,
Like some portentous omen ;
Except good sense and social glee.
An' (what surprised me) modesty,
I marked nought uncommon.
I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great,
The gentle piide, the lordly state
The arrogant assuming;
The fient a piidc, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see,
Mair than an honest ploughman.
Then from his Lordship I shall learn,
Hencefortn to meet with unconcern,
One rank as well's another ;
Nae honest icorthy man need rare,
To meet with noble youthful Daek,
For he but meets a brother.
These lines will be read with no common in-
Ifcrcst by all who remember the unaffected sim-
plicity of appearance, the sweetness of ccunte.
nance and manners, and the unsuspecting bene«
volence of heart, of Basil, Lord Daer. — It was r
younger brother of his who, as Earl of Selkirk,
became so well known as the advocate of volun-
tary emigration, and who settled the CiMaj
upon the Red River.
MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL.
Tune—" Macpherson's Rant. '
Fareweil, ye prisons dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie !
Macpherson's time will not be long
On yonder gallows tree !
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dantonly gaed he.
He play''d a spring, and danced it TCKJ^dt
Heneath the gallows tree !
Oh, what is death, but parting breath ?
On mony a bluidy plain
I've daur'd his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again.
Sae rantingly, Sfc.
Untie these bands frae aff my hands.
And bring to me my sword ;
And there's nae man in a' Scotland
But I'll brave him at a word.
Sae rantingly, §-c.
I've lived a life of sturt and strife ;
I die by treacherie :
It buins my heart I must depart,
And not avenged be.
Sae rantingly, Sfc.
Now farewell, light, thou sunshine bright,
And all bpncLith the sky !
May coward shame distain his name,
The wretch that dares not die !
Sae rantingly, 8rc.
* This song was eompo'^od upon tlic sulvect of tile
well. known and very beautiful balL-iil, cntiUed " The
Lass of Loiliroyaii.
t Clambered. i Attorneys.
t Frightened stare. || Walkiiij; stupidly.
1 A kind of bridle.
MARIA'S DWELLING.
Tufte—" The last time I cam o'er the Moor."
Farewell thou stream that winding flow*
Around Maria's dwelling !
Ah cruel inem'ry ! spare the threes
AVithin my bosom swelling :
Condemn'd to drag a ho])eless chain,
And still in secret languish ;
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein,
Yet dare not speek my anguish.
The wretch of love, unseen, unknown,
I fain my crime would cover :
SONGS.
211
llie hurstiiisj sigh, th' unweeting; groan
Betray the hopeless lover.
I know iny doom must be despair,
Thou wilt, nor canst relieve me ;
But oh, M.uia, hear one prayer,
For pity's sake forgive me.
The music of thy tongue I heard,
Nor wist while it enslav'd me ;
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'a,
'Till fears no more had saved me.
The unwary sailor thus aghast.
The wheeling torrent viewing ;
'i^Ii'l circling horrors yields at last
To overwhelming ruin.
MARK YONDER POMP.
Tunt—" Dei) tak' the wars."
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion.
Round the wealthy, titled bride :
But when compared with real passion.
Poor is all that princely pride.
V/hat are their showy treasures ?
What are their noisy pleasures ?
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art.
The polish'd jewel's bhize,
M.iy draw the wonrl'ring gaze,
And courtly grandeur brigiit.
The fancy may delight.
But never, never can come near the heart.
But did you see my dearest Chloris,
In simplicity's array ;
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is,
Shrinking from the gaze of day.
O then the heart alarming.
And all resistless charming.
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the wil-
ling soul !
Ambition would disown
The world's imperial crown,
Even Av'rice would deny
His worshipp'd deity,
And feel thro' every vein Love'a raptures roll.
MARY MORISON.
Tune—" Bide ye yet"
0, Mary, at thy window be ;
It is the wished, the trjsted hour :
Those smiles and glances let me see
That make the miser's treasure poor.
How blyfhely wad I byde the stoure,
A weary slave fiae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
Tie iov^»'y Mary Morison !
Yestreen, when to the stented string
The dance gaed through the lichtit ha'.
To thee my fancy took its wing— .
I sat, but neither heard nor saw.
Though this was fair, and that was bra\7
And you the toast o' a the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a'.
Ye are na JMary Morison.
O, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee ?
If love for love thou wilt na gic.
At least be pity to me shown ;
A thocht ungentle canna be
The thocht of Alary Morison.
MEG O' THE MILL.
Tune—" O bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack "^
O, KEM ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten.
An' ken ye what Jleg o' the Mdl has gotten ?
She has gotten a coof wi* a claut o" siller.
And broken the heart o' the barley miller.
The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady :
The laird was a wuddiefu' bleerit knurl ;
She's left the guid fallow, and ta'en the churl.
The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving:
The laird did address her wi' matter niair mo-
Ting ;
A fine pacing-horse wi' a clcar-chain'd bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonny side-saddle.
O wae on the siller, it's sae prevailing ;
And 'vae on the love that's fix'd on a mailin* !
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's paile.
But, Gie me my love, and a fig for the worl !
MUSING ON THE ROARLXG OCEAN.
I COMPOSKD these verses out of compliment
to a Mrs. M'Lachlan, whose husband is an of-
ficer in the East Indies.
Tune—" Drumion Dubh."
Ml'sing on the roaring ocean,
Which diviiles 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,
Whispring spirits round my pillow,
Talk of him that's far awa.
Ye whom sorrow levcr wounded,
Ye who never shed a tear,
212
BURNS* WORKS.
Care-untronl)li.'d, joy-surrounded,
Gdudy (lay to you is dear.
Gentle night, do tliou befriend me,
Downy sleep the curtain draw ;
Spirits kind, again attend me,
Talk of him that's far awa !
MY BONNIE IMARY.
This air is Oswald's ; the first half-stanza
of the song is old, the rest mine.*
Go fetch to me a pint o* wine,
An' fill it in a silver tassie ;
That I may drink hefore I go,
A service to my honnie lassie ;
The boat rocks at the ])ier o' Leith ;
Fu' loud the wind blaws fiae the ferry ;
The ship rides by the Berwick-law,
And I maun lea'e my bonuie Mary.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are ranked ready ;
The shouts o' war are heard afor,
The battle closes thick and bloody ;
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
Wad make me langcr wish to tarry ;
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar.
It's leaving thee, my bonuie Maty.
MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.
BIv heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not
here —
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ;
A-chasing the wilil deer, and following the roe,
Mv heart's in the Highlands wherever 1 go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the
North,
The biith-place of valour, the country of worth ;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with
snow ;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ;
. Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods ,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not
here ;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer,
Chasing the wild deer and following the roe—
My J'.eart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
• IMjis Minp, wliicli Iliims here nckno'Aiedfjcj to he
bis own, was first ijilrodiii-i-il by him in a Idler to
Urs. Dunlop, iis two o'J itanzai.
MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GAIRS
UPON'T.
Mt lady's gown there's gairs upon't,
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't ;
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet,
RIy lord thinks muckle mair upon't.
My lord a-hunting he is gane.
But hounds ot hawks wi' him are nane*.
By Colin's cottage lies his game.
If Colin's Jenny be at hame.
My lady's white, my lady's red,
And kith and kin o' Cassilis' blude,
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher gude
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed.
Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon moss,
Whare gor-cocks through the heather pase •,
There wons auld Colin's bonny lass,
A lily in a wilderness.
Sae sweetly move her genty limbs.
Like music notes o' lover's hymns ;
The diamond dew is her een sae blue.
Where laughing love sae wanton swims.
My lady's dink, my lady's drest.
The flower and fancy o' the west ;
But the lassie that man lo'es the best,
O that's the lass to mak irim blest.
MY NANNIE'S AWA.
Tun^—" There'll never be peace till Jamie comei
hame."
Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays.
And listens the lambkins that bleat ower the
braes.
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ;
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa.
The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlandf
adorn.
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ;
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw !
They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa.
Thou laverock, that springs frae the dews of
the lawn.
The shepherd to warn of the grey-breaking
dawn ;
And thou mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa' ;
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa.
Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey,
And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay :
The daik, dreary winter, and w ild-driving snaw,
Alane can delight me — my Nannie's awa.
SONGS.
213
MY NANNIE, O.
t^nt -" My NanB .o, O."
Behind yon hills whore Stiiichar flows,
Mang moors an' mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the <l:iy has dos'd,
And I'll awa to Nannie, O.
Tlie wcstland wind lilaws h)ud an* shrill ;
The niijht's baith mirk and rainy, O ;
But I'll get my plaid and out I'll steaJ,
An' owre the hills to Nannie, O,
My Nannie's charmin;^, sweet, an' younj ;
Na* artfu' wiles to win ye, O ;
May ill befa' the flatterin<j tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie, O.
Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as sIm's bounie, O :
The opening gowan, wet wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie, O.
A country lad is my degree.
An' few there be that ken me, O ;
But what c»re I how few they bo,
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O.
My riches a' 's my penny-fee.
Ail' I maun guide it cannie, O ;
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O.
Our auld Guidman delights to view
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ;
But I'm as blythe that bauds his plough,
An' has nae care but Nannie, O.
Come weel, come woe, I care na by,
I'll tike what Heaven will sea' me, O ;
Nae ither care in life hae I,
But live, an' love my Nannie, O.
MY PEGGY'S FACE.
My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form
The frost of Hermit age might wai'm ;
My Peggy's worth, ray Peggy's mind,
Might charm the first of human kind :
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 l)ut owns their magic sway,
Who but knows they all decay !
The tender thrill, the pitying tear.
The generous purpose, nobly dear,
The gentle look, that rage disarms,
Thesp are all immortal charms.
MY SODGER LADDIE,
THE soldier's doxy's SON*; IN " THE J0LL1
IIEGGAKS."
Tune—" Sodger Laddie."
I ONCE was a maid, tho' I canna tell when.
And still my delight is in proper young men ;
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,—
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie.
Sine/, Lai de lul, §-c.
The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ;
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,
Transported I was with my sodger laddie.
Sinff, Lai de lal, Sfc.
But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch,
The sword I forsook for tho sake of the church.
He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the bo'Ji/,
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie.
Siny, Lid de lal, ^-c.
Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,
The regiment at large for a husband I got;
From the gilded spontoon to tho fife I was ready,
I asked no more but a sodger laddie.
S'uKj, L'A de lal, ^'C.
But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in de-pair,
Till I met my old boy at Cuiminghim fair ;
His ray regiinetit(d tliey flutter'd so gamly,
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie.
Sing, Lnl de lal, fre.
And now I have liv'd — I know not how long,
And still I can join in a cup or a song ;
But wliilst with both hands I can hold the g 3M
steady,
Here's to thee, my hero, my sod:;er ladJie.
Sing, Lal de lal, §"c.
MY SPOUSE NANCIE.
Tune—" My Jo, Janet."
Husband, husband, cease your itrlfe^
Nor longer idly rave. Sir;
Though I am your wedded wife,
Yet I'm not your slave, Sir.
One of two must still obey,
Nancie, Nmcie ;
Is it man or woman, say.
My spouse Nancie ?
If 'tis still the lordly word.
Service and obedience ;
I'll de-sert my soverei;^!! lord.
And BO good-bye allcgiauc*
6a/l will I be so bereft,
Nancie, Nancie ;
2H BURNS'
WORKS.
Yet I'll try to mal e a soift,
The warld's wrack we share »'%
BIy spouse Nantie.
The warstle and the care o't ;
W' her I'll blythely bear it,
My poor heart then break it must,
And think my lot divine.
My last hour I'm near it ;
When you lay me in the dust,
Think — think how you will bear it.
T will hope and trust in Heaven,
NAE-BODY.
Nancie, Nancie,
Strength to bear it will be given,
I HAE a wife o' my ain.
My spouse Nancie.
I'll partake wi' nae-body ;
I'll tak cuckold frae nane,
■Well, Sir, from the silent dead,
I'll gie cuckold to nae-body.
Still I'll try to daunt you ;
Ever round your midnight bed
I hae a penny to spend,
Horrid sprites shall haunt you.
There — thanks to nae-body;
I hae naething to lend.
Ill wed another like my dear
I'll borrow frae nae-body.
Nancie, Nancie ;
Then all hell will fly for fear,
I am nae-body's lord,
]My spouse Nancie I
I'll be slave to nae-body ;
I hae a guid braid sword,
I'll tak dunts frae nae-body
I'll be merry and free,
I'll be sad for nae body ;
MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL.
0 MElKLE thinks my luve d' my beauty.
If nae-body care for me,
And meikle thinks my hive o' my kin ;
I'll care for nae-body.
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie,
Jly tocher's the jewel has chainis for him.
It's a' for the apple he'll n(iuri>h the tree ;
It's a' for the hinney he'll cherish the bee.
Mv laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller.
NANCY.
He canna hae luve to spare for me.
Thine am I, my faithful fair^
Your profTcr o' hive's an arle penny,
Thine, my lovely Nancy ;
My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ;
Ev'iy pulse along my veins,
But an' ye be crafty, I am cunnin,
Ev'ry roving fancy.
Sae ye wi' anitlier your fortune maun try.
Ye're like to the tin.nier o' yon rotten wood,
Ye're like to the baik o' yon rotten tree,
To thy bosom lay my heart.
There to thiob and languish ;
Ye'U slip frae me like a knotiess thread,
And ye'll crack your ciedit wi' mae nor me.
Tho' despair had wrung its core,
That would heal its anguish.
Take away these rosy lips.
Rich with balmy treasure :
Turn away thine eyes of love,
JIY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING.
Lest I die with pleasure.
Tunt—" My wife's a wanton wee thing."
What is life when wanting love ?
She is a winsome wee thing,
Night without a morning :
She is a handsume wee thing,
Love's the cloudless summer sun
She is a bonnie wee thing,
Nature gay adorning.
This sweet wee wife o* mine !
I never saw a fairer,
I never loo'd a dearer ;
And neist my heart I'll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.
NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROVB
IN GREEN.
She is a winsome woe thing,
Now spring has cl.id the grove m green,
She is a hutKJMime wre thing,
And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ;
She is a bonnie wee thing,
The fiirrow'd waving corn is seen
Thin sweet wee wife o' mine.
Rejoice in fostering shower* .
-J
SONGS.
215
IThlle ilka tiling in nature join
Their sorrows to forej;o,
0 why thus all alone are mine
The wcaiy steps of woe !
The trout within yon wim])ling burn
Glides swift, a silver dart,
And safe beneath the shady thorn
Defies tlie angler's art ;
My life was ance that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I ;
But love, wi' unrelentinij beam,
Has seorch'd uiy fountains dry.
The little flow'ret's peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,
V\'hich save the linnet's flight, I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past,
And blighted a' my bloom.
Add now beneath the withering blast,
My youth and joy consume.
The waken'd lav'rock warbling springSi
And clim'os the e.irly sky,
IVinnowing blythe he; dewy wings
In mornir.g's rosy eye ;
As little reckt I sorrow's power,
Until the flowery snare
0' witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o' care.
0 bad my fate been Greenland's snows,
Cr Afric's burning zone,
Wi' man and nature leagued my foes.
So Peggy ne'er I'd known !
The wretch whase doo.-n is, " hope nae mair,'
That tongue his woes cau tell !
Within wha^e bosom, save despair,
Nae kinder spirits dwell.
NOW BANK AND BRAE ARE CLAD
IN GREEN.
Now bank and brae are clad in green
An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring.
By Girvan's fiiry haunted stream
The birdies flit on wanton wing.
Tc Cassil'is' banks when e'ening fa's,
Theij wi' my .Alary l^t nie flee.
There catch her ilka glance of love
The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee !
The cliild wha boasts o' warld's walth.
Is atten laird o' ineikle care ;
But .Mary she is a' my ain.
Ah, tortiine carina gie me mair !
rii.ii let me ran-e by Cassillis* banks,
Wi' h;T tie lassie dear to me,
Ap.'I catch her ilka glance o' lora
The bonnie blink o' Marv's ee
NOW WESTLIN* WINDS.
Tune—" I had a horse, I had nae ncair."
Now westlin' winds, and slaughtering guns.
Bring autumn's pleasant weather ;
The niU)rcock springs, on whirring wings,
Ainang the blooming heather.
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary fanner ;
And the moon shine's bright, when I rove a
night,
To muse upon my charmer.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells ;
The plover loves the mountiiins ;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ;
The soaring hern the fountains.
Through lofty groves the cushat roves,
Tlie path of man to shun it ;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush.
The spreading thorn the iinnet.
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 ;
The sportman's joy, the murdering cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion.
But, Peggy dear, the evening's cleat,
Thick flies the skimming swallow ;
The sky is blue, the fields in view.
All lading green and yellow :
Come let us stray our gladsome wav,
And view the charms of nature ;
The ru-tling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.
We'll gently walk, and sweetly t.i'.k,
Till tlie silent moon shine clearly ;
I'll grasp thy waist, and fondly press't,
And swear 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 !
OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN
BLAW.
Tune~~" Miss Admiral Gordon's StrattSDCy."
I COMPOSED this song out of compliment te
Mrs. Burns. It was during the honey-moon»
Or a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lass that I loe best :
Tho' wild woods grow, and rivers rovr,
Wi' inony a hill betwtt »,
216
BURNS' WORKS
Balth day and niglil, my fancy's flight
Is erer wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flow'r,
Sae lovely, sweet, and fair ;
I hear her voice in ilka bird,
Wi' music charm the air :
Tliere's not a bonnie flower that springs,
By fountain, shaw, or green,
Nor yet a boanie bird that sings.
But minds me o' my Jeau.
Upon the banks o' flowmg Clyde
The lasses busk them braw ;
But when their best they hae put on,
My Jeanie dings them a' ;
In hamely weeds she far exceeds
The fairest o' the to^n ;
Baith sage and gay confeK it sae,
Tho' drest in russet gown.
The gamesome lamb, that sucks its dsma,
Mair harmless 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, naue can compare
Vi'i' my sweet lovely Jean.
O hlaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft
Aniang the leafy trees;
Wi' gentle gale, fiae niulr and dale,
Bting hame the l.iilen bees,
And bring the lassie back to me
Tliat's aye sae neat and clean ;
Ae blink o' her wad banish care,
Sae lovely is my Jean.
What sighs and vnws aniang the knowcs,
Hae past atween us twa !
How fain to meet, how wae to part
That djy she gaed awa !
The powers aboon can only ken,
To whom the heart is seen,
Ihat nane can be sae dear to lue
As my sweet lovely Jean.
O, AY MY WIFU: SHE DANG ME.
Tune—" O, ay my Wife she dang me."
O, ay >»y wife she tlanrj vie.
And aft mi/ u-if- ahr l>ii)i(/e<{ me I
If ye yie a icuman u' Iter vill,
Gude faith, ihe'll soon oweryang y ■
Os peace and rest my mind was bent,
And, fool I was, 1 marrieil •
But never honest man's intent
As curticdly niiscarriwl !
O, ay my wife, §'C.
Some sair o' comfort still at last.
When a' thir days are dune, man—
My pains o' hell on earth is past,
I'm sure o' heaven aboon, man.
O, ay my wife, &^c.
O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER
O BONNIE was yon rosy brier.
That blooms sae fii frae haunt o' man ;
And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear 1
It shaded frae the e'enin' sun.
Yon rosebuds in the morning dew
How pure, amang the leaves sae green ;
But purer was the lover's vow
They witness'd in their shade yestreen.
All in its rude and prickly bower.
That crimson rose, how sweet and fair •.
But love is fir a sweeter tlower
Amid life's thorny path o' care.
The pathless wild, and winipling burOi
M'i' Chloris in my arms, be mine ;
And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn,
Its joys and griefs alike resign.
O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, JAM.
Tune—" The Moiidicwort."
ArC 0,fi>r ane and twenty. Tarn I
An hey, sweit ane and tivnity, Tam I
I'll learn my hin a rattUny sany.
An' I saw ane and twenty, Tain!
TiiEV sn'>ol me sair, and baud me down,
And gar me look like Blnntie, Tam !
But three short years will ^oon wheel roan i
And then conies ane and twenty, Tom I
An O, for, Sec.
A gleih o' Ian', a claut o' gear,
Was left me by my auntie, Tam ;
At kith or kin I need r.-a' spier,
An' I saw ane and twenty, Tam.
An' 0,for, i|C
They'll hae me wed a wealthy coot,
Tho' I mysel hae jilenty, Tam ;
Hut hears't thou, laddie, there's my loe^
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam !
An' 0,for, ^c.
^
^
SONGS. 217
Off, GIN MY LOVF, WERE YON RKD
They heat your brains, and fire your veiaa,
K( iSR.
And then you're [)iry for Rob MossgieL
T>i%e—" ilughie Grahsra."
aini) tal, lal, lay.
Oh, gin my love were yon red rose
Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung ;
Tliat grows upon tlie castle \va*,
A heart that warmly seeks to fetl ;
And 1 niy-.L'll a d aj) o' dew,
That feeling heart but acts a part,
Into her l>onni(' lirea'it to fa' !
'Tis rakish art in Rcib Mossgiel,
Oh, there, lieyond expression blest,
Siny tal, lal, lay.
I'd feast on be.nity a' the nieht ;
Stated (11) hiT silk-saft faulds to rest,
The frank address, the soft caress,
Till flcyed awa by Phtebus' licht.
Are worse than poison'rl darts of (tee^
The frank address, and politesse.
ADDITIONAL STANZA BY BURNS.
Arc all finesse in Rob MossgieL
Siny tal, lal, lay.
0, WERE my love yon lilac fair.
Wi' purple blDs^oiiis to the spring ;
And I a bird to shelter there.
Wl-.tn wearied on my little wing ;
How I wad mourn when it was torn
0 LET ME IN THIS AE NIOHT
l!y autumn wild, and winter rude !
Tune—" Let me in this ae night."
How I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu' Jlay its bloom renewed.
0 LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet.
Or art thou wakin, I would wit,
For love has bound me hand and foot,
And I would fain be in, jo.
0 let me in this ae niqht,
on, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD
This ae, ae, ne niglit,
BLAST.
Fur pitys sake this ae night,
O rixe and let me in, jo.
Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea ;
Thou hear'st the winter wind and west
My pi lidie to the angry airt.
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:
Tak pity on my weary feet.
Or (lid misfortune's bitter storms
And shield me frae the rain, jo.
Aroimd thee blaw, around thee blaw,
O let me in, &-c.
Thy bielil eliould be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a*.
The bitter blast that round me blawi
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ;
Or were I in the wildest waste.
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cauM
Sae blaek and bare, sae black and bare.
Of a' my grief ami pain, jo.
The desert were a paradise.
O let me in, ^x.
If thou wert there, it thou wert there.
Or were I monarch of tlie globe.
HER ANSWER.
With thee to reign, with thee to reign;
The brightest je>vel in my crown
0 TELL nae me o' wind and rain,
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
Ujjljraid nae me wi' cauld disdain,
Gae back the road ye cam again,
I wintia let you in, jo.
J till ijiiu now this ae night,
This ae ae, ae niijht ;
0 LKAVE NOVELLES, YE MAUCHLINE
And anct 7;r a', this ae night {
15ELLES.
I winn. Itt you in, jo.
A FRAGMENT
The snellest blast at mirkest hours.
Tiiiu—" Donald Blue"
That round the patidess wand'rer poun,
Is nouj^ht to what poor she endures
0 LEAVE novelles, ye Mauchiine belles.
That's trusted faithless man, jo.
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ;
/ tell you now, ifc.
Such witching books are bailed hooks.
Fur rakish rooks like Itoli Mossgiel.
The swef test flower that deck'd the VEat^
Sing tal, lal, lay.
Now trodden like the vilest weed l
Let simple maid the lesson road,
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandlsons,
The weird may he her ain, jo.
They make your youthful fancies reel,
J teU you now, jfr.
218
BURNS WORKS.
The biid that charm 'd his summer-day
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ;
Let witless, trustinij woman .-ay
How aft her fate's the sam ?, jo.
/ ttll you now, !fc.
O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN.
O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel
be seen,
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has
been,
But I will down yon river rove, amang the
wood sae green,
And a* to pu' a posie to my aia dear May.
The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year.
And I will pu' the piok, the emblem o' my dear.
For she's the piuk o' womankind, and blooms
without a peer;
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps
in view,
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie
mou ;
The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging
blue,
And a to be a posie to my ain dear JIay.
The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair.
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air.
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o* siller
^i^Tiere, like an aged man, it stands at break o'
day,
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna
tak away ;
And a* to be a posie to my aia dear May.
The woodbine I will pu*, when the e'ening star
is near.
And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een
sae clear ;
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to
wear ;
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.
I'll tie tike posie round wi' the silken band o'
luve,
A«d I'll plao« it in her breast, and I'll swear by
a' aliove,
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall
ne'er remuvn,
And Ois will be % posie to n>' aia dear May.
O MAY, THY MORR.
O May, thy morn %vas 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 darna name.
But I will aye remember.
And dear, §-c.
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 gude watch o'er theai j
And here's to them we darna tell,
The dearest o* the quorum,
And e'l to, S^c,
ON CESSNOCK BANKS THERE LIVES
A LaSS.»
Tune—" If he be a butcher neat and trim."
On Gissnock banks there lives a lass.
Could I describe her shape and mien ;
The graces of her weelfar'd face,
And the glancin* of her sparklin' e'en.
She's fresher than the morning dawn
When rising Phoebus first is seen.
When dewdrops twinkle o'er the lawn j
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.
She's stately like yon youthful ash.
That grows the cowslip braes between.
And shoots its head above each bush ;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.
She's spotless as the fiow'ring thorn
With flow'rs so white and leaves so greeK,
When purest in the dewy morn
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'e .
Her looks are like the sportive lamb,
When fluw'ry May adorns the scene,
That wantons round its bleatin? dam ;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.
Her hair is like the curling mist
That shadtes the mountain side at e'en,
When flow'r-reviving rains are past ;
An' she's twa glancin' spaiklin' e'en.
Her forehead's like the show'ry bow.
When shining sunbeams intervene
And gild the distant mountain's brow ;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.
• 1 his song was an enriy promiption. .t wat re-
covercil from the nral comn'iiiiiicatioii of a '.adv resid
inp at Glnsfidw whom the Hani in early life alTcction
ately ailtnirsd
r —
SONGS. 21S
1
Her voice s like tlie ev'ning thrush
Peace, thy olive wanJ extend.
That sings in Ci'ssnock banks unseen,
And bid wild war his ravage end,
\V]\\\e his mate sits nestling in the bush ;
Man with brother man to meet,
An* she's twa glancin' sparkha* e'en.
And as a brother kindly greet.
Then may heaven with prosperous galea
Her Ii]w are like the cherries ripe,
Fill my wilor's welcome sails,
That sunny walls from boreas screen,
To my arms their charge convey.
Tl'.cy tempt the taste and charm the sight ;
My dear lad that's far away.
An' she's twa glanciu' sparklin' e'en.
On the seas and far away, §*c.
Her teeth are like a fluck of sheep,
With fleeces newly washen clean,
That slowly mount the rising step ;
Au' she's twa glancin' sparklin* e'en.
ON A BANK OF FLOWER&
Tune—" On a bank of flowers."
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze
That gently stirs the lilossom'd bean,
On a bank of flowers, on a summer day,
When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ;
For summer lightly diest,
Au' she's twa glaucin' sparklin' e'en.
The youthful, blooming Nelly lay.
With love and sleep o|)prest ;
But it's not her air, her form, her face.
^^^len Willle, wandering through the woodk
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen,
Who for her favour oft had sued ;
But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed,
An' chiefly in her sparklin' e'ea
And trembled where he stood.
Her closed eyes, like weapons sheathed,
Were sealed in soft repose ;
Her lips, still as she fragrant breathed.
It richer dyed the rose.
The springing lilie, sweetly prest.
ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY
Wild wanton kissed her rival breast.
Tune — " O'er the hills and far awj»y."
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushedg
His bosom ill at rest.
How can my poor heart be glad,
When absent from my sailor lad ?
Her robes, light waving in the breeze,
How can I the thought forego.
Her tender limbs emiirace ;
He's on the seas to meet his foe !
Her lovely form, her native ease,
Let me wander, let me rove,
All harmony and grace :
Still my heart is with my love ;
Tumultuous titles his pulses roll.
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day
A faltering ardent kis, he stole ;
.\re with him that's far away.
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed^
On the scQX anil far away,
And sighed his very soul.
On stormy seas and far atcay ;
Niyhtly dreams and thoughts by day.
As flics the partridge from the brake,
Are aye with him that's far away.
On fear-inspired wings ;
So Nelly, St uting. half awake.
When in summer's noon I faint.
Away affrighted springs.
As weary flocks around me pant.
But Willie followed — as he should ;
Haply in this sjorching sun
He overtook her in the wood ;
Wy sailor's thund'iing at his gun :
He voweil, he prayed, he found the caaid
Bullets, spare my only joy !
Forgiving all and good !
Bullets, spare my darling boy !
Fate, do with me what you may,
Spare \>ct hiin that's far away .'
On the seas and far away, Src
OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH.
At the starless midnight hour.
When winter rules with boundless power.
Om, open the door, some pity show.
As the stoims the forests tear.
Oh, open the door to me, oh !
And thunders rend the howling air.
Though thou hast beeu false, I'll ever proTt
Listening to the doubling roar.
true,
Surging on the rocky shore,
Oh, open the door to me, oh !
A.. ' can — I weep and pray
For his weal that's lar away.
Cauld is the bla~t upon my pal; choek#
On the seas and far away, §-c.
But cauldcr thy love for nie, oh '
220 BURNS WORKS.
"i"he frost tliat freozcs the life at my heart,
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet
Is nought to my pains froe thee, oh !
As is a kiss o' Willie.
The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,
HE.
And time is sftting with me, oh !
Let fortune's wheel at random rin,
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair
And fools may tyne, and knaves may wiav
I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, oh !
My thoughts are a' bound upon ane,
And that's my ain dear Philly,
She has open'd the door, she has opened it wide,
She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh !
SHE,
My true love, she cried, and sunk down by his
What's a' the joys that gowd can gie?
side,
I care nae wealth a single flie ;
Never to rise again, oh !
The lad I love's the lad for me.
And that's my ain dear Willie.
0 PHTLLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY
0 STAY, SWEET WARBLING WOO 3
Tune—" The sow's tail."
LARK,
HF.
Tune — " Loch.Erroch side."
O Philly, happy be that day
When roving thn)u;:h the gather'd hay,
0 STAV, sweet warbling wowl-lark, stay,
My youthfu' heart was stoun away,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray I
And by thy charms, my Philly,
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing fond complaining.
SHE.
Again, again that tender part.
O Willie, aye I bless the grove
That I may catch thy melting art ;
Where first i own'd my maiden love,
For surely that wad touch her heart,
Whilst thou didst pled^^e the powers above,
WTia kills me wi' disdaining.
To be my aiu dear Willie.
Say, was thy little mate unkind.
HE.
And heard thee as the careless wind ?
4s songsters of the eaily year
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd,
Are ilka li.iy mair sweet to hear.
Sic notes of woe could wauken.
So ilka day to me mair dear
Thou tells o' never-ending care.
And charming is my Philly.
O' speechless grief and dark despair;
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair !
SHE.
Or my poor heart is broken !
As on the brier the building rose
Still richer lireatlies and fairer blows,
So in my teiider IxiMiin throws
The love I bear my Willie.
0 WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOIIN
HE.
The milder sun and bluer sky.
Time—" I'll gang nae mair to yon toun,"
That crown my harvest cares wi' joji
0 WAT ye wha's in yon tnun
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye
Ye see the e'cning sun upon ?
As is a sight of Plully.
The fairest maid's in yon toun.
That e'ening sun is shining on.
SHE.
Now haply down yon gay gieen shaw,
The little swallow's wanton wing,
She wanders by yon spreading tree ;
TIki' wafting o'er the flowery spring,
How blest, ye fluw'is, that round her blaW
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring.
Ye catch the glances o' her ce.
As meeting o' my Willie,
How blest, ye birds, that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year!
HE.
And doubly welcome be tlie spring,
The bee, lliat thro' the t-unny hour
The season to my Jeanie dear !
Sip« nectar in tlie opeiii ig (lower.
Com])ar'd wi' mv delig.it is jioor,
The sun blinks lilytho on yon toun,
Upon tl.e lips o' Philly.
Aniang yon liroumy braes sae green;
But my delight, in you toun.
SHE.
And dearest pleasure, is my Jean,
The woodbine in the dewy week
Without my love, not a" tiie charms
^'hen veiling shades in tilencc meet)
Of Paradise could yield nie joy j
Ml
...... J
SONGS.
«2j
But i^ie me u?an e m my arms.
Am! welcome La])l,m(rs drcarie sky.
jMy cave wad be ii lover's bower,
Tl)(ii!gh raging winter rent tiie air;
And slie a lovely little flower,
That 1 wad teat and shelter there.
0 sweet is she in yon totin,
The sinking sun's gane down upon ;
Ths dearest maid's in yon tuun,
His setting beam e'er shone upon.
!f angry fate be sworn my f'le,
And suffering I am doom'd to bear,
I'll careless quit aught else below ;
But spare, oh ! spare ni'; Jeanie dear.
For, while life's dearest blood runs warm,
My thoughts frae her shall ne'er depart i
For, as most lovely is her form,
She has the truest, kindest heart.
O WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL.
Tins air is Oswald's : the song I made out
fc/ compliment to Mrs. Burns.
0 were I on Parnassus' hill,
Or had o' Helicon my fill ;
That I might catch poetic skill,
To sing how deir I love thee.
But Nith maut '^ my JMuse's well,
My Muse maui. ,.« thy bonnie sell ;
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell,
And write how dear I love thee.
Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay !
For a' the lee-Iang simmer's day,
1 coudna sing, I coudna say.
How much, how dear, I love thee.
I see thee dancing o'er the green,
Thy waist sao jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lijis, thy roguish een—
By heaven and earth I love thee .'
By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
riie thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ;
And ay I muse and sing thy name,
I only live to love thee !
The' I were doom'd to wander on,
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
Till my last weary sand was run ;
'Till then, and theu I love thee !
As dews o' simmer weeping.
In tears the rnse-lmd steepmp :
O t/iiit's tiie lassie ii' mi/ heart,
Mij Icssie ever dcurer ;
O thut's tlie queen o' womankni'd
And 7ic\r a ane to peer hey
If thou shall meet a lassie
In grace and beauty charming.
That e'en thy elioseri lassie,
Erewhile thy breast sae warmings
Had ne'er sic powers alarming ;
O iliat's, ^'C.
If thou had>t heard her talking,
And thy attentions plighted,
That ilka boily talking.
But her l)y thee is slighted ;
And if thmi art delighted ;
O that's, 4-c.
If thou hast met this fair one.
When frae her thou hast parted J
If every other fair one
But her, thiru hast deserted,
And thou art broken-hearted;
O that's, ^c.
OUT OVER TIIE FORTH I LOO..
THE NORTH.
ro
Out over the Forth I look to the north,
But what is the north and its Highlanda f nei
The south nor the east gie ease to my breaii';,
The fur foreign land, or the wild roUicjj iea.
But I look to the west, when I gae to «tst.
That happy my dreams and my slu£„!jtre maj
be;
For far in the west lives he I lo'e best,
The lad that is dear to my babie and aie
O WUA IS SHE THAT LOES ME.
Tune—" Morag."
O WHA is she that loes me.
And has my heart a-keeplng ?
Q eweet is she that lues ine,
PEGGY ALISON.
Ilk care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them ;
Young kings upo7i their hansel throne
Are no sae blest as I am !
I'll kiss time t/it, yet.
An' I'll hiris t/ite o'er again.
An' I'll kiss line ijet, yet.
My hoiinie I'tij/jy Alison.
When in my arms, wi' a' thy charm^
I clasp my countless treasure,
I seek nie mair o" Heaven to share,
Than sic a monient'it pleasure ]
/// kiss, \c.
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
1 5wear I'm thine for ever ;
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never !
Til kiss, Sj-c.
BURNS' WORKS.
POWERS CELESTIAL.
Povi'ERS celestial, whose protection
Ever guards the virtuous fair,
While in distant climes I wander,
Let my Jlary be your care :
Let her iorm sae fair and faultless.
Fair and faultless cs your own ;
Let my Marty'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,
Sooth her bosom into rest :
Guardian angels, O protect her,
When in distant lands I roam ;
To realms unkmiwn while fate exiles me,
Make her bosom still my home. •
PIIILLIS THE FAIR.
Tune—" Robin Adair."
While larks with little wing
Fanned the pure air,
Tasting the breathing spring,
Forth I did fare ;
Gay the sun's golden eye
Peeped o'er the mountains high ;
Such thy morn ! did I cry,
Phillis the fair.
In each bird's careless song
Glad I did share,
While yon wild flowers among.
Chance led me there :
Sweet to the opening day.
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray;
Such thy bloom ! did 1 say,
Phillis th ■ fair.
Down in a shady walk,
Doves cooing were ;
I maiked the cruel hawk
Caught in a snare ;
So kind may fortune be !
Such make bis destinv,
lie who wnuld injues thee>
Phillis the fair !
• Prnbalily wrucn on MiRlilnnd Mary, en the eve
9/ the roctj departure for the West Indies.
PUIRTITII CAULD.
Tune—" I had a horse.**
O, PuiRTiTH cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye ;
Yet puirtith a' I could forgie,
An 'twere na for my Jeauie.
O, why should fate sic pleasure havt
Life's dearest bands untwining f
Or wht/ sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune's shining f
This world'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.
O, why should fate, Sfc.
Her een, sae bonnie blue, betray
How she repays my passion ;
But prudence is her owerword aye,
She talks of rank and fashion.
O, why should fate, ^c.
O, wha can prwlence think upon
And sic a lassie by him ?
O, wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am .'
O, why should fate, ^e.
How blest the humble cottar's lot '
He woos his simple dearie ;
The sillie bogles, wealth and state.
Can never make them eerie.
O, why should fate, |*c.
RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE.
The last stanza of this song is mine ; it vrza
composed out of compliment to one of the wor-
thiest fellows in the world, William Dunbar,
Esq. Writer to the signet, Edinburgh, and Co-
lonel of the Crochallan corps, a dub of wits
who took that title at the time of raising thtj
fencible regiments.
O RATTLIN, roarin Willie,
O he held to the fair.
An' for to sell his fiddle,
And buy some ither ware ;
But parting wi' his fiddle,
The saut tear blint his ee ;
And rattiin roarin Willie,
Ye're welcome hanae to me.
O Willie, come sell your fiddle,
O ^cll your fiddle sae fine ;
O Willie come sell your fiddle,
And buy a pint o' wine.
If I should sell my fid die,
The warl' wou'd think I was ma4t
For many a rantin day
JJy fiddle and I hae liad '
SONGS.
223
RAVING WIXDS AROUND HER
BLOWING.
I COMPOSED these verses on Miss Isabella
M'Leoil of Raza, alludins; to her feelings on the
death of her sister, and the still more melancholy
death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of
Loudon.
TttML— " M'Grigor of Roro's Lament"
Raving winds around her blowing,
Yellow leaves the woodlands strewing,
By a river hoarsely roaring,
Isabella stray'd deploring.
Farewell hours, that late did measure
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ;
Hail ! thou gloomy night of sorrow,
Cheerless night that knows no morrow !
O'er the Past too fondly pandering,
On (he hopeless Future wandering ;
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes,
Fell despair my fancy seizes.
Life, thou soul of every blessing,
Load to misery most distressing ;
Gladly how would I resign t'hee.
And to dark oblivion join thee !
SAW YE OUGHT O' CAPTAIN GROSE.
Tunt—" Sir John Malcolm."
Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ?
Igo and ago.
If he's among his friends or foes ?
Irani, coram, dago.
Is he South, or is he North ?
Igo, and ago.
Or drowned in the river Forth ?
Irani, coram, dago.
Is he slain by Highland bodies'
Igo, and ago.
And eaten like a wether-haggis ?
Irani, coram, dago.
Is he to Abram's bosom gane ?
Igo, and ago,
0/ hauiiin' Sarah by the wame ?
Irani, coram, dago.
Wliere'er he be, the Lord be near him ;
Igo, and ago,
As for the deil he daur na steer him,
Irani, coram, dago.
But please transmit th' inclosed letter,
Igo, and ago.
Which wdl oblige your humble debtor,
Iram, coram, dago.
So may you have auld stanes in storo^
Igo, and ago,
The very stanes tint Adam bore,
Iram, coram, dago.
So may ye get in glad possession,
Igo, and ago,
The coins o* Satan's coronation !
Iram, coram, dago.
SCROGGAM.
There was a wife wonned in Cockpen,
Scroggam ;
She brewed gude ale for gentlemen :
Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ;
Scroggam, my dearie, llulTum.
The gudewife's dochter fell in a fever,
Scroggam ;
The priest o' the parish fell in another :
Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me;
Scroggam, my dearie, Ruffuui,
They laid the twa in the bed thegither,
Scroggam,
That the heat o' the tane might cool the totber
Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ;
Scroggam, my dearie, Ruffum.
SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE.
Tune — " She's fair and fause."
She's fair and fause that causes my smart,
I loo'd her mickle and lang ;
She's broken her vow, she's broken my hear^
And I may e'en gae hang.
A cuif cam in wi' rowth o' gear.
And I hae tint my dearest dear ;
But woman is but waild's gear,
Sae let the bonnie lass gang.
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's form's faun to thy share,
'Twad been ower mickle to hae gi'en thee tnai,'
I mean an angel mind.
SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST
OF A'.
Tune—" Onagh's Water-fall."
Sae flaxen were her ringlets,
Her eyebrows of a darker hue.
14
BURNS' VrORKS.
Bowitchincfly o'ei-archinsf
Twa !augliiii!j (.'en o' bonnit; fihie.
Her smiliii'^ Sje wylitilj,
\Viv\ '.iiake a uiotch turret liis woe ;
What i)leasiirc, wliat trea<uie,
Unto thes^e ro-iy lips to gtow ;
Such w:is my Chlori<' honnie f.ice,
V>'heii firrt her honnie face I s:i\v,
Ami aye my Chloiis" dearest charm,
She says she lo'es me best of a'.
Like harmony her motion ;
Her pretty anc'.e is a spy
Betraying fair pr(>[)ortion,
Wad make a saint foriret the sky.
Sae warming, sae charming,
Her faultless form and graceful air ;
Ilk feature — auld Nature
Declar'd that she could do nae mair :
Hers are the willing chains o' love,
By conquering beauty's sovereign law ;
And aye my Chloris' nearest charm.
She says she lo'es me best of a'.
Let others love the city.
And gaudy show at sunny noon ;
Gie me the lonely valley.
The ilewy eve, and rising moon.
Fair beaming and streaming,
Her silrer light the boughs amang ;
While falling, recalling,
The amorous thrush concludes his sang ;
Tbeie, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove
By wimpling burn and leafy shaw,
And hear mv vows o' truth and love,
^ud say thou lo'es me best of a*.
SIC A M^FE AS WILLIE HAD.
Tune—" Tibby Fowler."
vVir.i.iE Wasti.e dwalt on Tweed,
The 1)1 ICC they ca'd it Linkumdoddie.
Willie was a wabster gtide.
Could stown a clew wi' onie bodie.
He had a wife was dour and din,
O, Tinkler Madgie was her mother :
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wadna gie a button for her i
She has an ee, she has biit ane.
The cat has twa the veiy colour ;
Twa rustle teeth, forhye a stump,
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ;
A whi^kin' beard about her mou' ;
Her nose and thiti they threaten ither:
Sic a wife as Wdlie had,
I wadna gie a button for her !
She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd,
Ae liuipin' leg a hind bread sliorter;
She'o twisted riclit, she's twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter ;
She lias a hump upon her breast.
The twin o' that upon her shouther :
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wadna gie a button for her !
Auld baiulrons* by the ingle sits,
And wi' her loof he; face a-washin' ;
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig.
She dichts her grunyief wi' a hushioa.J
Her walie neeves,y like midden creels ;
Her face wad fyle the Logaii Water •
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wadna gie a button for her !
STEER HER UP AND HAUD HER
GAUN,
Tune—" Steer her up."
O st?:eii her up and haiiil her gaun ;
Her mother's at the mill, jo ;
And gin she winna tak a man,
E'en let her tak her will, jo.
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss,
And ca' another gill, jo ;
And gin she tak the thing amiss,
E'en let her flyte her till, jo.
O steer her up, and be na blate ;
And gin she tak it ill, jo,
Then lea' the lassie to her fate.
And '.itne nae ianger spili, jo.
Ne'er break your heart for ae r<4Gtt
But think apon it still, jo,
That gin the lassie winna do't,
Ye II fipd another will, jo.
SWEET FA'S THE EVE ON CRAIGI&
BURN.
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn,
And btythe awakes the morrow,
But a' the pride o' spting's return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.
I see the flowers and spreading tr»es,
I hear the wild birds singing ;
But what a weary wigiit can pleasR,
And care liis bosom wringing ?
Fain, fain would I my griefs impar^
Yet dare na for your anicer ;
But secret love will break my he&.t.
If I conceal it Ianger.
If thou refuse to pity me.
It" thou shalt love anither,
• The cat. f Mouth. t L'uohico. [j Futi.
SONGS.
225
WTirn yon cjevii leaves fade fiao the tree,
Around iny grave they'll wither. •
TAM GLEN.
My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie,
Some counsel unto me come len'.
To aiii^er them a' is a jjity.
But what wi." I do \vi' Tatn Glen?
I'm thinkin?. wi' sic a braw feHow,
III jioortith I mi'^ht mak a tea ;
Wlijt care I in riches to wallovr,
If I iiiaunua marry Tam Glea.
There's Lowrie the laird o' Durneller,
" Gude day to you, brute," he comes ben
He brags and he blaws o' his siller,
But when will he dance like Tara Glea ?
My miiinle does constantly deave me,
And iiids ine 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 gude hunder marks ten :
But, if it's ordaia'd I maun tak biin,
O wha will I get like Tam Glen ?
Yestreen at the Valentine's dealingr,
j\ly heart to my mou gied a sten ;
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written Tam Glen.
The last Hallowe'en I was waukin
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ;
HLs likeness cam up the house staukin.
And the very grey breeks o' Tara Glen !
Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry ;
I'll gie you my bontiie black hen,
Gin ve v,-dl advise mt to marry
The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.
THE AULD MAN.
But lately seen in gladsome green
The woods rejoiced the day,
Thro' ge:itle showers the laughing flowers
In double pride were gay :
But aow our joys are fled,
On winter blasts awa !
Yet maiden May, in rich array.
Again shall bring them a'.
• Cragie-burn wood is siluatcd on the banks of the
river Motfat, and about three miles distant from the
village of that name, celebraied tor it3 medicinal wa-
ters. The woods of Cragie-burii, and of Uumcricf,
were at one time favourite haunts of our poet. It was
there he met the " Lassie wi" the lint-while locks,"
tnd that he conceived several of his beautiful lyric*.
But my white pow, nae kindly thiwv
Shall melt the snaws of age ;
My trunk of cild, but liuss or beild.
Sinks in time's wintry rage.
Oh, age has weary days,
And nights o' sleepless pain I
Thou golden time o' youthfi;' prime,
Why comcBt thou nut again !
THE BANKS O' DOON.
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ;
How can ye chant ye little birds.
And I sae weary fuj o' care !
Thou'il lireak my heart thou warbling bird.
That wantons thro' the flowering thcrn :
Thou minds me o' de])artcd joys.
Departed never to return.
Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its iuvc,
And, fondly, sae did I o' mine.
Wi* lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ;
And my faiise lover stole my rose.
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
THE BANKS BY CASTLE-GORDOH
Tune—" Morag.
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, tlieir richly gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle- Gordon.
Spicy forests ever gay.
Shading from the burning ray
Hapless wretches sold to toil.
Or the ruthless native's way.
I>ent on slaughter, blood, and spoil
Woods that ever verdant wave,
I leave the tyrant and the slave.
Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms, by Castle-Gordfc.
Wildly here, without control.
Nature reigns and rules the whole ;
In that sober pensive mood,
Dearest to the feeling soul,
Slie plants the forest, pours tlie floodi
Life's poor day I'll musing rave,
226
BURNS WORKS.
A.nd find at ni^ht a sheltering cave,
Where waters flow and wllj woods wave,
By bonnie Castle- Gordon.
THE BANKS OF THE DEVON,
Tune — " Khannerach dhon na chri."
These verses were composed on a charming
girl, a IMiss Chailutte Hamilton, who is now
married to James INI'Kitrick Adair, Esq. phy-
sician. She is sister to my worthy friend, Ga-
vin Hamilton, of Jlauchline ; and was horn on
the banks of Ayr, but was, at the time I v/rote
these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clack-
mannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little
river Devon. — I first heard the air from a lady
in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for
this work.
How pleasant the banks of the clear winding
Devon,
With green spreading bushes and flow'rs
blooming fair !
But the bonniest flow'r on the banks of the De-
von,
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the
Ayr :
Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing flow'r,
In the gay rosy miirn as it bathes in the dew ;
And gentle the fail of the soft vernal show'r,
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew !
O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,
M'ith chill, ho.iry-wing as ye usher the dawn !
Anil far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizest,
The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn !
Let Bouibon exult in his gay gilded lilies,
And England triumphant display her proud
rose ;
A fairer than cither adorns tiie green vallies.
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering
flows.
THE BANKS OF CREE.
Tune—" The banks of Crce."
Here is the glen, and hcie the !)ower,
Al! tmilerneath the l)iiclifM shiile;
The village hell has toM'd the Imur,
O, what can stay my lovely ni lid ?
Tis not Maria's whisjiering call,
Tis but the balmy hreathing gale,
M»xt with some warbler's (lying fall.
The dewy star of eve to hail.
It is Maria's voice I bear !
So calls the wooillark to the grove,
His little faithful mate to cheer,
At QQiu: 'tis music — and 'tii love.
And art ttiou come, and art thou trut !
O welcome dear to love and me !
And let us all our vows renew.
Along the flowery banks of Cree.
THE BARD'S SONG.
TEs bard's song in "the jolly Bsaa4]
Tune—" Jolly mortals, fill your f'.atK^ '
See the smoking bowl before us,
IMark our jovial ragged ring !
Round and round take up the chorus,
And in raptures let us sing —
A. fig for i/iose by law protected.
Liberty's a glorious feast I
Courts for cowards were erected.
Churches built to please the prieaU
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 for those, §fc.
Life is all a variorum.
We regard not how it goes ,
Let them cant about decorum,
Who hav» characters to lose.
A fig for those, §"c.
Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets !
Here's to all our wandering train !
Here's our ragged brats and callets !
One and all cry out. Amen !
A fig for those, Ifc.
THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIK,
BET-WEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND TH«
EARL OF MAR.
" O CAM ye here the fight to shun,
Or I'.erd the sheep wi' me, man ?
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir,
And (lid the battle see, man ?'*
I saw the battle sair and teugh,
.\nd reekin-red ran monie a sheugh.
My heart for fear gae sough fur sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the duds
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
The red- coat lads wi" black cockades,
To meet them were na slaw, man ;
They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'dy
And mony a bouk did fa', man •
The great Argyle led on his files,
I wat they glanced twenty milc» i
SONGS.
22T
Tliev hack'd ana hash'il, while broadswords
cla'-h'd,
And thro' tlioy dash'd, and hew'd and sinash'd,
Till fey men died awa, man.
But had you seen the philibegs,
And skyrin tartan trows, man.
When in tlio teeth they dar'd our whigs,
And covenant true blues, man ;
In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets opposed the targe,
And thousands hastened to the charge,
W'' hi;;hland wrath they frae the sheath,
Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath.
They fled like frighted doos, man.
" O how deil Tarn can that be true ?
The chase gaed frae the north, man ;
I saw myself, they did pursue
The horsemen back to Forth, man ;
And at Dundjlane, in my ain sight,
They took the biig wi' a" their might,
And strausht to Stirling winged their flight ;
]}ut, cursed lot ! the gates were shut;
And mony a hunted poor red-coat
Fur fear amaist did swarf, man."
My sister Kate came up the gate
Wi' crowdie unto me, niau :
She swoor she saw some rebels run,
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ;
Their left-hand general had nae skill.
The Angus lads had nae goad will
That day their neeboi's bluod to spill ;
For fear by foes, that they should lose
Tiieir cogs o' brose ; all crying woes.
And so it goes, you see, man.
They've lost some gallant gentlemen,
Aniang the Highland clans, man ;
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man.
Now wad ve sing this double fight.
Some fell for wrang, and some for right ;
But mony bade the world gude-night ;
Then ye may tell, how pell and uiell.
By red claymores, and mu>kets, knell,
Wi' dying yed, the tories fell.
And whigs to hell did flee, man.*
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes.
And o'er the crystal streamlets plays ;
Come, let us spend the liehtsome day»
la the Bilks of Aberfeldy.
Jionnie tuisie, §*c.
While o'er their head the hazels hing.
The little birdies i)lythely sing.
Or lichtly flit on wanton wing.
In the Birks of Aberfeldy.
lionnie lassie, Sfc.
The braes ascend like lofty wa's.
The foaiwin' stream deep-roiring fa'a,
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreadin' shawa,
The Birks of Aberfeldy.
lionnie lassie, ^c.
The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flow'rSi
White ower the lin the burnie pours.
And, risin', weets wi' misty show'r*
The Birk> of Aberfeldy.
Jsonnie lassie, Sfc,
Let fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me.
Supremely bless'd wi' love and thee.
In the Bilks of Aberfeldy.*
liunnie lassie, ^'C.
THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY.
I COMPOSED these stanzas standing under the
Falls of Aberfeldy, at or near Moness.
Tune—" The Birks of Abergeldy.'
lionuie lassie, will ye rjo, u-ill ye gn, will ye go,
Bonnie lassie, will ye go, to the Hiiks of Aber-
fddy 9
• This was written about the t;mc our bard made
kii touj to the Highlands, llUl.
THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE.
Tutu — " Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tarttr
let's fl)."
No churchman am I, for to rail and to write;
No statesman or soldier, to plot or to fight ;
No slv man of business, contrivmg a snare ;
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.
The peer I don't envy — I give him his bow ;
I scorn not the [jeasniit, thouuh ever so low ;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are
here.
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
Here passes the squire on his brother — his
horse ;
There centum -per-centum, the cit with his
purse ;
But see you ' the Cror.-n,' how it waves in the
air !
i There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.
• The clionis is borrowed from an oM simple bal-
lad, called " riie Hirks of AoergeUly j" of which tbt
f«)llowjiig is a fragment.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go,
WMl yc go, will ye go,
Bonnie lassie, will \c po
To the bilks o' AbcrgrUlie?
Ye shall get a gown o' si!k,
A g<nMi o' silk, a gdvvn o' silk.
Ye shall get a gown <>• silk.
And cuat uf calliniankis
k:
228
BURNS' WORKS.
The w fe of my bosom, alas ! 8 le did die ;
For siret't consolation to church I did fly ;
I found that old Solomon preved it fair,
That a bij^-bidlied bottle's a cure for all care.
I once was persuaded a venture to make ;
A letter infonn'd me thit all was to wreck ;
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up
stairs,
With a glorious bottle, that ended my cares.
" Life's cares they are comforts," • a maxim
laid down
By the bard, what d'ye call hiai, that woie the
black gown ;
And faith T atjree with th' old prig to a hair,
For a big-bt'^'licd bottle's a heaven of care.
STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE.
Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow.
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ;
May every true brother of the compass and
sijuire
Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with
THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE.
I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ;
I g,it my death fiae twa sweet een,
'Twa lovely een o' bonnie hlue.
'Twas not her golden ringlets bi ight ;
Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-wliite —
It was her e'en sae bonnie blue.
She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wyl'd,
She charm'd my soul I wist na how ;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue.
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ;
She'll aiblins listen to my vow :
.Sluniid she refuse, I'll lay my dead
To her twa eea sae bonnie blue.f
THE BONNIE WEE THING.
Composed on m) little idol, " The charm-
ng, lovely Davies."
lionti'e u-ie tiling, cannle wee thing.
Lovely wee thing teas thou mine ;
• Voiini^B Night ThouRlits.
+ 'Pir heroine of tills sunt,' was Miss ,1. of Lnchma.
hen. Tins l.-idv, nnw Mrs. It. after ri-siilin(» some time
hi Livcriiool, IS settled witli her liujbojul in New Yorit,
North America.
/ wad wear thee in my losom.
Lest my Jewel I should tine.
Wishfully I look and languish,
In that bonnie face of thine ,
And my heart it stounds wi' anguisO,
Lest my wee thing be na mine.
Bonnie wee thing, &^c.
Wit, and grace, and love, and beaut^r,
In ae constellation shine ;
To adore thee is my duty.
Goddess o' this soul o' mine !
JBonnie wee thing, §"c.
THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.
The Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decayed on Catrine lee, •
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,
But nature sicken'd on the ee.
Thro' 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'il charm the vocal air.
But here, alas ! for me nae mair.
Shall liirdie charm, or floweret smile;
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle !
THE CARL OF KELLYBURN BRAES.
These words are mine ; I composed thens
from the old traditionary verses.
There lived a carl on Kellybnrn braes,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme)
And he had a wife was the plague o' his days ;
And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is
in prime.
Ae day as the carl gaed up >he lang glen,
( Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme)
He met wi* the devil ; says, " How do yow fen?"
And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is
in prime.
" I've got a bad wife, Sir; that's a* my com
plaint ;
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi* thyme)
• Catrine, In Ayrshire, the scat of niigald Stew.nrt
Esq Profossor of Moral PhiIosi)|iliv in the Uiiivcrsitj
of Kdi'hurKh. H^illoclimylc, foniierly the scat (if Sij
John Whitel'oord, now of Alexander, Esq, clSliO.
SONGS.
229
For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint ;
Aud the thyme it is withcr'J and the rue is
in prime."
It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall
crave,
(Hey, ami the rue grows honnie wi' thyme)
But gie me vour wife, man, for her I must have,
And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is
in prime."
" O welcome, most kindly," the blythe carl eaid,
(iley, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme)
But if ye can match her, ye're war nor ye're caM,
And tiie thyme it is wither'd, and tlie rue is
in prime."
The devil has got the auld wife on his back ;
(Ilcy, aud the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme)
And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack ;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is
in prime.
He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door ;
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme)
Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch and a whore,
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is
in prime.
Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his
band,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi* thyme)
Turn out on her gaurd in the clap of a hand ;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is
prime.
The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wude bear,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme)
Whae'er she gat hands on came near her nae
mair ;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is
in prime.
'• A reekit wee devil looks over the wa* ;
( Hey and the rue grows l)onnie wi' thyme)
0, help, Mitster, help, or she'll ruin us a'.
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is
in prime."
The devil he swoje by the edge o' his knife,
(Hey, awl the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme)
He pitred the man that was tied to a wife ;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is
in prime.
The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell,
(iiey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme)
He was ndt in wedlock, thank heaven, but in
hell ;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is
in prime.
Fhen Satan has travelled again wi* his pack ;
Hoy, and the rue grows bonnie wi* thyme)
And to her auld husband he's earned her back;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and tl;e rue ia
in prime.
" I hae been a devil the feck o' my life ;
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi* thyme)
But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ;
And tiie thyme it is wither'd, and the rue i«
in prime.
THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.
Tune — " Captain O" Kainc."
Ths small birds rejoice in the green leaves re-
turning ;
The niurnuii ing streamlet runs clear through
the vale ;
The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the
morning ;
And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green
dale.
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem
fair.
When the lingerin* moments are numbered by
care ?
No flowers gaily springing,
Or birds sweetly singing.
Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair.
The deed that I dared, could it merit their ma-
lice—
A king and a father to p'lce on his throne !
His right are these hills, and his right are these
valleys.
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but 1 can
find none.
But 'tis not my sufferings, thus wretched, for»
lorn ;
.My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mouru.
Your deeds proved so loyal
In hot bloody trial ;
Alas ! can I make it no better .eturn '
THE DA\ RETURN''. MY BOSOM
BURNS.
Tune—" Seventh of Novemlier."
The day returns, my bosom burns,
The biissl'ul day we twa did meet,
Tho* winter wild in tempest toil'd.
Ne'er summer sun was half sac sweet;
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o'er the sultry line ;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and glol)eii.
Heaven gave me more, it made thee mioet
Wliilc day and night can bring delight,
Or nature ought of pleasure give !
230
BURNS WORKS.
WTiUe joys above, my mind can move,
For thee, and tliee alone, I live !
Whea 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 DEATH SONG.
ScFNE— A Field of Battle.— Time of the DAT-
Evening. — The Wounded and Dying of the Victo.
rious Army are supposed to join in the following
Song :
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth,
and ye skies,
Now gay with the bright setting sun ;
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender
ties.
Our race of existence is run !
Thou grim King cf Terrors, th(/a life's gloomy
foe.
Go, friyhten the coward and slive ;
Go teath theru to trenible, fell tyrant ! but
know.
No terrors hast thou to the brave.
rhou strikest the mi peasant ; he sinks in the
dark,
Nor saves even the wreck of a name ;
Thou strikest the young hero — a glorious mark !
He falls in the blaze of his fame !
In the proud field of honour — our swords in our
hands,
Our king and our country to save—
Wiile victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,
O ! who would not die with the brave !
THE DEIL'S A\V\ WI' THE EXCISE-
MAN.
The deil cam fiddling tV.ough the toun,
And danceil awa w' the exciseman ;
And ilka auld wife cried, Auld M.ihoun,
I wish vou lu.K o' the prize, man.
The deil s iiwd, the deil's arm.
The (JeU's (iwa u'i' the exciseman ;
He's ■luticed awn, he's dnnccd nwa,
He's danced awa u-i' the exciseman I
We'll -nak our nuut, we'll brew our drink,
We 11 laugh, slug, and rejoice, man ;
And niony braw thanks to the meikle black deil,
rhat danceil awa wi' the exciseman I
The deil's awn, Ifc.
There's threesome leeis, there's foursome re 'Is,
Thure't hornpipes and ^trathspeys, man ;
But the ae best dance e sr cam to tne heela,
Was, The deil's awa wi' the excsiemaii.
The deil's awa, §-c.
THE ELECTION.
Tune—" Fy, let us a' to the bndal."
Fi/, let 7IS a' to Kirkcudbright,
For there will he bickering there,
For Murray's light horse are to musttT ;
And oh, how the heroes will swear I
And there will be Murray commander,
And Gordon the batttle to win :
Like brithers they'll stand by each othei,
Sae knit in alliance and siu.
Fy, let us a', §-c.
And there will be black-nebbed Johnnie
The tongue of the trump to theai a* ;
If he get na hell fur his haddin*,
The deil gets nae justice ava !
Fy, let us a', Sfc.
And there will be Templeton's birkie,
A boy no sae black at the bane ; '
But, as to his fine Nabob fortune,
We'll e'en let the subject alane.
Fy, let us a', Sfc.
And there will be Wigton's new sheri£f;
Dame Ju^tice fu' brawly has sped ;
She's gotten the heart of a B by.
But v.hat has become cf the head ?
Fy, let us a', Sfc,
And there will be Cardoness* squire,
So mighty in Cardoness' eyes ;
A wight that will weather damnation.
For the devil the prey will despise.
Fy, let us a,', §*c.
And there will be Douglasses doughty,
New christening towns far and near}
Abjuring their democrat doings.
By kissing the doup of a peer
Fy, lei us a', &-c.
And there will be Kenmure sae generous,
Whose honour is proof 'gaiii-t the storni j
To save them frae stark reprobation,
He lent theni his name to the firm.
J-y, let us a, §-c.
But we wima mention Redcastle ;
The body, e'en let him escape ;
He'll vvnture the g.illows fur siller,
An 'twerena the cost o' the rape.
Fy, let us «', Sfc.
And tLere is nur King's Lord Lieuteiunlj
Sae famed for his grateful return i
SONGS.
S3i
Tlie billie is f;ettin!j his questions,
To say in St. Stephen's tlie morn.
Fy, let us a', ^c.
And there will he lads of the gospel,
Jluiihead, uha's as c;ui!e as he's true ;
And there \riil be Buittle's apostle,
Wha's mair o* the Idack than the blue.
Fi/, Itt us a, Sfc.
And there will he folk frae St. Mary's,*
A house o' great merit and note :
Tl-.e deil ane but honours tliem highly—
The deii ane will gie them his vote.
Fi/, let tts a', §-c.
And there will be wealthy youn^ Richard
D.ime Fortune should iiing by the neck :
But for prodigal thriftless bestowing,
His merit had won him respect.
Fi/, let us a", §-c.
And there will he rich brither Nabobs ;
Though Nabobs, yet men o' the first :
And there will be Colliston's whiskers.
And Quiutin, o' lads not the warst.
Fy, let us a', &■€.
And there will be Stamp-office Johnnie
Tak tent how you purchase a dram ;
Ami there will be gay Cassencarry ;
And there will be gleg ColouelTam.
Fi/, let us a', §-c.
And there will be trusty Kirrochtrie,
Whase hcmour is ever h;« sa'
If the virtues were packed in a parcel,
His worth might be sample for a*.
Fi/, let us a\ Sfc.
And can we forget the auld Major,
Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys?
Our flattery we'll keep for some other ;
Him only it's justice to praise.
Fi/, let us a', §-c.
And there will be maiden Kilkerran,
And also Harskimming's gude wi<»ht •
And there wHl be roaring Birtwhistle,
Wha iiu-kily roari in the right.
Fi/, let us u, ^-c.
And there, frae tne Niddisdale Dorder,
We'll mingle the .Maxwells in droves,
Teiieh Jockie, stanch Geordie, and Willie,
That granes for tne fishes and loves.
/V, lit us a", §-c.
And there will he Logan IM'D 1 ;
Sculduddery and he will be there ;
And also the Scott o' Galloway,
Sodgering, gunpowder Blair.
Fy, let us a\ ^c.
Then hey ! the chaste interest o* Broughtoa,
And hey for the blessings 'twill hrhvj !
It may send Balmai,«iie to the Commons ;
In Sodom 'twould make him a kinpf.
Fy, let us a', §-c.
And hey ! for the sanctified M r y.
Our kind wha wi* chapels has stored ;
lie foundered his horse among harlots,
But gied the mtld marc tothe Lord.
Fy, let vs a\ Sfc.
THE GALLANT WEAVER.
Where Cart rins rowin to the sea.
By niony a flow'r and s|)reading tree,
There lives a lad, the lad for mo,
He is a gallant weaver.
Oh I had wooers aught or nine.
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ;
And I was fear'd my heart would tine.
And I gied it to the weaver.
Jly daddie sign'd my tocher-band
To gie the lad that has the lanil,
But to my heart I'll add my hanu,
And give it to the weaver.
Wliile birds rejoice in leafy bowers;
While bees delight in opening flowers;
WTiile corn grows green in simmer showers,
I'll love my gallant weaver.*
• Meanin- the family of the Earl of Selkirk, resi-
«<-iU at St. Jlaii's iilc, near KirkcuUbright.
THE GARDENER WT HIS PAIDLE.
This air is the Gardeners' March. The titU
of the song only is old ; the rest is mine.
WjiEN rosy Jlay comes in wT flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers;
Then busy, busy are his hours,
TUe gard'ner wi' his paidle.
The crystal waters gently f,i' ;
The merry birds are lovers a' ;
The scented breezes round him blaw.
The gard'ner wi' his paidle.
When purple morning starts the hare
To steal upon her early fare ;
Then thro' the dews he maun repair.
Tile gard'ner wi' his paidle.
• In lome editions tailor is nuhstitutcit for weavtr.
232
When (lay espir:ng in tbe west,
The curuin draws of nature's rest ;
He flies to her arms he lo'es best,
The garU'aer wi* his paidle.
BURNS' WORKS.
THE GLOOMY NIGHT IS GATHER-
ING FAST.
Tum-" Banks of Ayr."
The gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
Loiid 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.
The autumn mourns her ripening com,
By early winter's ravage torn ;
Across her placid azure sky
She sees the scowling tempest fly :
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think u])on the stormy wave,
Wiere many a danger 1 must dare.
Far from the bonuie banks of Ayr.
'Tis not the surging billows' roar,
*Tis not that fatal, deadly shore ;
Though death in every sha])e appear.
The wrelilu'd have no more to fear :
lint round my heart the ties are bound.
That heart tiaris|)ierced with many a wound ;
Those bleed afresli, those ties I tear,
To leave the bcMinie banks of Ayr.
Farewell old Coila's hills and dales,
Hi^r heathy nuiors and winding va'.es ;
The scene where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, nnli.ip|>y loves !
Farewell my fi ieniK, farewell my foes,
Mv peace with these, mv love with those ;
The bursting tears my heart declare ;
Farewell the boniiie banks of Ayr.»
THE HEATHER WAS IILOOMING.
7"un«<— " 1 re.1 you twware si llie hunting."
The heather was Idooming, the meadows were
juawii.
Our lads gaed a hunting, ae d ly at the dawn.
O'er nioius and o'er mosses an i iiioiiy a glen,
At length they discovered a boanie uioor-hen.
• Hums wrote this song, while rniivoyjnn his chest
lo f;ir on the ni.Ml fri)Mi Ayrshire ti> 'irieiiriek, where
he inleriiU'il tii I'liilnrk m a lew ilavs fur Jainaici lie
iloitrnel il, he i^tyi, m his raicwcll iiir);c to hi-, native
qoiiniry
Tred you bewar* at the hnntinrf, young men ;
I red you beware at tJie hunting, t/ouncf men;
Tak some on the wing, and some as theg
spring,
£ut cannity steal on a bonnie moor-hen.
Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather
bells.
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ;
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring,
And C ' as she wantoned gay on the wing.
/ red, §x.
Auld Phofcbus himsei, as he pcep'd o er the liill ;
In spite at her plumage he tryed his skill ;
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the
brae —
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where
she lay.
/ red, §"c.
They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ;
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ;
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight.
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight.—
I red, fifc.
THE HIGHLAND LASSIE, O.
This was a composition of mine in very earlj
life, before I was known at all in the worll,
Nae gentle dames, tho' ne'er sae fair.
Sail ever be my Muse's care ;
Their titles a' are eni]ity shew ;
Gie me mv Highland lassie, O.
M'ithin t/ia glen sue busliy, O,
^4boon the ]>lain sue nis/iy, (),
I cct me duwn wi' right gmui will.
To sine; my Iligltland lassie, 0%
0 were yon hills and vallies mine.
Yon palace anil ynu garden.s fi:ie !
Tiie world then the love should know
1 bear uiy Highland lassie, O.
^VUllin llie glen, §C.
But fickle fortune frowns on me.
And I maun cros.-i the raging sea ;
lint while my crimson currents dow,
I'll lo'e m;' "■-' ^and lassie, O.
M'ithin Cite glen, S^c.
Altho' thro' foreign dinu's I range,
I know her heart will never change,
For her bosom burns with hunour'u gl(W
My faithful Highland lassie, O.
Within the glen, {jX.
For her I'll dare the billow's roar;
For her I'll trai'c a distant shore ;
SONGb
2S3
n.at Inilian wonhli mny lustre throw
Ariiutxl my Hi^'lilaii'l lassie, O.
}yilhin the ylen, &;c.
S!ie lias my lu'art, she has iny hand,
IJv secret truth and honoui's hauii !
' rill the uiort il stroke shall lay me low,
J'l'j thine, mv Hii^hluid lassie, O.
fill eif ell t/ie (//en, sue bushy, O,
fiireifcU the jtlniu, sae rashy, O,
To other luni/s I now must go,
To sini/ mi/ Hiyhltmd lassie, O.
TFIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA.
rniM— •• O'er the hills and far awa."
O, now can I he blithe anj glad,
Or how can I gan^ brisk and braw,
When the huiinie lad that I lo'e best
Is o'er the hills and far awa ?
It's no the frosty winte* 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.
My father pat me frae his door,
iMy friends they ii le disown'd me a';
Ijiit I hae ane will take my part,
The bonnie lad that's far awa.
A pair o' gloves he gae to me,
And silken snoods he gae ine twa ;
And 1 will weir theia for his sake,
Tlie hounie lad that's far awa.
The weary winter soon will jiass,
And spring will deed the birkea shaw;
rtnd my sweet hahie will he born.
And he'll come hame that's far awa.
THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE.
Tune—" The Lass of BaUochmyle."
TwAs even, the ih'wy fields were green.
On ilka hlaile the peirls hang;
The zephvr waiiton'd round the bean.
And bore its fiagraiit sweets alang :
la ev'ry glen the mavis sang ;
All nature list'ning seeiii'd the while,
Exie|)t where £;reenwo(id echoes rang,
Aiuang the braes o' Balloehmylc.
With careless step I onward stray'd.
My heart iejoice<l in Nature's joy ;
When, musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanced to spy :
Her look wa> like the morning'ii eye,
Iler air like Nature's vernal smile;
I The lily's r.ue, and rose's dye,
Bespake the lass o' BaUochmyle.
Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild,
When roving thnuigh the garden gay,
Or wand'iing in the lonely wild ;
But woman, Nature's darling child !
There all her charms she does compilsj
Even there her other v>orks are foil'd.
By the bonnie lass o* Ballochtnylu.
Oh, had she been a country maid.
And I the happy couiitiy swain.
Though shelter'd in the lowest shed
That ever ro.ie on Scotland's plain !
Through weary winter's wind and rain.
With joy, with rapture, I would toil ;
And nightly to my bos^^n strain
The bonnie lass o' BaUochmyle.
Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep«
Where fame and honours lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward dig the Indian mine.
Give me the cot below the pine,
To tend the flocks, or till the soil,
And ev'ry day have joys divine,
Wi' the bonnie lass o' Bollochmyle.*
THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED
TO ME.f
When Januar winds were blawio* cauldj
Unto the north I bent my way.
The mirksome nicht did nie eiifauld,
I kend na where to lodge till day ;
But by good luck a lass I met,
Just in the middle of my care.
And kindly she did me invite
To walk into a chaiiil»!r fair.
I bow'd fu' low unto this ma'io.
And tlnnk'd her for her courttsie;
I bow'd fu' low unto 'his maid,
And bade her make the bed to me.
• This song was wiitteo in praise of Mi-s Alexandei
of BalltK'hinyle. Bums hai)iH"n d one fine evejiing to
meet this \'oiii)g t.dv, wlun walkuig Ihri ugh the
("cautifui woods ot llallmhiinle, which lie at the dis-
tance of two miles from his larin of Mossgiel. Struck
witli a sense of her |>a.s>in^ beauty, he wrote this noble
lyric: which he soon after sent lo lier, eiu!o.-ed in a
letter, as full of ilclicale and romantic sciiliintnt, auil
as poetical as itsi If. He was soniewhit niortified to
find, that either iiiaiilcnly modest, or iiride of s'i|>e-
rior station, prcvemeil licr fiomackuowl<d(;ing the re-
ceipt <if his coriniiiment : Indeed it is no where record-
ed that she, at any stai;e of life, shewed the smallest
sense ol it ; as to fi<r the pearls seem to liave been li-
terally thrown away.
t There is an older and coarser son?, eontaii.tng ttw
same incidents, ai.d >aid to have licen oix'asioneil by ar
adventure of ( harlex II., when that monarch reside.^
in Scotland with the I'rohyterian .irmy, IRVi-51. fhe
affair hapiieiied at the house of l^)rt-l.ethem. in Aber
dcenslurc, and it wa» a daughter of the lairU ihAt mad*
the bed to the king.
234
BURNS' WORKS.
She marie the tJed baitTi wide and braid,
Wi' twa white hands she spiead it doun ;
She put the cup to her rosy lips,
And drank. Young man, now sleep ye scan.
She snatch'd the candle in her hand,
And from the chamber went wi* speed :
But I ca'd her quickly hai-k again.
To lay some mair beneath my beid.
A cod she laid beneath my heid,
And served me with a due respect ;
And, to salute her wi' a kiss,
I put my arms about her neck.
Haud aff your hands, young man, she says,
And dinna sae uncivil be ;
It will be time to speak the morn,
If ye hae ony love for me.
Her hair was like the links o' gowd,
Her teeth were like the ivorie,
Her checks like lilies dipt in wine.
The lass that made the bed to lue.
Her bosom was the driven snaw,
Twa dtiftit heaps sae fair to see ;
Her limbs the polish'd marble stane,
The lass that made the bed to me.
I kiss d her ower and ower again.
And aye she wistna what to say;
I laid her 'tween me and the wa' ;
The lassie tl.ucni na .ang till day.
Uj)on the morrow, whtn we rase,
I tbank'd her fur her courtesie ;
And aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh'd,
And said, Alas ! ye've ruin'd me.
I clasp'd her waist, and kissM her syne.
While the tear stood twinklin' in her ee ;
I said, My lassie, dinna crv.
For ye aye shall mak the bed to me.
She took her mother's Holland sheets,
And made them a in sarks to me ;
Blytl.e and merry may she be.
The lass tliat made the bed to me.
The bonnie lass that made the bed to rae,
The braw lass that made the bed to me ;
I'll ne'er forget, till the day I dee,
The lass that made the bed to nie.
THE LAZY MIST.
Tke lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hiii.
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ;
How languid the scenes, lato so sprightly, ap-
pear,
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year.
The forests are leillessi, the nie.jdiiws are brown,
And all the gay fii|)])iry of sumiiier is down :
Apart let me wander, apnt let me muse.
Haw quick time is flying, how keen fate pur-
sues ;
' How long I <ive liv'd — but how mucli liv'd in
vain
How little c/ life's fcanty span may remain :
What aspects old Time, in his progress, ha«
worn ;
What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn.
How foolish, or worse, 'till our summit is gain'd !
And downward, how weaken'd, Low darken d,
how pain'd !
This life's not worth having with all it can give,
For something beyond it poor man sure must
live.
THE LEA-RIG.
Tune—" The Lea-Rig.**
When o'er the hills the eastern star
Tells buchtin-time is near, my jo ;
And owsen frae the furrowed field
Return sae douff and weary, O ;
Down by the burn, where scented birl«
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My am Kmd dearie, O.
In mirkest glen, at midnicht hour,
I'd rove and ne'er be eerie, O,
If through that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie, O.
Although the night were ne'er sae wild.
And I were ne'er sae wearie, O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O.
THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.
The first half stanza of this ballad is old.
The lovely lass o* Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ;
For e'en and morn, she cries, alas !
And aye the saut tear blins her ee.
Drumossie 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 gee ;
Anil by them lies the dearest ad
That ever blest a woman s ee ■.
Now wae to thee thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou ne.
For mony a heart thou Last made sivr,
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee !
SONGS.
235
THc i.OVER'S MORNING SALUTE
TO HIS MISTRESS.
Tune—" Deil tak the wars."
Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature ?
Rosy morn now lilts his eye,
Numherin;j; ilki huil which nature
AVateis wi' the tears o' joy :
Now through the leafy woods,
And by the reelving Soods ;
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ;
The liatvvhite in his bower
Chants o'er the breathing flower :
The lav'rock to the sky
Ascends wi' sangs o' joy,
While the sun anil thou arise to bless the day.*
Phcehus gilding the brow o' morning
Binislifs ilka darksome shade.
Nature gladdening and adorning;
Such to ine my lovely maid.
When absent frae my fair.
The murky shades o' care
With starldss gloom o'ercost my sullen sky ;
But when in beauty's light.
She meets my ravi^h'd sight.
When through my very heart
Her beaming glories dart ;
Tis then I wake to life, to light and joy. f
THE RIGS O' BARLEY.
Tune—" Corn- Rigs are bonnie.*
Ir was upon a Lammas night,
When corn-rigs are bonnie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie.
The time flew by wi' tentless heed,
'Till, 'tween the late and early,
Wi' sma' persuasion shee 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' rij;ht good-will,
Amang the rigs o* barley.
I ken't her heart was a' rav ain ;
I loved her most siiicere.y ;
I kiss'd her ower and ower again,
Amang the rigs o' barley.
• yaHation. Vow to the streaming foun aiu,
Or ui> the heathy mountain
The hart, hinil, and roe, freely, wildly. wanton stray;
In twining haiel bowers
His lay the Uiuiet pours:
The lav'rock, 6:0.
f Variation. When frae my Chloris parted,
Sad, ehecile-s, brokenhearted.
Then night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast
mv sky ;
But when ■•he charms my sight,
In pride of Ijeauty's li^ht.
When thro' my very heart
Her beaming ptories dart ;
Tl* then, 'tis ilicn 1 wake to life and joy.
I lock'd her in my fond embrace !
Her heart was beating rarelv—
My blessing? on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o' barley !
But by the moon and stars so bright.
That shone that hour sae clearly !
She aye shall bless that happy night,
Amang the rigs o' barley.
I hie been blytho wi' comrades dear ;
I haebeen merry drinking ;
I hae been joyfu' gathering gear ;
I hae been happy thinking :
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,
Though they were doubled fairly,
That happy night was worth them a*
Amang the rigs o' barley.
THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.
Tune—" The MUI, Mill, O."
WiiEV wild war's deadly blast was ^394,
And gentle peace rcturnin/.
And eyes again wi' pleasure beam'd.
That had been blear'd wi' mourning ]
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger ;
lyjy humble knapsack a' my wealth;
A poor but houest sodger.
A leal light heart beat in my breast,
My hands unstain'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 ray youthful fancy.
At length I reach'd the bonnie glen.
Where early life I sported ;
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn.
Where Nancy oft I courted.
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling ?
And turn'd me round to hide the flooil
That ia my ec was swelling.
Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, swe^c lasst.
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O ! happy, happy may he be,
That's dearest to thy bosom !
Jly purse is light, I've far to gang.
And fain wad be thy lodger ;
I've serv'd my king and country laof '
Tak pity on a sodger.
Sae wistfully ehe gazed on me,
And lovelier grew than ever ;
Quoth she, A sodgci ance I loved,
Forget him will I never.
BURNS' WORKS.
Our humble cot and hamely fare.
Ye freely >liill p.irtake n't ;
That gallant bjil-^e, the dear cockade,
Ye'ie welcome for the sake o't.
She gazed — she redden'd hke a rose-
Syne p lie as ony lily ;
She sank within n)y arms and cried,
Alt thou my ain dear Willie?
By Him, who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded ;
I am the man ! and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.
The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted ;
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.
Quoth she, My grandsire left me gowd,
A niailin |)ienish'd fairly ;
Then come, my faithlu' sodgcr lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly.
For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor ;
But glory is the sodger's prize.
The sodger's wealth is honour.
The \)rave poor sndger ne'er despise,
Nor tount him as a stranger :
Remember he's hs country's stay,
In day and hour o' danger. •
TIIK BANKS OF NITH.
Tune — " Robie Donna Gorach."
Thk Thajnes Hows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities ^tand ;
But sweeter fluws the Nith to me,
Where Cummins ance had high command ;
When shall I see that honoured lan<l,
That winding strean\ I love so dear !
Mu-t wayward fortune's ailverse hand
For e\'er. ever keep nie here.
riow lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales.
Where spieading hawthorns gaily bloom ;
[low sweetly wind tliy glo|)ing dales
^\'here laudikins wanton thro' the broom !
Tho wanileiing, now, must be my iloum.
Far from thv bonnie banks and braes.
May there my latest hours consume,
Amang the friends of early days !
THE TOAST.
At a meeting of the Dumprirssiiiru Volunteees
held to commemorate the anniversary of RonMi! y'8
victory, April 12th, 17S2, BuiiNs was called upon fol
a Song, instead of which he delivered llie following
Lines •.—
Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast.
Here's the memory of those cu the twelfth that
we lost ; —
That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n ! that
we found.
For their fame it shall last while the world goes
round.
Tlie next in succession, I'll give you the King,
Whoe'er would betray him on high may ht
swing ;
And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti-
tution,
As built on the base of the great Revolution ;
And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd.
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ;
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal,
May his son be a hangman, and he his first triaL
• " Burns, I have been informed," says a clergyman
of n:iiiifrie.<thire, in a letter to Mr. Georne Thomson,
editor of Select M( lodiis of SeotlaiKl, " was one sum-
mer evening in the inn at l!ri)wnliill, with a couple of
j"riendfi, when a poor way-worn soldier |i.isscd the win-
dow. Of a siidilcn it -iriuk the poet tocallliim in,
»!id Ret the recital of hi:; adventures; after hearing
which, lie all at o ce fil! into one of tiiuse fit« of ah.
jtraction, not niiiisii;d lo him. lie was lilted to the
;egion where he hat liiii gavl^ind and Ms sin(»ii'Rrobe8
»l)out him, ami the r< siili w:u. iliix adinirabic song he
U.ai you lor ' I'he Mill, Mill, O.'"
THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL
JAMIE COMES HAME.
This tune is sometimes called, There s few
QuJe FtUows when Willie s awa. — But I never
have been able to meet with any thing else of
the sons than the title.
Xune — " There'll never be peace till Jamie come*
hame."
By yon castle-wa', at the close o* the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was
grey ;
And, as he was singing, the tears down came—
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The church is in ruins, tho state is in jars,
Delusions, opjiressions, and murderous wars :
We daurna weel say't, but we ken wha's to
blame, —
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Mv seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword.
And now I greet round their green beils in the
yird :
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld
dame —
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burden that bows me down.
Since I ti.it my bairns, and he tint liis crown ;
But till my last moments my w^ords are tl'.a
same, —
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes namo
SONGS.
THE STOWN GLAN'CE O' KINDNESS
Laddie, lie near me."
237
Time
'TwAs na her bonnie Mue ee was mv ruin ;
Fair thoiigli slie be, tliat was ne'er my undoia' :
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us,
*Twas the l)ewitching, sweet, stown glance o'
kindness,
Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
Sair <]() I fear tint des])air maun abide me ;
Kilt though fell fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.
Jlary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou hast ])lii>hteil ine love o' the dearest !
Aon tiiou'rt the ansjel that never can alter ;
Soocer the sun in his motion shall falter.
THERE'S NEWS, LASSES.
There's news, lasses, news,
Gude news hae I to tell ;
There's a bout fu" o' lads
Come to oar toun to sell.
The wean wants a cradle,
Anil the cradle tvants a cod;
A.nd ril no gang to my bed,
Until I get a nod.
Faflier, quo' she. Mother, quo' she,
Do ye what ye can,
I'll no gang to my bed
Till I get a mau.
The wean, §-c.
I hae as gude a craft-rig
As made o' yird and stane ;
And waly fa' the ley crap,
For I maun till't again.
2'he wean, Sj'c.
THE YOUNG HIGHLAND RO'V'ER.
Tune—" Morag."
Loud blaw the frosty breezes.
The snaws the mountains cover ;
Like winter on me seizes.
Since my young highland rover
Far v.'anders nations over.
Where'er he go, where'er he stray,
May heaven be his warden :
Return him safe to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle- Gordon!
rhe trees now naked groaning,
Shall soon wi* leaves be L-rglng,
Tlie birdies dowic moaning.
Shall a' be blythely singing,
And every flower be springing.
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-Ian;; dav,
When liy liis mighty warden
My youth's returned to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle-Gordon.*
THE WOODLARK.
rune—" Wherc'U Iwnnie Annie lie."
Or, " LoLh.Erroch Side."
O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A helpless lover courts thy lay.
Thy soothing foud complaining.
Again, again that tender part.
That I H'ay catch thy melting art j
For surely that war! touch her heart,
Wha kills me wi' disdaining.
Say, was thy little mate unkind.
And heard thee as the careless '.vind ?
Oh, nocl'.t but love and sorrow join'd,
Sic notes o' woe could wauken.
Thou tells o' never-ending care ;
O sptecidess grief, and dark despair ^
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae niair?
Or 01/ poor heart is broken !
THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS Cn\
There's a youth in this city, it were a grea'
pity
That he from our lasses shorM wander awa ;
For he's bonnie and braw, weel-favour'd with a'
And his hair has a natural buckle and a'.
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ;
His fecket j- is white as the new-driven snaw :
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like tht
slae.
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a.'
His coat is the hue, §'c.
For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin ;
Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel mounted
and braw ;
But chiefly the siller, that gars liim gang till hef
The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'
There's Meg wi' the mailin, that fain wad a
haen him,
And Susy whase daddy was Laird o* the ha ;
■ The young Hipliland rover is supposed to be th
young Chevalier, Prince Charles Edward.
t An under-waistcoat with sleeves.
]
238 BURNS'
WORKS.
There's lang-tocber'd Nancy maist fetters his
But weel the watching lover marks
fancy,
The kind love that's in her ee.
—But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a*.
0 this is no my ain lassie, §c.
His coat is the hue, Sfc.
THE TOCHER FOR ME.
THERE WAS ONCE A DAY
Tunt—" Balinamona Ora."
Tune—" Caledonian Hunt's Delight."
AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms,
There was once a day, but old Time then wai
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arras ;
young.
0, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms,
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line,
0, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms.
From some of your northern deities sprung.
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey for
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's di-
a lass wi' a tocher,
vine ?)
T/uH hey for a lass wi' a tocher j the nice
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain,
yellow guineas for me.
To hunt, or to pasture, or to do what she
would :
Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign.
blows,
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ;
it good.
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green
knowes,
A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war.
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie wliite
The pride of her kindred the heroine grew :
yowes.
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, —
ThcH hey, Sfc,
" Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter
shall rue!"
And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest,
With tiJlaije or pasture at times she would sport.
The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest ;
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordic im-
corn ;
prest.
But chiefly the woods were here fav'rite resort,
The langer ye hae them — the mair tbey'r; ca-
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the
rest. '
horn.
Then hey, SfC.
Long quiet she reigned ; 'till thitherward steers
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand ; •
Repeated, successive, for many long years,
They darken'd the air, and they plundered
THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE.
the land :
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,
I SEE a form, I see a face.
They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside :
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place :
She took to her hills and her arrows let fly,
It wants, to me, the witching grace,,
The daring invaders they fled or they died.
The kind love that's in her ee.
0 this is no my ain lassie,
The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north.
Fair th(,ur/h the lassie be ;
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of
O wed hen I my ain lassie,
the shore ;f
Kind love is in her ee.
The wild Scanrlinavian boar issued forth
To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore:^
She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury pre-
And lang has had my heart in thrall j
vail'd.
And aye it charms :ny very saul,
No arts could ippease them, nor arms could
The kind love that's in her ee. 1
repel;
0 this is no my ain lassie, ^c.
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd.
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartic
A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,
te!i.§
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ;
But gifg as light are lover's ecn,
The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her rejwse.
When kind love is in the ee.
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife ;
0 this is no my ain lassie, §*c.
*t may escape the courtly sparks^
• The niim.ins. t The Saxons, t The Daiic^
{ Two famous battles, in wliidi the Danes or Nof
>t may et>cape the learned clerks ;
wegians were dcicat^l.
■ J
,■ —
SONGS. 23S
Piovolvcil beyond bearing, at .ast she arose,
Yestreen I met you on the moor,
And roljUM him at om-i of his hopes and his
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stouro ;
life:*
Ye geek at me because I'm poor,
ITie Anglian lion, the terror of France,
But feint a hair care I.
Oft prowling, ensanguiu'd the Tweed's sil-
Tibbie, I hue, ^c.
ver flood ;
But taught by the bright Caledonian lance,
T doubt na, lass, but ye may think.
He learned to fear in his own native wood.
Because ye hae the name o' clink.
That ye can please me at a wink,
Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd and free,
Whene'er ye like to try.
Her bright course of glory for ever shall run :
Tibbie, I hae, §-c.
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ;
I'll piove it from Euclid as clear as the sun:
But sorrow tak him that's sae mean.
Rectangle triangle, the figure we'll choose.
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean,
The upright is Chance, and old Time is the
Wha follows ony saucy quean
base ;
That looks sae proud and high.
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ;
Tibbie, I hae, lJ-c.
Then ergo she'll match them, and match
them always, f
Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt.
Ye'll cast your head anither airt.
An' answer hiin fu' dry.
Tibbie, I hae, §"c.
THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE.
Tune—" Fee him. Father."
But if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier.
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie,
Tho' hardly he for sense or lear
Thou hast left me ever ;
Be better than the kye.
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie,
Tibbie, I hae, &-c.
Thou hast left me ever.
Aften hast thou vow'd that death
But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice.
Only should us sever ;
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nvXt
Now thou'st left thy lass for aye —
The deil a ane wad speir your price,
I maun see thee never, Jamie,
Were ve as poor as I.
I'll see thee never.
Tibbie, I hae, |-c.
Thou hast ine forsaken, Jamie,
There lives a lass in yonder park.
Thou hast me forsaken ;
I wouldna gie her in her sark
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie,
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark ;
Thou hast me forsaken.
Ye need na look sae high.
Thou canst love another jo.
Tibbie, I hae, ^'c.
While my heart is breaking :
Sjon my weary een I'll close.
Never more to waken, Jamie,
■
Never more to waken.
TO MARY IN HEA\T.N.
Tirou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray
That lov'st to greet the early morn !
TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.
Again thou usher'st in the day.
lUIS SONG I COMPOSED ABOUT THE AGE OF
]My JMary from my soul was torn.
Oh, JNIary, dear departed shade !
SEVENTEEN.
Tunt—" Invercald's reeL
Where is thy place of blissful rest ?
Sec'st thoa thy lover lowly laid ?
O Tibbie, I hat seen the day
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast f
Ye wwlna been sae shy ;
For hiih o' gear ye lirjhtly me.
That sacred hour can I forget ? —
But trowth, 1 care na by.
Can I forget the hallow'd grove.
Wheie, by the windiiig Ayr, we met.
To live one day of parting love ?
Eternity will not efface
• Tlie Highlanders of the Isles.
t This singular figure of poetry, taken from the
mathematics, refers to the famous proposition of Py-
Those records dear of transports past ;
thagoras, tlie 47th of Euclid. In a nsht-anjled tri-
Thy image at our last emlirace ; —
Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last !
anple, the square of the hypothenuse is always equal
to the sQu.ires of the two other sides.
1
2-tO
BURNS' WORKS.
A;t, {^iirc;lin;j, kiss'ij his peW)!eiI shore,
O'riliiin^ with wild wo. kI^ thickening green ;
Thv rr:ig;r.vnt hirch, t'.ie hawthorn hoar,
Twinid amorous roiitul the raptured scene.
The ftoMers sprung wanton to he prest,
Tlie birds sung love on every spray ;
Till ton, too soon the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.
StiM o'er these sf-enes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care ;
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear
My I\Iar;,-, dear departed shade !
Where is thy place of blissful rest ?
See'st thou lover lowly laid ?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?•
TRUE HEARTED WAS HE.
Tune—" Bonnie Dundee."
FsuE hearted was he, the sad swala o' the
Yarrow,
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the
Ayr,
But by the sweet side o' the Nitli's winding
river,
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair ;
To tqual young Jessie seek Scotland all over :
To eiiual young Jessie you seek it in vain,
Grace, beauty and elegance fetter her lover,
'And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.
0 fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning,
And sweet is the lily at evening clo-e ;
But iu the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie,
Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.
Love fits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ;
Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law :
And .still to her charms she alone is a stranger.
Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'.
WANDERING WILLIE.
Tune — " Here awa, there awa."
Here awa, there awa, wandering WiUk !
litre awa, there awa, hand awa hame !
Come to iiitf btisom, my aiii onbj dearie ;
Tcii me thou briny st vie niy Willie again.
Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our part-
ing ;
Feari for my Willie brought tears in my ee :
P/elcotne now, s.pimer, and welcome, my Willie ;
The summer to nature, and Willie to me.
Jlerr. awa, ix.
Rest, ye wild storms, in the caves of your •lam
hers !
How your dread howling a lover alarms!
Wauken, ye breezes ! row gently, ye billows !
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms
Here awa, §t.
But, oh, if he's faithless, and minds ni his Nanniei
Flow still between us, thou dark Iteaving main !
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
13ut, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain !
Here awa, Sfc.
WAE IS MY HEART.
Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee ;
Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me :
Forsaiien and friendless my burden 1 bear,
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear
Love thou hast pleasures ; and deep hae I loved ;
Love thou hast sorrows ; and sair hue I proved ;
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my
breast,
I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest.
O if I were, where happy I hae been ;
Down by yon stream anrl you bonnie castle green :
For there he is wand'iing and musing nn me,
Wha wad soon dry thi te.ir frae his Phillis's e»
• To Mnrv Campbell, one of lliirni;'s earliest and
"Tfxt bi'Ioveil nitstres-ic'S, a ilairy-in lid in llie nogli
b''Mrli<)<>.l if Mossjjiel.
l-ifi-
■ hee farllicr luriieulars in tiic
WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO
Wr AN AULD MAN.
What can a young lassie, what shall a ycr.iig
lassie,
Wliat can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ?
Bad luck on the jiennie tliat teni|'teii n;y minnie
To sell her poor Jenny tor siller an' lau' !
Had luck on the pe7inie, §'c.
He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin.
He hosts and he hiiples the weary day l.ing.
He's doy'lt and he's dozin, his lihiul it is frozen,
O' dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man !
Had luck on the jiennie, §"C.
He hums and he hankers, he frets and he canker* ;
I never can please hini, do a' that I can ;
He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fellows,
O, dool on the day, I met wi' an aulJ man !
Had luck on the jtcnnie, i^c.
My auld aui»tie Katie i;pi>n me takes pity,
I'll do my endeavour to lolUiw her plan ;
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until 1 heart-
break him,
AnA then his auld brass will buy me a new pun
Had luck un the jiennie, fjC,
SONGS.
241
VrilX IS THAT AT MY ROWER D0O«.
Tins tune is nl-o) kncwn by tlie name of Lass
til I come mar t/iee. The words lire mine.
Wha is tliat nt my bcnvor Joor ?
O whii is it but Finillay ; —
Tlioii gao your gate ye'si- nae be here !
luileed maun I, quo' Findlay.
What mak ye sae like a tliief ?
O come and see, quo' Findlay ; —
Before the morn ye'll work mischief;
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
Gif I rise and let you in ?
Let me in, quo' F"indlay ;^
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ;
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
In my bower if ye should stay?
Let me stay, quo' P'indlay ;—
I fear ye'll bide till l)reak o' day ;
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
Here this night if ye remain ?
I'll remain, quo' Fiadlay ; —
I dread ye'll learn the gate again ;
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ;
What may pass within this bower;
Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; —
Ve maun conceal 'till your last hour ;
ludeed will I, quo' Findlay !
WHEN GUILDFORD GOOD i
A FRACJIENT,
T^nt—" KillicrankJe.
When Guildford good our pilot stood,
And did our helm thraw, man,
Ae iiifiht, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man :
Then up they gat the raaskin-pat.
And in the sea did jaw, man ;
An' did nae less, in full Congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.
Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw, man :
Down L,i>writs burn he took a turn,
Add C'ur/eton did ca', man :
But yet, wlut-reck, he, at Quebec,
]\lontgiiiiiery-like did fa', man ;
Wi' sword m hand, before hii band,
Amang his enemies a', man.
Poor Tammy Garje, within a cage.
Was kept at liostim lia\ man ;
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe
For I'hilndeljihia, man :
Wi sw(jrd an' gun he thought a sia
Gitd CSristiau blood to draw, moo;
Hut at A'ie*. York, wi' knife and fork.
Sir-loin he hacked sma*, man.
Dnrcinyne gaed jp, like spur an' whip.
Till Fraser l)rave did fa' man ;
Then lost his way, ae misty day.
In Saraioyii shaw, man.
C'irmvaUis fought as lan;;'s he dought,
An' (lid the buckskins claw, man ;
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save.
He hung it to the wa', man.
Then Montague, an' Guildford too.
Began to fear a fa', man ;
And Sackville doure, wha stood the 8toure>
The German chief to thraw, man ;
For Faddy Burke, like onie Turk,
Is'ae mercy had at a', man ;
An' Charlie Fox threw by tlie box.
An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.
Then Rockingham took up the game ;
Till death did on him ca', man ;
When Shtlburne meek held up his cheek,
Conform to gospel law, man.
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise.
They did his measures thraw, man,
For North and Fox united stocks.
And bof.-, 2iim to the wa*, man.
Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's carter
He swept the stakes awa', man.
Till the diamoiid's ace of Indian race,
Led him a iair faux pas, man :
Tlie Saxon lads, wi' loud pljcads.
On Chatham's boy did ca', man ;
And Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew,
" Up, Willie, waur them a', man 1"
Behind the throne then Grenrilk's gone,
A secret word or twa, man ;
While slee Dundas arous'd the class
Be-north the Roman wa', man :
An* Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graitb,
(Inspired bardies saw, man)
Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, " Willie, rise !
Would I ha'e fear'J them a', man ?"
But word an' blow, North, For, and Ci».
GowT'd Willie like a ba', man,
Till Suthrons raise, and coost their chise
Behind him in a raw, man ;
Au' Caledon threw by the drune.
An* did her whittle draw, man ;
An* t.woor fu' rude, thro' dirt and blood
To make it guid in law, m&o.
n
242
BURNS' WORKS.
WHERE ARE THE JOYS I HAE MET
IN THE MORNLNG.
Tune — " Saw ye my father."
Where are the joys I hae met in the morning,
That daiice-l to the lark's early song ?
Where is the |)eace that awaited my wandering.
At evening the wild woods among ?
No more a-windinjr the course of yon river,
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair ;
No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure,
But sorrow and sad-sighing care.
Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys,
And glim surly winter is near?
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses,
Proclaim it the pride of the year.
Fain would I hide what I fear to discorer.
Yet long, long too well have I known :
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom.
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone.
Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal.
Nor Iliipe dare a comfoit bestow :
Come then, euainour'd and fond of my anguish,
Enjoy raeut I'll seek in niy woe.
WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU,
MY LAD.
O u-hhile and I'll come to ymi, my lad' ,
O wliisth and I'll came to i/iu, my lad ;
Tito'' father and mitlicr and a should qae mad,
O whistle and Fll come to you, my lad.
13l't warily tent when ye come to court me,
And come nae unless the back-yett be ajee ;
Syne up the back style, and let nae body see,
And come as ye were nae comin' to me.
Anti come as ye were nae couiin' to me.
O whistle, §c.
At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Ging by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie ;
Rut steal me a blink o' your buuiiie black e'ec,
Yet look as ye were nae lookin' at me.
Yet look as ye were nae loukin' at me.
O whistle, §'C.
Aye vow and protest that ye care na for mp.
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ;
Rut court nae anither, tho* jokin ye be.
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae inc.
O whistle, l^'C.
• In some of the MSS. the first four lines run tlius ;
O whisdc and I'll come to thee, my jo,
<) whistle iiiiil I'll cimic to tliec, my jo;
'I liii' f.ither anil mother ami a' shoiilil say no,
O Ahitlle and I'll come to Ihec, my Jo.
WILLIE BREWD A PECK O' MAUT
This air is Masterton's ; the song mine.— >
The occasion of it was this : — iMr. Wm. Nicol,
of the High School, Edinburgh, during the au-
tumn vacation, being at Motfat, honest Allan,
who was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton,
and I went to pay Nicol a visit. — We had such
a joyous meeting, that Mr. Masterton and I
agreed, each in our own way, that we shouli
celebrate the business.
O Willie brew'd peck o' mant.
And Rob and Allan cam to see ;
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wad na find in Christcndie.
We are na J'oii, we^re na that fort,
Ihtt just a drappie in nur ee ;
The cock may craw, the day may dav
And ay we'll ta-'fe the barley bree.
Here are we met, t'uree merry boys,
Thiee merry boys I trou are we ;
And mony a night we've merry been.
And mony mae we hope to be !
We are na fou, §'c.
It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie.
She shines sae blight to wyle us hams,
But by my sooth she'll wait a we !
We are iia fou, §-c.
\Mia first shall ri>e to gang awa',
A cuckold, coward louii is he !
Wha last beside his chair shall fa*,
JJe is the king amang us three !
We are na fou, §-c.
WILT TIIOU BE MY DEARIE.
Tune—" The Sutor's Dochter."
Wilt thou be iiiv dearie :
M'hen sorrow wrings tiiy gedtle heirtt
Wilt thou let me cheer thee :
By the treasure of my soul,
That's the love I bear thee !
I swear and vow that only thou
Shall ever be my dearie.
Only thou, I swear and vow.
Shall ever be my dearie.
Lassie, 8ay thou lo'es me ;
Or if thou wilt na be my ain.
Say na thou'lt refuse me )
If it winna, canna be,
Thou for thine may choose me,
Let me, lassie, quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me ;
Lassie let me quickly ilie,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.
SONGS.
243
WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY
MARY?
Tune—" The Vowc-buchts."
VFiLL re go to tlio Indies, my Mary,
Anil leave auM Scotia's sliore ?
Will ye go the Indies, my ]\Iary,
Across the Atlantic's roar ?
Oh, su'cct 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, my Mary,
I hae sworn by the heavens to be true ;
And sae may the heavens forget me.
When I forget my vow !
O, plight me yonr faith, my l\Iary,
And plight me your lily-white Iiaad ;
O, plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand.
We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to jnin ;
And curst be the cause that shall part us !
The hour and the moment o' time !•
YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS,
Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide.
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the
Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the
heather to feed,
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on
his reed :
Where the grouse, Sfc.
Not Cowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny
shores.
To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors ;
For there, by a lanely, and sequester'd stream,
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my
dream.
For there, §-c.
Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my
path,
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow
strath ;
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove,
W hile o'er us unheeded, flie the swift hours o'
love.
For there, §*c.
* ^Vhcn Bums was designing his voyace to the
West Imlics, ho wrote this sung as a farewell to a girl
whom he happened to regard, at the time, with con-
siderable admjration. He aJtcrwanls sent it to Mr.
Thomson for publication in liis splendid collection of
the Datiunzl music and musical poetry of iicotland.
She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ;
O* nice education but sina' is her share ;
Her parentage humble as humble can be;
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es ma
Her parentage, tec.
To beauty what man but maun yield him a
prize,
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and
sighs ;
And when wit and refinement hae polished her
darts.
They dazzle our een, as they file to our hearts.
And when zvit, §-c.
But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark-
ling e'e,
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ;
And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd it
her arms,
O, tJiese are my lassie's all-conquering charms '
And the heart-beating, ifc.
YOUNG JOCKEY.
Tunt—" Jockie was the biythcat Uak*^
Young Jockey was the blithest lad
I.T B* o'lr town or here awa ;
Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud,
Fu' lii;htly danc'd he in the ha' J
He roos'd my e'en sae bonnie blue,
He roos'd my waist sae genty srns ;
An* ay my heart came to my mou.
When ne'er a body heard or saw.
My Jockey toils upon the plain.
Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost Bad snaw
And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain
When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'.
An' ay the nijjht comes round again,
When in his arms he taks me a' ;
An' ay he vows he'll be my ain
As .'ang's he has a breath to draw.
YOUNG PEGGY
Young Pegjy blooms our bonniest lam.
Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
With eaiiy gems adorning :
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams
That gild the passing shower,
And glitter o'er the crystal streams.
And cheer each fresh'ning flower.
Her li])s more than the cherries bright,
A richer die has grac'd them,
They charm th' admiring gazer's s)"hx
And sweetly tempt to taste them;
£A
bVUMi' \\ ORKS.
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, ^
When feather'd pairs are courting,
And little lambkins wanton wild,
In playful bands disporting.
Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe,
Such sweetness would relent her.
As blooming spring unbends the brow
Of surly, savage winter.
Detraction's eye no aim can gain
Her wiiming pow'rs to lessen :
>jld fretful envy grins in vain,
Ths poison'd tuol h to fasten.
Ye pow'rs of Honour, Love, snd TiTra^
From ev'ry ill defend her ;
Inspire the highly favour'd youlii
The destinies intend her ;
St'Jl fan the sweet connubial flame
Responsive in each bosom ;
And bless the dear parental name
With many a filial blossom.*
• This wat one of the poefs earliest compositions
It is coDied from a MS. book, which he had before hif
fiift puuicatiuo.
TIIE CORRESPONDENCE.
'
NOTICE.
Or the following letters of Burns, a consid-
erable number were transmitted for publication,
ky the individuals to whom they were addressed ;
out very few have been printed entire. It will
•asily be believed, that in a series of letters writ-
ten without the least view to publication, va-
rious passages were found unfit for the press,
from different considerations. It will also be
readily supposed, that our Poet, writing nearly
at the same time, and under the same feelings
to different individuals, would sometimes fall
into the same train of sentiment and forms of
expression. To avoid, therefore, the tedious-
oess of such repetitions, it has been found ne-
cessary to mutilate many of the individual let-
ters, and sometimes tj exscind parts of great
delicacy — the unbridled eflFusionsi of panegjTic
and regard. But though many of the letters
are printed from originals furnished by the per-
•ons to whom they were addressed, others are
printed from first draught-s, or sketches, found
among the papers of our Bard. Though in ge-
neral no man committed his thoughts to iiis
correspondent? with less consideration or effort
than Burns, yet it appears that in some instances
he was dissatisfied with his first essiys, and
wrote out his communications in a fairer cha-
racter, or perhaps in more studied language, !
In the chaos of his manuscripts, some of the
original sketches were found ; and as these
sketches, though less perfect, are fairly to be
considered as the oflfspriug of his mind, where
they have seemed in themselves worthy of a
place in this volume, and they have been in-
serted, though they may not always correspond
exactly with the letters transmitted, which have
been lost or withheld.
Our author appears at one time to have form-
ed an intention of making a collection of his
letters for the amusement of a friend. Accord-
ingly he copied an inconsiderable number of
them into a book, which he presented to Ro-
Dert Riddel, of Glenriddel, Esq. Among these
Was the account of his life, addressed to Dr.
Mi'ore, and printed in the Life. In copying
from his imperfect sketches (it does not apj)ear
that he had the letters actually scut to Lis cor-
"«*iXJudents before him) he st-ems to have occa-
sionally enlarged his observations, and altered
his expressions. In such instances his emenila..
tions have been adopted j but in truth there are
but five of the letters thus selected by the poet,
to be found in the present volume, the rest be-
ing thought of inferior merit, or otherwise unfit
for the public eye.
lu printing this volume, the Editor has found
some corrections of grammar necessary ; but
these have been very few, and such as may be
supposed to occur in the careless effusions, even
of literary characters, who have not been in the
habit of carrying their compositions to the press.
These corrections have never been extended to
any habitual modes of expression of the Poet,
even where his phraseology may seem to violate
the delicacies of taste ; or the idiom of our lan-
guage, which he wrote in general with great
accuracy. Some difference will indeed be found
in this respect in his earlier and in his later
compositions ; and this volume will exhibit the
progress of his style, as well as the history of
his mind. In this Edition, several new letters
were introduced not in Dr. Currie's Edition,
and which have been taken from the works of
Cromek and the more recent publishers. The
series commences with the Bard's Lnve Lcttcn
— the first four being of that description. They
were omitted from Dr. Currie's Edition : wliy,
has not been explained. They have been held
to be sufficiently interesting to be here inserted.
He states the issue of the courtship in these terms:
— " To crown my distresses, a bdlejilk whom I
adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me
in the field of matrimony, jilted me with pecu-
liar circumstances of mortification." Mr. Lock-
hart remarks of the letters: — " They are surely
as well worth preserving, as many in the Col-
lection ; particularly when their eaily date is
con>iclered." — He then quotes from them large-
ly, and adds, — " In such excellent English did
Burns woo his country maidens, in at most his
20th year." But we suspect the fiult of the
English was, that it was too good It was too
coldly correct to suit the taste ot tlie f lir maiden ;
had the wooer u^ed a sprinkling of his iiativ*
tongue, with a deeper infusion of hiscoustitutiou.
al enthusiasm, he might have had more success
LETTERS, 8cc,
10 VE LETTERS.
No. I.
(WRITTE>f ABOUT THE YEAR 17S0.)
1 rEaiLY believe, my deiir Eliza, th:it the pure
U'luiiie foelings of love, are as rare in the
Rorhi as the pure genuine |)rinciples of virtue
lii'J |)iety. This, 1 hope, will account for the
incommon style of all my letters to you. Bv
incoininon, I mean, their being written in such
I serioui manner, which, to tell you the trutli,
las nia'le me often afraid lest you should take
ne for a leilous bi'j;i)t, who conversed with his
Distress as he would converse with his minis-
er. I don't know how it is, my dear ; for
hough, except your company, there is nothing
)n earth that gives me so much pleasure a.s
rriting to you, yet it never gives me those
ciddy raptures so much talked of among lovers.
1 have often thoiitfht, that if a well-grounded af-
fection be not really a pait of virtue, 'tis some-
thing extremely a-kin to it. Whenever the
tl'jught of my I'^li/a warms my heart, every
fi*fling of liumanity, every principle of genero-
«i.:y, kindles in my brnast. It extinguishes every
illty spark of malice and envy, which are but
too apt to infest me. 1 grasp every creature
in the arms of universal benevolence, Hn<l equal-
ly participate in t!ie pleasures of the happv, and
•ympathise with the miseiies of the unfortunate
I assure you, my dear, I often look up to tlie
divine Disposer of events, with an eye of gra-
titude fur the blessln'4 which I hope he intends
U. bestow on me, m bestowing you. I sincere-
ly wish that he may ble^s my endeavours to
maks your life as comfortable and happy as
possible, Ijoth in sweetening the rouglier ]iart»
of my natural temper, and bettering the un-
kindly en cuinstaTices of my fortune. This, my
dear, is a pas-ion, at least in r / view, worthy
of a man, and I will add, worthy of a Chris-
tian. The sordid earth-woim may profess love
to a woman's person, whilst, in reality, his af-
fection is centered in her pocket ; and the sla-
vish (budge may go a-Wijomg as he goes to the
Dorse- market, to choose one who is stout and
firm, and, as we may saj of an old horse, one
*ho will be a good drudge and draw kindly.
distlain their liity, pvy ideas. I would be
heartily out of humour with myself, if ( tnoug*
I Were capable of h.iv.ng s.i poor a notion o-
the sex, which were designed to crown the
plea.'iures of society. Poor dev''« ! I don't envy
them tlieir happiness who have such notions
For my part, I propose quite other pleasuii*
with my dear partner
No. II.
TO THE SAME.
MV HEAR ELIZA,
I DO not remember in the course of your ge-
quaintance and mine, ever to have heard youi
opinion on the ordinary way of filling in love,
amongst people of our st3ti(m of life : . do not
inciin the persons who proceed in the way of
b.irgain, but those whose afTectiun is rea ly pla-
ced on the |)erson.
Though I be, as you know very well, but a
very awkward lover myself, yet as I hav; some
oj)purtunities of observing the conduct of others
who are muth better skilled in the ;ilfair of
courtship than I am, I often flunk it is owmg
to lucky diance more than to good manage-
ment, that theie are not mure unhappy mar-
riages than usually are.
It is natural for a young fellow to like the
acquaintance of -.he female-, and custoniai'v for
him to keep tliem company when occasion servev ;
some one of them is more agreeable to hnii tlian
the I est ; there is something, he kiuiws not
what, pleases him, h kfiows net how, in her
comuany. This 1 take to be what is called love
u ith the grsatest part of us, arid I must own,
my dear Eliza, it is a hard game such a one aj
you have to play when you meet with sudi a
lover. You cannot refu.se but be is sincere, aiid
yet though you use iiim ever so favourably, per-
haj)s in a lew months, or at farthest in a \i-;u
or two, the same unaccountable fincy mav m.ike
him as (listracteiily fond of another, whilst you
are quite fcrgof. I am aware, that pei hap- the
next time 1 have the pleasure of seeing you, you
may bid me take my own )e>soii h(ime, and te!!
me tha^ the jiassion I have piofesscd for vou is
perhaps one uf tho^H transient ilashtk ] havf
248
BURNS' WORKS.
l)ecn (Ic'iTihinp^ ; hut T hope, niy dear Eliza,
you will do me the jii->tice to believe me, when
I assure you, that the love I have for you is
Touiified on the sacred principles of virtue and
nonour, and hy coi.sequence, so long as you con-
tir-j- possessed of those amiable qualities which
first inspired my p.ission for you, so long must I
continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it
is love like this alone which can render the mar-
ri«'d state hapiy. People may talk of fliuies and
raptures as long as they please ; and a warm
fancy with a fli^w of youthful spirits, may make
them feel sometLing like whai '"^"v describe ;
but sure I am, the nobler faculties of the mind,
with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be
the foundation of friendship, and it has always
been my opinion, that the married life was only
friendship in a more exalted degree.
If you will be so good as to grant my wishes,
and it should please providence to s|)are us to
the latest periods of life, I can look forward
and see, that even then, though bent down
with wrinkled age ; even then, when all other
worldly circumstances will be indifferent to nie,
I will regard my Eliza with the tenderest af-
fection, and for this plain reason, because she
is still possessed of those noble qualities, im-
proved to a much higher degree, which first
inspired my affection fur her.
" O : .^^'■"v itat", when souls each other draw,
" When love is liberty, and nature law."
I knr-w, were I to speak in such a style to
many a girl who thinks herself posse**sed of no
small share of sense, she would think it ridi-
culous— but the language of the heart is, my
dear Eliza, the only courtship I Hhall ever use
to jrou.
When I look over what I have written, I am
sensible it i^ vastly dllFerent from the ordinary
style of ciiurtship — but I shall make no apulo-
gy^I know y<iur good nature will excuse wLttt
voui guud sense may see atuiss.
No. III.
TO THE S.-VME.
Mr PEAR EIlfA,
I llA%K often thought it a peculiarly un-
lucky circumstance in love, that though, in
every other situation in lite, telling the truth is
not only the safest, but actually liy far the easi-
est way of proceeding, a lover is never umler
greater diffuulty in acting, or more puzzled for
expression, than when his* passion is sincere,
and his intentions are honourable. I do n<it
think that it is very difficult for a person of or-
dinary capacity t<i talk of love and fondiu's*,
which are imt frit, ami tu make vowm of roii-
■tancy and fidelity, which are never intended to
be performed, if he In! villain enout^fi to orac.
tise such detestable conduct : but to a rna^
whose heart glows with t!ie principhs of in>
tegrity and truth ; and who siuceiely loves a
woman of amiable person, uncommon refinement
of sentiment, and purity of manners — to such a
one, in such circumstances, I can assure you,
my dear, from my own feelings at this present
moment, courtship is a task indeed. There is
such a number of forebod.ng feais, and distrust-
ful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in
your company, or when I sit down to wiite to
you, that what to speak or what to write I am
iltogether at a loss.
There is one rule which f have hitherto prac-
tised, and which I shall invariably keep with
you, and that is, honestly to tell you the plain
truth. There is something so mean and nn-
manly in the arts of dis-;iiiiiilation and falsehood,
that I am surprised they can be used by any one
in so noble, so generous a passion as virtuous
love. No, my dear Eliza, I shall never endea-
vour to gain your favour by such detestable
practices. If you will be so good and so gener-
ous as to admit me for ymir partner, your com-
panion, your bosom friend through life ; there
is nothing on this side of eternity shall give ma
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 dear, which I earnestly request of
you, and it is this ; that you would soon either
put an end to my hopes by a i)ereiii|)tary refusal,
or cure me of my fears by a geneioiis consent.
It would oblige nie much if you would send
me a line or two when convenient. I shall on-
ly add further, that if a behaviour regulated
(though perhaps but very imiierfectly) by the
rules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to
love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour
to promote your happiness ; and if these are
qualities you would wish in a friend, in a hus-
band ; I hope you shall ever find them in \cnit
real friend and sincere luvcr.
No. IV.
TO THE SAME.
1 OUGHT in gooil manners to have acknoyr-
leilged the receipt of your letter before this time,
but my heart was so shocked with the contents
of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my tlumghtj
so as to write to you en the subject. I will not
attempt to describe what 1 felt on receiving you/
letter. I read it over and over, a','ain and again
and though it was in the politest language of re-
fusal, still it was peremptory ; " you were sorry
you could nut make me a return, but yuu wish
mc" wha-, witlumt you, I never can obtain,
" you wish me all kind of happiness. " It wonld
lie weak and uiiiii.iiily to sav, iliit without wu 1
never ciu be happy ; but sine I am that Jkmr
.>
CORRESPOXDENCE.
ing lifo with yon, woulil luivo givi.'ii it a relish,
tli.it, vvan'iii^ yoii, I novor cm ta>tc.
Yciiir iiuciiiiinuin personal advantages, and
your superior good sense, do not so niuih strike
nie ; these, possiljly in a few instances, may he
met with in others ; hut that amiahle goodness,
that tinder feminine softness, that endearing
fwuctness of disjjosition, with all the charming
ofhiuring of a warm feeling heart — these I never
again expect to meet with in such a degree in
this world. AH these charming qualities, heigh-
tened hy an education much beyond any thing
I have ever met with in any woman I ever dar-
ed to approach, have made an imjiression on my
heart that I do not think the world can ever ef-
face. IMy imagination has fondly flattered itself
with a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a
hope, that possihly I might one day call vou
mine. I had fovme<l the most delightful images,
and my fancy fondly brooded over them ; but
now I am wretched for the loss of what I really
had no right expect. I must now think uo
more of you as a mistress, still I presume to ask
to be admitted as a fiiend. As such I wish to
be allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to
remove in a few days a little farther off, and you,
I suppose, will perhaps soon leave this place, I
wish to see you or hear from you soon ; and if
an expression should perhaps escape me r^ither
to(i warm for friendship, I hope you will pardon
it in, my dear Miss , (pardon me the dear
espresbion for once.)
LETTERS, 1783, 1784.
No. V.
TO JIR. JOHN MURDOCH,
SCHOOLMASTER,
STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON.
DFAR SIR, Lnchhe, \5t/i January, 1793.
As I have an opportunity of sending you a
letter, without putting you to that expense
which any production of mine wimld but ill re-
pay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that
' have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the
many ohiications I lie under to your kindness
atid friendship.
I do not doubt. Sir, but you will wish to
know what ha^ 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 wiiuld be pleased with ;
but that is what I am iifraid will not be the case.
I have, indeeii, kept pretty clear of vicious ha-
bits ; and in this respect, I hope, my comluct
will not disgrace the eilucation I have gotten ;
but as a man of the world, I am most miserably
deficient. — One wouM have thought, that bred
M i have been, under a father who has figured
[iretty well as tin homme. ilcs nJTaires, 1 mighl
have been what the world cads a pushing, ac-
tive fellow ; but, to tell you the truth. Sir,
there is hanHy any thing more my reverse. I
seem to bt one sent into the world to see, and
observe; and I very easily compound wiih the
knave who tricks me of my money, if tl'.eie be
my thing original about him which shows me
human nature in a diircrent light fr.un any thing
I have seen before. In short, the joy of my
heart is to " study men, their manners, and theit
ways ;" and for this darling subject, I cheer-
fully sacrifice every other consideration. I am
quite indolent about those great concerns that
set the bustling busy sons of care agog ; and ii
I have to answer for the |)iesrnt liour, 1 am very
easy with regard to aiiy thing further. Evi n
the last, worst shift ' of the unfortunate and
the wretched, diies not mu(di terrify me : I know
that even then my talent for what country folks
call " a sensible crack," when once it is sancti-
fied hy a hoary head, would procuie trie so much
esteem, that even then — I would learn to he
happy. However, I am under no apiirchensions
about that ; for, though inilolent, yet, so far as
an extremely delicate constitution permit-, I am
not lazy ; and in many things, especially in ta-
vern matters, I am a strict economist ; not in-
deed for the sake of the money, hut one if the
princi|ial parts in niv com|)osit"ion is a kind (jf
pi ide of stomach, and I scorn to fear the f.icf of
any man living : above every thing, I abhor as
hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a
dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, whc
in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis this, and
this alone, that endears economy to me. In the
matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. ^)y
favourite authors are of the sentiinent.il kind,
such as S/icTistnne, particularly his £/ci;ics ,-
Thomson ; Man nf Fieliiitf, a book I ])rize next
to the Bible; Man of the Worltl ; Sterne,
especially hs Seutimcntat Jonritvij ; Miicjihtr-
siins Ossian, §-c. These are the glorious mo-
dels aftt 'vhich I endeavour to form mv con-
duct ; and 'tis mcogruous, 'tis absurd, to sup-
pose that the man whose mind glows with sen-
timents lightened up at the r sacred flame — the
man whose heart distends with ber.evolence to
all the human race — he " who can soar above
this little scene of things," cm he descend to
mind the paltry concerns abcv» which the »err«-
tilial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves?
0 how the glorious triumph swells my hiart !
1 forget that I am a poor in-igu'ficant devil, un-
noticed and unknown, stalking up and down
fairs and maikits, when I h.ippen to he in them,
reading a page or two of mankind, and " catcl;-
ing the manneis living as they rise," whilst the
men of business jostle me on every side as an
idle cncunibranc in their way. — Hut I dare say
I have by this time tired your |)atience ; so
shall conclude with Degging you to give Mrs,
• The last shift alliideil to here, must lie the condi
ion of <ui itinerant begpar
K 2
250
BURNS' WORKS.
Murdoch — not niy compliments, for that is a
mure coinnuin-])Iac,'; story, but — my warmest,
kindest \v•i^!,es for Iivr welfare; aud accept of
the same fur yourself, from,
Dear Sir,
Youi-s, &c.
No VI.
[the rOLLOWIVG IS TAKEN FROM THE MS.
PROSE niESENTED BV OUR BARD TO SIR.
RIDDEL.]
On rummajjing over some old papers, I ligjlit-
ed on a MS. of my early years, in which I had
determined to write myself out, as I was ))laeed
by fortune among; a class of men to whom my
ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant
that the book should have Iain by me, in the
liSitid hope that, some time or other, even after I
WAS no more, my thoughts would fall into the
hi n'is of somebody capable of appreciating their
val.ie. It sets off thus :
Obi'ervdtions, Hints, Sonrjs, Scraps of Poe-
try, ^c. b>j II. B. — a man who had little art in
making n.oney, and still less in keeping it ; but
was, howevtr, a man of some sense, and a great
deal of honesty, and unbounded good-will to
every creature, rational and irrational. As he
was but little indebted to scholastic eilucation,
qnd breil at a |)lough-taJl, liis performances must
be strongly tinctured with bis unpolished rustic
way of li'e ; but as I believe they are really his
owiiy it may be some entertainment to a curious
observer of human nature, to see how a plough-
man thinks ar.il feeN, nndcr the ])rcssure of love,
ambition, un;;iety. gi ief, with the like caies and
j)assi'./ns which, however diversified by the
"rtri'Js and mininers <jf life, operate pretty mudi
;t;.ke, I believe, on all tbe 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 U|)on
recording their observations, and allowing them
the s.-.ii'.e importance ^i hich they do to tliose
which ajjpear in lirint." — Siienstone.
" Pleasing, when yotith is lor/g expired, to trace
The forms our pencil, or our pen designed !
Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face,
Such the soft image of our youthful mind."
Ibid.
April, I78r?.
Notwitli*t.inding ail that has been said agiiu'^t
love, respecting the folly and weakness it leads
tt young inexperienced mind into; still I think it
in a great measure deserves the highest enco-
miums t-hat have been paH>ed on it. If any
thing on earth deserves the name of ia()tiire or
trai;>po;t, it is the fe<'!in<,'s ot green eighteen, in
khe cuinpa \y of the iiii.-tresi, o! hi> he.nt, u !>••.
she repays him with asa equal return of *Ei;e.
tion.
. iiipi/st.
There is certainly som.e connection between
love, and music, and poetry ; and, therefore, 1
have always thought a fine toucl of nature, tliat
passage in a modern love composition :
" As tow'rd her cot, he jogg'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.
Septernber.
I entirely agree with that judicious philosn-
|)her, Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory nj
Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most
painful sentimetit that can embitter the human
bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitmle may
bear up tolerably well, under those calamities,
in the procurement of which we ourselves have
had no hand ; but when our follies or crimes
have made us miserable and wretched, to bear
up with manly firmness, and at tbe same time
have a proper penitential sense of our miscon-
duct, is a glorious effort of self-corn mand.
Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with an-
guish,
Bevond comparison the worst are those
That to our folly or our guilt we owe.
In every other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say — '' It was no deed of mine ;"
But when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added — '' Blame thy foolish self! '
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ;
The torturing, gnawing ccmsciousness of guilt—
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others
The young, the innocent, who finiilly Itived us.
Nay, more, that very love their cause of luin !
0 burning hell ! in all thy store of tornients,
1 here's not a keener lash !
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its agonizing throbs ;
And, after proper purpose of amendment,
Can fit inly force bis jarring thoughts to ]^eac* '
O, happy ! happy ! envi.ible man !
O glorious nuignaiiiniity of soul.
Mu, h, 1784.
I have often ob'icrved, in the course of my
Lxperience of human life, that every man, even
the wors*, has sdiiirthiiiL; good about him ;
tiKUii.'-h v >-y o!ten nothing el>e than a ha| ]i)
J
CORR£?.PONDENCE.
251
temperaiMcnt cf constitution inclining liim to
tills or that virtue. For this reason, no man
tan say in what degree any other pei'son, be-
niiies himself, can be, with strict justice, calleil
wicked. Let any of the strictest character for
regularity of conduct among us, examine im-
paitially how many vices he has never been
guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but
for want of opportunity, or some accidental cir-
cumstance intervening; how many of the weak-
nesses of mankind he has escaped, because he
was out of the line of such temptation ; and,
what often, if not always weighs more than all
the rest, how much he is indebteil to the world's
good opinion, because the world d.ics not know
all : I say, any man who can thus think, will
scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of
mankind around Viim, with a brother's eye.
I have often courted the acquaintance of
that part of mankind commonly known by the
i/dinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes far-
ther than was consistent with the safety of my
character ; those who, by thoughtless prodiga-
lity or headstrong passions, ha^e beej driven
to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay,
sometimes " stained with guilt, ....
. . . ," I have yet found among thein,
in not a tew instances, some of the noblest vir-
tues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested
friendship, and even modesty.
April.
As I am whit the men of the world, if they
knew such a man, would call a whimsical mor-
tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en-
joyment, which are, in a manner, jicculiar to
myself, or some here and there such other out-
of-the-way peison. Such is the peculiar plea-
sure I take in the season of winter, more than
the rest of the year. This, I l)elieve, may be
partly owing to my misfortunes giving iny
mind a melancholy cast ; but there is some-
thing even in the
" .Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste
Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried
eaith," —
whrch raises the mind to a serious sublimity,
fivdurable to every thing great and noble.
There is scarcely any earthly object gives me
more — I do not know if I should call it plea-
sure— but something which exilts me, some-
thing which enrap'.ures me — than to walk in
the sheltered side of the wood, or high planta-
tion, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the
Bti.rmy 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 entluisia»ni to /Jim, who, in the poiniirus
language of the Ilehivw bard, "walks on the
wings ol the wind.' In on.' of these seastM-s i
just after a train of riisfortuneSj I composed
the following :
Tiie wintry west extends his blast, &c.
See Songs.
Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses,
writ without any real passion, are the most
nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often
thought that no man can be a proper critic of
love-composition, except he himself, in one or
more instances, hive been a warm votary -jf
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 con-
ceit, from real passion and nati re. 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, &c.
See Songs.
I think the whole species of young men may
be naturally enough divided into two grand
classes, which I shall call the grave and the
merry ; though, by the bye, these terras do not
with ])ropriety enough express my ideas. The
grave I 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
deliberation, follow the strong impulses of na-
ture ; the thoughtless, the careless, the indo-
lent— in particular he, who, with a happy
siveetness of natural temper, and a cheerful va-
cancy of thought, steals through life — generally,
indeed, in poverty and obscurity; but poverty
and olKcurity are only evils to him who can
sit gravely down and make a repining compa-
rison between his own situation and that of
others ; and lastly to grace the quorum, such
are, generally, those heads are capable of all
the towerings of genius, and whose heart* are
warmed with all the delicacy of feeling.
As the grand end of human life is to cultivate
an intercourse with that Being to whom we
ewe life, with -very enjoymeiit that can render
life delightful ; and to maintain an iute:,'ritive
conduct towards our fel ow-crcatuies ; that so,
by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may
be fit members for that society of the pious and
the good, which nason and revelation teach us
to expect bcviihd the grave : I do not see tha:
the turn of mind, and puisults of any son of [lo.
verty and obscurity, are in the least nio'e iiilm'
232
BURNS* WORKS.
eal 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 that he nay gain Heaven as well
(which, by the bye, is no mean consideration),
who steals through the vale of life, amusing
himself with every little flower that fortune
throws in his way ; as he who, straining straight
forward, and perhaps bespattering all about him,
gains some of life's little eminences ; where, af-
tet all, he can only see, and be seen, a little more
conspicuously, than what, in the pride of his
heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil
he has left behind him.
There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting
tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, which
shows them to be the work of a masterly hand :
and it has often given me many a heart-ache to
refieet, that such glorious old bards — bards who
very probably owed all their talents to native
genius, yet have described the exploits of he-
roes, the pangs of disappointment, and the melt-
ings of love, with such fine strokes of nature —
that their very names (O how mortifying to a
bard's vanity!) are now "buried among the
wreck of things which were."
O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could
feel so stiongly and describe so well ; the last,
the meanest of the muses' train — one who,
Kiougn tar inferior to your flights, yet eyes your
path, and with trembling wing would sometimes
loar after y<iu — a poor rustic bard unknown,
pays this sympathetic pang to your memory !
Some of you tell us, wit'a all the charms of
ver.<e, that you have been unfortunate in the
world — unfortunate in love : he too has felt the
loss of his Il::!e fortune, the loss of friends, and,
worse than all, the loss of the woman he adored.
Like you, all his consolation was his muse; she
taught him in rustic measures to complain.
Happy couM lie have done it with your strength
of imagination and flow of verse ! Alay the turf
lie lightly on your bones ! and may you now
enjoy that solace and rest which this world sel-
dom gives to the heart, tuned to all the feelings
of poesy and love I
This is all worth quoting in my MSS., and
moie than all.
R. B.
LETTERS, 1786.
No. VII.
TO MR. JCHN RICHMOND, EniNnniu
MY I<KAIl SIR, MosS//!cl, Fill. !T, I7S(i
I HAVE not time at pic-ent to ojihiiil
for your silence and neglect ; I shall only «£.jr 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 nmse*
since I saw you, and have composed, among se-
veral others. The Orilinniinn, a poem on Jlr.
M'Kinlay's being called to Kilmarnock ; Scotch
Drink, a poem ; T/ie Cotter's Saturday Nirjlit;
An Address to the Devil, &c. I have likewise
completed my poem on the Dogs, but have not
shewn 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
send me Fergusson, by Connel,* and I -.V'll re-
mit you the mviney. I have no news to ac-
quaint yo'j with about Mauchline, they are just
going on in the old way. I have some very im-
portant news with respect to myself, not the
most agreeable, news that I am sure you cannot
guess, but I shall give you the particulars an-
other 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,
ziA I beg you will let me hear from you regu-
larly by Connel. If you would act your part as
a FRIEND, I am sure neither gond nor bad for
tune should strange or alter ine. Excuse haste,
as I got yours but yesterday. — I am.
My dear Sir,
Yours,
ROBt, BURNESS-t
No. VIIL
TO MR, M'WHINNIE, Writer, Atb.
Mossgiel, 17 'h April. 1786.
It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that
elegantly bear the impression of the good Crea-
tor, to suy to them you give them the trouble
of obliging a friend ; for this reason, I only tell
you that I gratify my oicn feelings in requesting
your friendly oflices with respect to the enclosed,
because I know it will gratify yours to assist
me in it to the utmost of your power.
I have sent you fi>ur copies, as I have no les»
than eight dozen, which is a great deal more
than I shall ever need.
Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in
your prayers. He looks foiward with fear and
trembling to that, to him, important moment
• Connel— the Mauclilinecarrier,
t Mr. .fiimrs Smith, then a sli(>|i-krei>pr in Mauch-
line. It was to this yoniiH man 111 it Hur; i aililresied
.Aii: of his finest jierformances— " To J. ti " b&
ginning
" Dear S , the slcest, paukie thief."
Me (liec Jii Oie U'l'st-Inilics.
t This It the only letter the Kditnr ha« met with i"
whii h the l>()it .ulilii ihe tenni'ia'iiin en to hi» name
you as his tillier and family liad spelled iU
CORRESPONDENCE.
253
whicL stamps the die with — with — with, per.
haps the eternal disgrace of,
Wy dear Sir,
You hiinililed,
afflicted,
tonuented
robt. burns.
No. IX.
TO MONS. JAMES SMITH, Mauchline.
Monday Morning, Mossgid, 17S6.
MT l)EAR SIR,
1 WENT to Dr. Douglas yesterday fully re-
solved to take the opportunity of C.ipt. Smith ;
but . 'ound the Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs.
White, both Jamaicans, and they have deranged
my plans altogether. They assure him that to
send me from Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio
will cost my master, Charles Douglas, upwards
of fifty pounds ; besides running the risk of
throwing myself into a pleuritic fever iu conse-
quence of hard travelling in the sun. On these
accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, hut
a vessel sails from Greenock the first of Sept.
right for the place of my destination. The Cap-
tain of her is an intimate of Mr. Gavin Hamil-
ton's, and as good a fellow as heart cnuld wish :
with him I am destined to go. Where I shall
Bhelter, I know not, but I hope to weather the
Btorm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that
fears them ! I know their worst, aud am pre-
pared to meet it. —
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg,
As lang's I dow.
On Thursday morning, if you can muster as
nuch self-denial as to be out of bed about seven
o'clock, I shall see you as I ride through to
Cumnock. After all. Heaven bless the sex !
I feel there is still happiness for me among
them. —
O woman, lovely woman ! Heaven designed you
To temper man ! we had been brutes without
you !
news to tell you that will give me any pleasure
to mention or you to hear.
And now for a grand cure ; the ship is on hei
way home that is to take me out to Jamaica
ami then, farewell dear old Scotland, and fare-
well dear ungrateful Jean, for never, never will
I see you more.
You will have heard that I am going to com-
mence Pott ia print ; and to-morrow my works
go to the i)ress. I expect it will bo a volume oi
about two hundred pages — it is just the last foo -
ish action I intend to do ; and then turn a wise
man asfatt as possible.
Believe me to be.
Dear Brice,
Your friend and well-wiBher.
No. XI.
No. X.
TO MR. DAVID BRICE.
tKAR BRICE, Mosxgid, June 12, 178G.
I RECEIVED your message by G. Paterson,
knd as I am not very throng at present, I just
Write to let you know that there is such a worth-
less, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant,
still in the land of the living, though 1 can
scarcely say, in the place of hope. I have no
TO JIR. AIKEN
(the gentleman to whom the cotter's
saturday night is addressed.)
SIR, Ayrshire, 1786.
I WAS with Wilson, my printer, t'other day,
and settled all our by -gone matters between us.
After I had paid him all demands, I made him
the offer of the second edition, on the hazard o{
being paid out of thu first and readiest, which
he declines. By his account, the paper of a
thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven
pounds, and the printing about fifteen or six-
teen : he offers to agree to this for the prmting,
if I will advance for the paper ; but this you
know, is out of my power ; so farewell hopes
of a second edition till I grow richer ! — an
epotha which, I think, will arrive at the pay-
ment of the British national debt.
There is scarcely any thing hurts me so much
in being disappointed of my second edition, as
not hav ng it in my power to show my grati-
tude to Mr. Ballantyne, by publishing my poen
of Tlte lirigs «f Ayr. I would detest mysel
as a wretch, if I thought I were canable, in a
very long life, of forgetting the honest, warm,
and tender delicacy with which he enters into
my interests. 1 am sometimes ])leased with my-
self in my giatelul sensations ; but I buileve, on
the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my
gratitude is not a vii tue, the consequence of re-
tlectiim, but sheerly the instinctive emotion of a
heart too inattentive to allow worldly maxima
and views to settle into selfish habits.
I have been feeling all the various rotationj
and movements within, rc-pecting the excise.
There are many things |)lead stron^'Iy against it ;
the uncertainty of getting soon into business, thi
consequences of my follies, whi.h may perhapl
make it impracticable for me to stay at home .
254
BURNS' WORKS.
snH besides 1 have for some time Dcen pininir
under secret wretchedness, from causes which
you pretty well know—the pang of disappoint-
ment, the sting of piide, with some wandering
stdbs of remorse, which never fail to settle on
my vitals like vultures, when attention is not
called away by the calls of society or the vaga-
ries of the muse. Even in the hour of social
mirth, iny gaiety is the madness of an intoxica-
ted criminal und'jr 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 nmod
I am in, overbalances every thing that can be
laid iu the scale against it.
Y(r; miy perhaps think it an extravagant
fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home
to niy very soul: though sceptical, ia some
points, of our current belief, yet, 1 think, 1 have
every evidence for the reality of a life beyond
the stinted bourne of our present existence ; if
so, then how should I, in the presence of that
tremendous Heing, the Author of existence, how
should I meet the reproaches of those who stanil
to me in the dear relition of children, whom I
deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless in-
fancy ? O, thou gieat unknown Power ! thou
Abinghty God ! who hast lighted up reason in
my breast, and blessed me with immortality ! I
Lave Jrequently wandered from that order and
regularity necessary for the peifection of thy
works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken
uie !
gressive struggle ; and tliat, however I aight
possess a warm heart and inoffensive manner*
(which last, by the bye, was rather moi-e than
I could well bo;ist), still, more than these pas-
sive qualities, there was something to be cfone.
When all my school-fellows and youthful com-
peers Cthose misguided few excepted, who join-
ed, to use a Gentoo phrase, the hallachorex of
the human r-ace), were striking off with eager
hope and earnest intent on some one or other
of the many paths of busy life, I was «' stand-
ing idle in the market place," or oidy 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
weie a probability of mending them I stand a
lair chance ; but, according to the reverend
Westminster divines, though conviction must
precede conversion, it is very far from alwayi
imjjlying it. •
No. XII.
Since I wrote the for-egoing sheet, I liave
seen something of the storm of mischief thick-
ening over my folly-devoted head. Should you,
my friends, my feeuefactors, be successfrr'l in
your ajjplications for me, perhaps it may not be
in my power in that way to reap the fnrit of
your friendly eff.irts. What I have written in
the preceding pages is the settled tenor of my
present resolution , but should inimical cir--
cum^tances forbid me closing with your kind
ofier, or-, enjoying it, only threaten to ;nitail
farther misery-^
To tell the truth, I have little reason for
this last complaint, as the world, in general,
has been kind to me, fully up to my deserts.
I was, fur some time past, fjist getting into the
pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I
saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life,
ihr inking ot every rising cloud in the chance-
directed attrrosphere of forturre, while, all de-
fenceless, I looked about in vairr for a caver.
It never occurred to me, at least never with the
force it deserved, that this world is a busy
icene. uml man a creature destiried for a pi o'-
TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP,
MADAM, Ayrshire, 17S6
I AM truly sorry I was not at home yesterday,
when I was so much honoured with your order
for my copies, and incomparably more by the
handsome complimeuts you ar-e pleased to pay
my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded tliat
there is not any class of mankind so feelingly
alive to the titillations of a))plause as the sons
of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to conceive how
the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture,
when those whose character in life gives them
a right to be polite judges, honour him with
their approbation. Had you been thoroughly
acquainted with me, Madain, you could not
have touched my darling heart-chord more
sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele-
brate yorrr illustrious ancestor-, the Saviour oj
his Country.
" Great, patriot hero ! ill-requited chief."
The first book I met with in my ear-ly years,
whr(-h I perused with pleasure, was The Life
of ILtnnilml : the next was The History nj
Sir WilUiim Wallace : fir several of my ear-
lier yeais I bad kw other airthors ; atrd many a
solitary hour have I sto'e out, after the labori-
ous vocatiims of the day, to shed a tear over
their gloiious but unfortunate stories. In those
boyisir days I renrcmber in particular beirrg
• 'i"!iis bttcr was evidently written anocrthciU*
tress ot" niiiul ocwisioiieil by our Poet's sciiaratrorr froiB
Mrs. Uiiniii.
CORRESPONDENCE.
253
itrurk with that part of Wallace's story where
these linss occur —
" Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late,
To make a silent and a safe retreat."
I cho-ie a fine suminer Sunday, the only day
my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen
of niile-i to pay my respects to the Leglen wood,
with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pil-
piim (lid to Liiretto : and, as I explored every
lien anil dell where I could su]ipn>j my heitiic
countrvniau to have lodged, 1 recollect (for
even thou I was a rhymer), that my heart glow-
ed with a wi>h to he ahle to make a song ou
him in some measure equal to his merits.
No. xiir.
TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR.
MAD\M, 17S6.
The hurry of my preparations for going a-
broad has hindered me from performing mv pio-
niise so soon as I intended. I have here sent vou
a i)arcel of songs, kc. which never made their
appearance, except to a friend or two at most.
Perhaps some of them niiiy be no great enter-
tainment to you : but of that I ara far from be-
ing ;m adequate judge. The song to the tune
ot Ettrivk Banks, you will easily see the impro-
priety of esposimr much even in manuscript.
I think, mysell, .t lias some merit, both as a to-
lerable description of one of Nature's sweetest
scenes, a July evening, and one of the finest
pieces of Nature's workmanship, the finest in-
deed we know any thing of, an amiable, beauti-
ful young woman ;• but I have no common
friend to procuie me that permission, without
which I would not dare to spread the copy.
I am quite aware, Madam, what task the
world would assign me m chis .etter. The ob-
scure bard, when any of the great condescend
to take notice of him, should heap the alcar with
ihe incense of flattery. Their high ancestry,
their own great ami godlike qualities and actions,
should be recounted with the most exaggerated
description. This, Madam, is a task for which
1 ant altogether unfit. Besides a certain dis-
qualifying pride tif heart, I know nothing of
your connections in life, and have no access to
where your real character is to be found — the
company of your compeers : and more, I am a-
fraid tliat even the most refined adulation is by
no means the roail to your good opinion.
One feature of your chaiacter I shall ever
with grateful pleasure remember- — the reeeption
1 got, when I had the honour of waiting on yoj
It Stall. I ara little acquainted with politeness ;
but I know a go»d deal ot be: evuli^nce of tem-
per and goodness of heart. Surely, did those in
exalted stations know how happy they could
make some classes of their inferiors by conde-
scension and affability, they vould never stand
so high, measuring out w h every looK the
height of their elevation, t)ut condescend ita
sweetly as did Mrs. Stewait of Stair.*
No. XIV.
DR. BLACKLOCK
THE REVEREND JIR. G. LOWRIE.
REVFKF.Nn AND DISAK Sill,
I OLciiT to have tcknowledged your favout
long ago, not only as a testimony of your kind
leiiuMiibraiice, but as it gave me an op[)ortunity ot
sharing one of the finest, and, peih ips, one of the
most genuine entertainments, of which the human
mind is susceptible. A number of avocations re-
tarded my progress in reading the poems ; at last,
h'lwever, I have finished that pleas'ng perusal
Many instances have I seen of Nature's force and
beneficence exerted under numerous and foriniil-
ahle disadvantages ; but none equal to that with
wliich you have been kind enough to present me.
There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious
poems, a vein of wit and humour in those of a
more festive turn, which cannot be too much
ailmired, nor too warmly approved ; and I tliiidi
I shall never open the book without feeling my
astonishment renewed and increased. It was my
wish to havecxi)ressed my approbalion in veise;
but whether from declining life, or a temporary
depression of spirits, it is at present (iut of my
power to accomplish that agreeable intention.
IMr. Stewart, Professor (d' Morals in this Uni
versify, had formerly read me three of the poems,
and I had desired him to get my natiie inserted
among the subscribers ; but whether this was
done, or not, I never could learn. I have little
intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take care
to have the poems communicated to liim bv the
intervention of sonae mutual friend. It has been
told me by a gentleman, to whom I showed the
performancL's, and who sought a coj)y with dili-
gence and ardour, that the whole impression is
aheadv exhausted. It were, therefore, much to
be wished, for the sake of the young man, that
a se<;ond edition, more numerous than the former,
could immediately be printed j as it appears cer-
tain that its intrinsic merit, and the exertion of
the author's friends, might give it a more uni-
versal circulat'.>n than any thing of the kind
which has been published within my memor\.-('
Miss A-
• The song eneloseJ is tliat given ia tlie Life of out
Poet; br.'ginuing,
'Tw.is e'en — the (fewy fields were (rreon, ic.
t T,\c render will perceive that this is the leltoj
whicli i)ioduced ilie delerniiDaliou of our Bard to ^wt
up his sclu'ine of i;oiiig to the West Indies, and to try
the fate of a new edition of his r.iiems in Ednihurgli.
A "Ojiy of tills letter was seni Ijy Mr. Lowrie to Mr."^G
Ila. Hilton, and by him eoramunieated to liurns, unioiii
whose papers it was found.
256
^*»*\<^
No. XV.
FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFORD,
S".R, Edinburgh, ilh December, 1786.
I RECEivEii your letter a few days ago. I do
not pretend to much interest, but what I have
I shall be ready to exert in procuring the attain-
ment of any object you have in view. Your
chiiracter as a man (forgive my reversing your
order), as well as a poet, entitle you, I think, to
the assistance of every inhabitant of Ayrshire.
I have been told you wished to be made a gau-
ger ; I submit it to your consideration, whether
it would not be more desirable, if a sum could
be raised by subscription, for a second edition of
your poems, to lav it out in the stocking of a
small farm. 1 am persuaded it would be a line
of life, much more agreeable to your feelings, and
ju the end more satisfactory. When you have
considered this, let me know, and whatever you
determine upon, I will endeavour to promote as
far as my abilities will permit. With compli
meuts to my friend the doctor, I am.
Your friend and well-wisher,
JOHN WHITEFORD.
P. S. — I shall take it as a favour when you
bX any time send me a new production.
No. XVI.
FROM THE REV. MR. G. LOWRIE.
BEAR SIR, 22d December, 1786.
/ LAST week received a letter from Dr. Black-
..ock, in which he expresses a desire of seeing
you. I write this to you, that you may lose no
time in availing upon him, should you not yet
have Been him.
I rejoice to bear, from all corners, of your
rising fame, and I wish and expect it may tower
gtiil higher by the uew publication But, as a
friend, I warn you to prepare to meet with your
ihare of detraction and envy — a troin that al-
ways accompany j^reat men. For your comfort,
I am in great hopes that the number of your
friends and admirers will incjease, and that you
have some chance of ministerial, or even • • • •
patronage. Now, my friend, suidi ra|)ld success
is very uncommon ; and do you think yourself
)c uo danger of suffering by appliuse and a full
pur'« ? Remember Solomon's advice, which he
spoke from experience, " stronger is be thit con-
querti," &c. Keep fast hold of your rural sim-
plicity and purity, like Telemachus by Mentor's
aid, m Calypso's isle, or even in that of t'y|)rui».
T hope i/au havt, ''>"> Minerva with you. I
neeil not U-\\ you how much a nioiK'st d iff deuce
imd in« iceible tcBperance adorn the must sbiu-
in» talents, and elevate the mind, a i exalt and
refine the imagination even of a poet.
I hope you will not imagine I speak froa
suspicion or evil report. I assure you I speak
from love and good report, and good opinion,
and a strong desire to see you shine as much in
the sunshine as you have done in the shade, and
in the practice as you do in the theory of virtue.
This is my prayer, in return for your elegant
composition in verse. All here join in compli
ments, and good wishes for your further pros-
perity.
No. XVII.
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq.
MAUCHLINE.
Edinburgh, Dec. 7, 1786.
HONOURED SIR,
I HAVE paid every attention to your com
mands, but can only say what perha|)s you will
have heard before this rea"h you, that Mui'-
kirklands were bought by a John Gorilon, W. S.
but for whom I know not ; Mauchlands, Hau^^l
Mila, &c. by a Frederick Fotheringham, sup-
posed to be for Ballochrayle Laird, and Adam-
hill and Shawood were bought for Oswald'*
fjiks. — This is so imperfect an account, and will
be so late ere it reach you, that were it not to
discharge my conscience I would not tiouble
you with it ; but after all my diligence 1 cou]d
make it no sooner nor better.
For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of be-
coming as eminent as Thomas a Keni.is or John
Biinyan ; and you may expect henceforth to see
my birth-day inserted among the wonderful
events, in the poor Robin's and Aberdeen Al-
manacks, along with the Black Monday, and the
battle of Bothwell Bridge ]\Iy lord Glencairn
and the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have
taken me under their wing ; and by all proba-
bility I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the
eighth wise man of the world. Through my
lord's influence it is inserted in the records ot
the Caledonian hunt, that they universally, one
and all, subscribe for the second edition. — My
sul>scri|)tion bills come out to-morrow, and vou
shall have some of them next post. — I have lue'
in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, what SoNpinon
emphatically calls, " A friend that sticketh
closer than a brother." — The warmth with
which he interests himself in my affairs is of the
same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr. Aikin,
and the few patrons that took notice of my ear-
lier poetic days, shewed for the poor unlucky
devil of a poet.
I always remember Mi-s. Hamilton anil Miss
Kenneily in my poetic prayersi but you both in
prose and verse.
CORRESPONDENCE.
257
I
JT.iy c.nilil ne'er cttch you Imt • a Lap,
Nor Longer Imt in plcuty"i» lap !
Aiucc '
No. xviir.
TO DR. M'KEXZIE, I\Iauciiline.
(enclosing him the extempore verses on
dining with loud daer.)
DEAR SIR, Wednesday Morning.
I NEVER speiit an afternoon among great
(oiks with lialt' that pleasure as when, in com-
pany with yon, I had the h.onour of paying my
devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, the
professor. j- I would be delighteil to see him
perform acts of kiiuiness and friendship, though
I were not the object ; he does it with such a
grace. I think his character, divided into ten
parts, stands thus — four parts Socrates — four
parts Nathaniel — and two parts Shakespeare's
Brutus.
The foregoing verses were reallv extempore,
but a little corrected since. They may enter-
tain you a little with the help of that partiality
with which you arc so good as favour the per-
foriuauces of
Dear Sir,
Your very humble Servant.
No. XIX.
TO JOHN BALL.\NTINE, Esq. Canker,
AVR.
Edinlmrgh, ]3th Dec. I78G.
MY HOVCtTRED FRIEND,
I WOULD not write you till I could have it
in my i)Ower to give you some account of my-
self and my matters, which by the bye is often
no easy task 1 an ived here on Tuesday was
se'niiight, and have sutfered ever siru;e I came
to town with a miserable liead-ache and
etomuch complaint, but am now a good deal
better. — 1 have foimd a worthy warm friend in
Mr. D ihymijle, of Orangeiield, who intrcjduced
me to Lord Glencairn, a man whose worth and
biochetly kindness to me, I shall remember
wli>*n time shall be no more. — I?y his interest it
isp»»,-d in the Caledonian hunt, and entered
in their books, that they are to take each a
copy of the second eilition, for which thev are
to pay one guinea 1 have been introduced to
a good many of the Aoblesse, but my avowed
patrons and patronesses are, the Duchess of
Gordon — The CouTitevs nf ('Ilenr-nim, with my
Lord, and L idy Hetty* — Tlie Dimii of I'.Huity
— Sir John U'lntefoonl. — I hive likewise wnia
frieiiils among the literati; Professors Stewart,
lilair, and Mr. MKenr.ie — the Man of Feeling.
— An unknown hind left ten guineas for th«
Ayrshire bird with Mr. Silibald, which I got.
— I since have discovered my geiiei oils unknown
fiieiid to be P.itrick Miller, l',si|. Imitlier to tiie
Justice Clerk; and drank a glass of claret with
him by iiivit ition at his own house yesternight.
I am n-early agreed with Creech to jjiint my
book, and I suppose I will begin on .Monday. I
will send a subscri|)tioii bill or two, next post ;
when I intend writing my fir^t kind pation,
.Mr. Aiken. I saw his sim to-d ly ancl he is
very well.
Diigald Stewart, and some of my learned
friends, put me in tlie periodical paper called
the Loimger.f a copy of which I here enclose
you — I was, Sir, when I was first honoured with
your notice, too obscure ; now I tremble lest I
should be ruined by being draggeil too suddenly
into the glare of polite and leirned obsei vation.
I shall certainly, my ever honoured ])ation,
write you an account of my every step ; and
better health and more s[)irits may enable me tc
make it something better thau this stu[iid mat-
ter of fact epistle.
I have the honour to be,
G'ooil Sir,
Your ever grateful humble Servaai
If any of my friends write me, mv diiecti&O
;8, care of .Mr. Creech, bookseiier.
• " Diit" is frequently Ufcd for " witliout ;"
wit/lout ciithvig.
t Professuf Uugald Stewart-
1 e.
No. XX. t
TO MR. AVILLIA.M CIIAL:MERS»
Writer, Arn.
Edinburgh, Dec. 27, 17S6.
Mr PEAR friend,
I CONFESS I have sinned the sin for whiih
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, con ■eitud ma-
jesty, preside over the dull routine of Imsiness —
A heavily-solemn oath this ! — I am, and have
been, ever since I came to Eiliiiburgh, as untit
to write a letter of humour, as to write a com-
mentary on the Revelation of St. John the Di-
vine, who was banished to the Isle of I'atmos,
by the cruel and bloody Domitian, siui to Ve»-
pasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of
Rome, and who was Limsclf an cmpiMor, ami
• LaiJy Betty Cunningham.
1 ITie paper here alhuled to, wrwi written b' Mr.
M'Keiuie, Iho celebrated auUior of the Man of iwU
% Thti letter is now prcscntixl ontiie.
258
BURNS' WORKS.
raised the second or third persecution, I forget
which, against the Christians and after throw-
ing the said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle
James, commonly called James the greater, to
distinguish him from another James, who was,
on some atcoi-.nt or other, known by the name
of James the less, after throwing him into a
raldron of boiling oil, from which he was mi-
raculously preserved, he bar.ished the poor son
of Zehedee, to a desert island in the Archipe-
lago, where he was gifted with the second sight,
aud saw as many wild beasts as I have seen
since I came to Edinburgh ; which, a circum-
stance not very uncommon in story-telling,
brings me back to where I set out.
To make you some amends for what, before
you reach this paragraph, you will have suffer-
ed ; I enclose you two pnems 1 have carded and
spun since I past Glenbuck.
One blank in the address to Edinburgh —
•' Fair B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet, daugh-
ter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have
had the honour to be more than once.
There has not been any thing nearly like her,
in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and
goodness, the Great Creator has formed, since
Blilton's Eve on the fust driy of her existence.
My direction is — care of Andrew Bruce, mer-
chant, Bridge- Street.
LETTERS, 1T87.
No. XXI.
TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq.
Edinhirgh, Jan. 14, 17S7.
1A\ HONOURED FRIEND,
It gives me a secret comfort to observe in
mv^elf that 1 am not yet so far gcme as Willie
G.iw's skate, " past redemption ;"* for I have
still lK\% favourable symptom of grace, that when
my conscience, as in the case of this letter, tells
me I am leaving eomething undone that I ought
to do, it teazes me eternally till I do it.
I air. still " dark as was chaos" in respect to
futurity. ]\Iy generous friend, Mj. Patrick Mil-
ler, has been talking with n;e about a lease of
some fiim or other in an estate called Dal>win-
tnn, which he has lately bought near Dumfries.
Some life-rented cmbitteiing recollections whls-
pet nie thit I will be hap|iier any where than
in my old neighbonrhuod, but Mr. Miller is no
judge of land ; and though I dare say he iiu'aiis
to favour me, yet he may give me, in his opi-
nion, an advantageous bargain, that may luiii
nie. I am to take a tour by Diiinfiics as I re-
turn, and have ])''oinisecl to meet Mr. Miller or.
his Ian-is some time in .May.
• This is one of a Rrcat noinber of old sntrs tlint
liioiis, wlier. a lad, nad pii'lu'ii up fKini liis ii;iii1ilt,
of wl\:ch tlie yooil old v^oinan liad a vast collection.
I went to a Jlason-lodge cesternight, where
the most Worshipful-Grana IMaster Charters,
and all the Grand-Lodge of Scotlaad visited.—
The meeting was nuinerous and elegant ; all tha
different Lodges about town were present, in all
their pomp. The Grand IMaster, who presided
with great solemnity and honour to him.self as a
gentleman and Mason, aiuong other general
toasts gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard,
Brother B ," which rung through the whole
assembly with multifilied honours and repeated
acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing
would happen, I was downright thunder-strutk.
and trembling in every nerve made the best re-
turn in iny power. Just as I had finished, seme
of the grand officers said, so loud that I could
hear, with a most comforting accent, " Very
well indeed !" which set me something to rights
i^ain.
I have to-d.iy corrected my ]52d page. My
best good wishes to Mr. Aiken.
I am ever.
Dear Sir,
Your much indebted humble Servant
No. XXIL
TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON.
MY LORD, Edinhurghs Jan, 17S7.
As I have bi't slender pretensions to philoso-
[diy, I cannot risn to the exalted ideas of a ci-
tizen of the world ; but have all those national
prejudices which, I believe, glow ])eculiarly
strong in the breast of a Scotchman. There is
scarcely any thing Co which I am so feelingly
alive, as the honour and welfare of my country ;
and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than
singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast
my station in the verie>t shades of life ; but ne-
ver did a heart pint more aidently than mine,
to be distinguished ; though, till veiy lately, I
looked in vain on every side for a r.iy of light.
It is easy, then, to guess how much I was gra-
tified with the countenance and approbation of
one of niv counfrv's most illustrious sons, when
Mr. Wauchope called on me yesterday, on the
part of your lordship. Your munificence, my
lord, ceitainly deserves my very grateful ac-
knowledgments; but your patronige is a boun-
ty pecidiarly suited to my feelings. 1 am not
master enough of the etiquette of life to know
whether there be not soiue iinprojjriety in
troubling your lordship with my thanks ; but
my heart whisi)ered me to do it. From th»
euMitions of my inmost soul I do it. Sel(i-h in
gratitude, I hope, I am incapal)le of; and mcr
cenary servility, I trust, I sh.iH ever have so
much honest pride as to detest.
CORRESPONDEXCE.
259
>o. xxiir.
rO MRS. DUNLOP.
m-jtM-KfU Hdlnhurcih, }bth Jan. 17S7.
YouKS of the 9th ciincnt, which I am this
mdnu'nt honomt'd witli, is a deep reproach to
nu' for iingritefiil neglect. I will tell ymt the
re.il truth, for I am miscrahly awkward at a
fill : I wished to have written to Dr. Moore
before I wrote to you ; but thoua;h, every d.iy
»inee I received yours of December 30th, the
i<l;'a, the wish to write him, has constantly
pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my
foul set about it. I know his fame and charac-
ter, and I am one of " the sons of little men."
To wiite him a mere matter-of-fact atT.iir, like
a merchant's order, would be disgracing the lit-
tle character I h ive ; and to write the author
of The View of Society and Manners a letter
of sentiment — I declare svery artery runs cold
at the thought. I shall try, however, to write
him to-morrow or next day. His kind interpo-
sition in my behalf I have ulready experienced,
as a gentleman waited on me the other day, <m
the part of L(>rd Eglinton, with ten guineas bv
way of subscription for two copies of my next
edition.
The word you object to in the mention I
have made of my glorious countryman and your
immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from
Thomson ; but it does not strike me as an im-
<jro|)er epithet. I distrusted my own judgment
on your finding fault with it, 'ami applied for
the opinion of some of the literati here, who
honour. me with their critical strictures, and
»c-iy all allow it to be proper. The song you
ksk I cannot recollect, and I have not a copy of
it. I have not composed any thing on the^'reat
Wallace, ex<-ept what you have seen in print,
anil the enclosed, which I will print in this edi-
tion. • You win see I have mentioned s(<me
others of the name. When I composed mv
1 Vismn, long ago, I had attempted a description
of Kyle, of which the additional stanzas are a
part, as it originally stood. i\Jy heart "-lows
with a wish to be able to do justice to the iiie-
lits of the Siirioiir of /lis Cuuntri/, which,
sooner or later, I shall at least attempt.
ward rusticity and crude unpolished Ideis on mv
head — I assure you, Madam, I do not dissemlile
when I tell you I tremble for the conse(<ueiices.
The novelty of a jxiet in my obscure situation,
without any of those advantages which are
reckoned tieccssiry for that character, at least
at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of
public notice, which has borne me to a height
where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my
abilities are inadequate to support me ; and too
surely do I see tliat time when the same tide
will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far belovt
the mark of truth.
Your ))atronizing me, and interestirtg your-
self in my fame and character as a [joet, I re-
joice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and
whether you can or cannot aid me in my sub-
seription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription,
bill any charms to the heart of a' bard, compar-
ed with the pitronage of the descendant of the
immortal Wallace?
No. XXIV
TO DR. MOORE.
You are afraid I shall grow into.xicated with
my prosperity as a poet. Alas! Jladam, I
know myself and the world too well. 1 do not
mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am wil-
ling to believe that my abilities deserved some
notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed
»ge and nation, when poetiy is and has been
the study of men of the first natural genius,
Jidcd with all the powers of polite learninir,
polite boolcs, and polite company — to be drag-
ged forth to the full glare ot le irned and polfte
observation, with all my imperfections of awk-
» Stanzas in tho Vmnn, l(ef;inninj tliiril stanza,
Hy stately tov-er j: julacefair.- and ending wiUi tlie
I Brit duan.
SIR, i7g7_
IMrs. Dunt.op has been so kind as to send m
extracts of letters she has liad from you, whera
you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing
him and his works. Those who have felt the
anxieties and solicitudes of authorshi|v, can only
know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such
a manner by judges of the first character. Your
criticivns. Sir, I receive with reverence ; only,
I urn sorry they mostly came too late; a peccant
passage or two, that I would certainly have al-
tered, were gone to the press.
The hope to be admired for a.ges is, in by far
the greater part of those even who are authors
of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part,
my first ambition was, and still my strongest
wish is, to please my comiieers, the rustic in-
mates of the hamlet, while ever changing lan-
guage and m,iuners shall a'low me to be relished
and understood. I am very willing to admit
that I have some poetical abilities; and as few,
li' any writers, either moral (,r jjoetical, tre inti-
mately acipiaiiitcd with the closes of mankind
aj»ong whom I have cliieHy mingled, I ir.ay have
seen men and ■.iiaiuiers in a difieioiit phi-is fri;m
what is common, \\hich may a-sist originality
of thought. Still I know very well the novelty
of my charactir has by far the greatest share in
the learned ai.d polite notice I have lately had ;
and in a linguage where Pope and ChurcliiU
hive lai-ed the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray
drawn the tear — where 'I'homsori and Beattie
have pauited the landscape, and Lyttleton and
Collins deseiib.d fh • heart, I am' not vain e.
nougl- to hope for distinguished poetic fame.
260
BURNS' WORKS.
No. XXV.
FROM DR. MOORE.
SIR, Clifford Street, Jan. 23, 1787.
I HAVE just rufeived your letter, by which I
find I hii'e reason to complain of my friend
Mis. Diinio]) for transmitting; to you extracts
fruni my letters to her, by much too freely and
too careles>ly written for your perusal. I must
forgive her, however, in consideration of her
good intention, as you will torgive me, I hope,
for the freedom I use with certain expressions,
in consideration of my admiration of the poems
in generd. If I may judge of the author's dis-
position from his works, with all the other good
qualities of a poet, he has not the irritable tem-
per ascribed to that race of men by one of their
own number, whom you have the happiness to
resemble in ease and curious fdicity of expres-
sion. Indeed the poetical beauties, however
original and brilliant, and lavishly scattered,
are not all I admire in your works ; the love of
your native country, th.it feeling sensibility to
all the objects of humanity, and the independent
spirit which breathes through the whole, give
me a most favourable impression of the poet,
and have made ine often regret that I did not
see the poems, the certain effect of which would
have been my seeing the author last summer,
when I was longer in Scotland than I have been
fur niiny years.
I rejoice v«rv sincerely at the eiicouragemerit
you receive at J^dmburgh, and I think you pe-
culiarly fortur.ite in the i)atronage of Dr. Blair,
who, I am informed, interests himself very much
for you. I beg to be remembered to him : no-
body can have a warmer regard for th it gentle-
man tiian I have, which, independent of the
worth of his character, would be kept alive by
the meniorv of our common friend, the late Mr.
George B e.
Before 1 received your letter, I sent enclosed
in a letter to , a sonnet by Miss Wil-
liams, a young poetical lady, which she wrote
on reading your flJountain-Daisy ; j)erhaps it
may not displease you. •
1 have been trying to add to the number of
your subscribers, but 1 find many of my ac-
quaintance are alrearly among them. 1 have
oiily to add, that with every sentiment of es-
teem, and most cordial good wishes,
I am,
Your obedient humble servant,
J. MOORE.
• The sonnet is as follows:—
Wiiirj! soon the garden's flaunting flowers de-
cay,
And ecattered on the earth neglected lie,
Die " Mouiitain-I)ai»y," chcnslicd by the ray
A iioct drew from heaven, shall never die.
Ah, like that lonely floucr the poet rose !
'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale;
He felt each storm that on the mountain blows.
Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale.
By genius in her native vigour nurst,
On nature with iinpassion'd look he gazed ;
Then through the cloud of adverse fortune buisl
Indignant, and in light unbnrrow'd blazed.
Scoiia! from rude affliction shield thy bard,
His heaven-taught numbers Fame herself will
guard.
No. XXVI.
TO DR. MOORE.
SIR. Edinburcih. \bth Feb. 1787.
Parbox iny seeming neglect iu d»lay:ng so
long to acknowledge the honour yoa have done
me, in your kind notice of me, January S3d.
Not many months ago, I knew no other em-
plovraent than following the plough, nor could
boast any thing higher than a distant acquaint-
ance with a country clergyman. Jlere great-
ness never embarrasses me : I have nothing to
ask from the great, and I do not fear their
judijment ; but genius, polished by learning,
and at its proper point of elevation in the eye of
the Vt'orld, this of late I frequently meet with,
and tremble at its approach. I scorn the affec-
tation of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit.
That I have some merit I do not deny ; but I
see, with frequent wringing* of heart, that the
novelty of mv character, and the honest national
prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to
a height altogether untenable to my abilities.
For the honour IMiss W. has done me, please.
Sir, return her in my name, my most grateful
thanks. I have more than once thought of p.iy-
ing her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the
idea in hopeless despondency. I had never be-
Sire heard of her ; but the other day I got her
poems, which, for several reasons, some belong-
ing to the head, and others the offspring of the
heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I have
little pretensions to tritic lore: there are, I
think, two characteristic features in her poetry
— the unfettered wild flight of native genius,
and the querulous, suinhre tenderness of " time-
settled sorrow."
I only know what pleases me, often without
being able to tell why.
No. XXVIl
TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. Air.
Edinhuryh, Feb. 24, 1787
MY HONOURED FIlIKNn,
I WILL soon be with you now in (juid Hack
prent ; in a week or ten days at farthest — 1 aic
obliged, againiit my own wish, to print sul>.
CORRESPONDENCE.
261
•cfiiiers names, so if any of my Ayr friends
h.ive s\iliscri|)tion I)ills, tiny must be sent in to
CVfei-h (lirei'tly 1 am iiL'ttin;; my phiz <liitie Jiy
m eniiiieiit erfjraver ; and if it c.in lie ready in
".'viw. I will a|)])ear in my book looking like other
fojls, to my title paf^e.*
1 have the honour to be,
liver your grateful, &c.
No. xxviir.
FROM DR. MOORE.
Clifford Street, 2Sth Ftb. 1787.
DEAR SIR,
Your letter of the 15th gave me a great deal
of pleasure. It is not suijirising that you im-
prove in correctness and taste, considering where
you have heen for some time past. Ar,d I dare
su't'ir there is no danger of your admittin'^ any
polish ulrch might weaken the vigour of your
native powers.
I am glad to perceive that you disdain the
nauseous aftectatiot: of decrying your own merit
as a poet — an affectation which is displayed with
niii-t ostcnt.icion by tho^e who have the greatest
share of self-conceit, and which only adds utide-
ceiving falsehood to disgusting vanity. For you
to deny the merit of your poems would be ar-
raigning the fixcil opinion of the public.
As the new edition of my Vieiv nf Society
is not yet ready, I have sent you the former
edition, which, I beg you will a.-cept as a small
n.aik of my esteem. It is sent by sea, to the
care o! Mr. Creech ; and, along with these four
voIi:nies lor yourself, I have also sent my HLdi-
':nl Sketches, in one volume, for my friend Mrs.
Duidop of Dunlop : this you will he so obliging
as to transmit, or if you chance to pass iooa by
l)iinlo]), to give to her.
I am happy to hear tint your subscription is
'O ainjile. ami shall rejoice at every piece of goixl
lortnne that befills you : for you are a very
great favouiite in nty fimily ; and this is a
higher compliment than [lerhaps you are aware
of. Il includes almost all the professions, and
of course is a |)ro(jf that your writings are adapt-
ed to various tastes anil situation-*. My young.
est son who is at Winchester school, writes to
me that he is translating some stanzas of your
H'illiitci:'en into Latin verse, for thj benefit of
his comrades. This union of ta»te partly pro-
ceeds, no doubt, from the cement of Scotti-h
partiality, with which they are all somewhat
tiiictured. Even i/our translator, who left Scot-
• This portrait is etigravod by Mr. Douro, an artist
who well nieriis the c ithet bes:o,vcil on hi;n b> Itie
pot'i, after a pictiiri' of \Ir. N;ismyth, wlilcli tic pinit-
eil con mil-, e, ami libt rally preseiileJ to Uurns. Tins
picture Ik ' f tlic cibniei Mzc
land too early in life for recollection, it not
without it.
I remain, with greatest Rincerity,
Your obedient servant,
J. MOORE.
No. XXIX.
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRX.
MY LORD, Etlinburg'u !787.
I WAKTEU to purchase a iirotile of your loi-H .
ship, which I was told was to be got in town •
but I am truly sorry to see that a blundering
painter has spoiled a " iuiman face divine.'
The enclosed stanzas I intended to have written
below a picture or profile of your lordship, could
I have been so happy as to procure one with any
thing (if a likeness.
."^s I will socm return to my shades, I wanted
to have something; like a material oliject fur my
gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to
say to a frietid. There is my noble patron, my
generous benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to
publish these verses. I conjure your lordship
by the honest throe of gratitude, by the gene-
rous wish (if benevolence, by all the powers and
feelings which comiose the magnanimous mind,
do not deny me this petition.* I owe to your
lordship ; and what has not in some other in
stances always been the cise with me, the weigh
of the obligation is a pleasing load. I tru>t,
have a heart as independent as your lordship'^
than which I can say nothing more : and
would not he beholden to f(vours that wou'i
i crucify my feelings. Your dignified charactet
in life, and manner of su|>p()rting that ch.iracter
are flattering lo my pride; and I would be jea-
lous of the purity of .iiy grateful attachment,
where I was under the pitmn ige of one of the
much fiy(nireil sons of f ntune.
.Mmo^t every poet has ce'ebrated his patrons,
particularly when they were names dear to fame,
and idustrious it) their country ; allow me, then,
my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic
merit, to tell the world tiow much I have the
honour to be
Your lordship's highly indebted.
And ever grateful humble servant
• It doce not appear that the Earl pranted this re
rjiiest, nor have the verses iJludud to been fuiiu4
among the MbS.
262
BURNS' WORKS.
No. XXX.
70 THE EARL OF BUCHAN.
MY LORD,
The honour your lordship has done me, by
your notice and advice in yours of the 1st in-
stant, 1 shall ever gratefully remember :
" Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with jcy 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 pil-
grimaf^e through my native country ; to sit and
muse on those once hard- contended £elds, where
Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne
through broken ranks to victory and fame ; and,
catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless
names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of
these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry,
moral- looking phantom strides across my iuiagi-
natioB, and pronounces these emphatic words,
'' 1, Wisdom, dwell with prudence."
This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must re-
Vjrn to my humble station, and woo my rustic
muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail,
Stiil, my lord, while the drops of life warm my
heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in
nliich I boa>t my birth, and gratitude to those
her di>tiiigiiishcd sons, who have honoured me
to much « itli their patronage ami approbation,
fhaJI, while ste.'.ling through my humble shades.
ever distend my bosom, and at times draw
forth the swelling tear.
Edinburgh. Gentlemen, I am sorry to be toW
that the remains of Rob.-rt Fergusson, the ss
justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents, for
apes to come, will do honour to our Caledo-
nian name, lie in your church-yard, among the
ignoble dead, unnoticed and unknown.
" Some memorial to direct the steps of the
lovers of Scottish song, when they wish to shed
a tear over the " narrow house," of the bard
who is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fer-
gusson's memory ; a tribute I wish to have the
honour of paying.
" I petition you, then. Gentlemen, to permit
ine to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes,
to remain an unalienable property to his death-
less fame. I have the honour to be. Gentlemen,
your very humble servant, (sic suhscribitur ),
" ROBERT BURNS."
Thereafter the said managers, in considera
tion of the laudable and disinterested motion
of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request,
did, and hereby do, unanimously grant power
and liberty to the said Robert Burns to erect
a headstone at the grave of the said Robert
Fergusson, and to la;ep up and preserve the
same to his memory in all time coming. Ex
tractcd forth of the records of the managers, by
William Sprott, Ckrk
No. XXXI.
Ert. Pr pertij in favour of Mr. Robert
BuRNC, to erect tinil keep up a Uendstoiie in
mtmory of Putt Fergusson, 17S7.
Session-lioiise, xrithin the Kirk of Ca-
voni/ntc, the ttceiity-secc-nii ituy of
J'll/rii'iri/, one t/inimund seven bun-
dled and eiyhty-stven years.
Sederunt of the managers of the Kirk and Kiik-
yard Funds of Canongate.
Which day, the treasurer to the said funds
proiluci'cl a letter from Mr. Robert liuriis, of
date the sixth current, which wa" read, and
appointed to be en^ro-scd in tlieir sedeiiiut-
boiik, 'iiid (if wliicli letter the tenor foilou^.
" To the Honourable Bailies of C'auongate,
No. XXXII.
TO
MY BEAR SIR,
You may think, and too justly, that I am a
selfish ungrateful fellow, having received so
many repeated instances of kindness from you,
and yet never putting pen to paper to say —
thank you ; l)ut if you knew what a devil of u
life my conscience has led me on that account,
your good heart would think yourself too much
avenged. By the bye, there is nothing in the
whole frame of man which seems to me so
unaccountable as that thing called conscience.
Had the troublesome yelping cur powers tfti-
cient to prevent a mischief, lie might be ol
use ; but at the beginning of the business, bis
feeble elToits are to the woi kings of passion -it
tlie iiif lilt frosts of an autumnal morning to the
iinc'ouiled fervour of tbe rising sun : and no
sooner are the timiultiious doini;s of the wiiked
deed over, than, amidst the bitter native con-
sequences of folly, in the very vortex of our
horrois, up starts conscience, and barrows w*
with the feelings of the d .
I h ive enclosed you, by way of expi ition,
some verse and pro~e, that, if they merit a place
in your truly entertaining nii^cell.iny. >ou are
"elcoine to. The [.rose extract is literally a»
.Mr. Sprutt scut 't me.
CORRESPONDENCE.
263
Tilt Inscnptum on the Stone is as follows :
HERE LIES ROBEUT FERGUSSON,
POKT.
Bon. S'piaxbsr rilfi, \~J\—Died, Uth October 1771.
No soulptiircil mmble here, nor pompous lay,
" No stoiitd urn nor aniinatod bust ;"
This simple stone diiects pale Scotia s way
To puur her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.
On the other side of the Stone is as foUoics :
" Ry special Rrant of the 5Iana;;ers to Robert
Burns, who erected this stone, ihis burial-place
is to remain £ir ever sacred to chc memory of
Robert Ftrjjusson."
No. XXXIII.
EXTRACT OF A LETTER
FROM
Sth March, 1 787.
I AM truly happy to know you- have found a
friend in ; his patronage of you does
h;iii great honour. He is truly a gofid man ;
by far the best I ever kne'v, or, ])erhaps, ever
sliall know, in this Vv-orld. Rut I must not
fpcak all I think of him, lest I should be thought
partial.
So you liave obtained liberty from the masjis-
trates to erect a stone over Fergu-soti's 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 a>k'd fur bread, and he received a stone.'
w(udd take a snujf, wcll-i.ircf. bed-i-oom lor me,
where I may have the pleasine of seeing you
over a mnrning lup of tea. Jiui, .lyall accouiits,
it will be a matter of some dilliculty to see you
at all, unless your c(Mn|iatiy is liespoki a week
bufnre-han.I. Tlure is a great riimiuir hire con-
cerning your <;reit intimacy with tlie Duchess ot
and other 1 idles of distinction. I am
really told that " cards to invite fly by thousands
each night ;" and, if you had one, I siipp,i>e
there would also be " bribes to your old secre-
tary." It seer.is you arc resolved to make hay
while the sun shines, and avoid, if ])o-sil)le, tiie
fite of poor Ferijusson,
Qiimcndit ])ecitiii(i priinum est, virtus post num-
7niis, is a good maxim to thrive by: you seemed
to despise it while in this country ; but proba-
bly some philosopher in Edinbuigh has taught
you better sense.
Pray, are you yet engraving as well as print-
ing ? — Are you yet seized
" With itch of picture in the front,
With bays of wickeii rhyme upon't !"
But I mu-^t give up this trifling, and attend
to matters that more concern myself : so, as the
Aberdeen wit says, adieu dryli/, ux sal drtnh
phan we meet.*
It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb that
this is written. But how many brothers of
Parnassus, as well us pour Butler and pour Fer-
gusson, have asked for bread, and been served
with the same sauce !
The magistrates gave, yon liberty, did they ?
o
g»nerous magistrates !
celebrated
over the three kin;;donis for his jiublic S|iirit,
gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tornb to a
pour poet's memory ! — most generous ! , . .
once u on a time gave that .-aine jioet the mighty
sum of eighteen pence fur a copy of his works.
But then it must be considered that the poet was
at this time absolutely starving, and besought
his aid with all the earne-tness of hunger; and.
over and above, he received a worth, at
lea>t one-thini of the Value, in exchange, but
which, I believe the poet afterwards very un-
gratelully expunged.
Next week I hope to have the pleasure of
eeeiiig yoa in Edinburgh ; and as my stay wili
^ for ei^lit or ten days, I wish you or
No. XXXIV.
TO MR. JA.MES CANDLISII,
Stjbent :n Piiys.'c, Cci.llge, Gia.^&oW
EdirA.urgh, March 21, 17S7.
MY EVER DKAR OLD ACQt.' A I NTA NCK,
I WAS eipially sniprised and pleased at your
letter; though I dare say you will think by my
delaying so long to write to you, that I ain sc
droivned in the intoxication of good fortune as
to be indilFeient to old and once dear coi.nec
tions. The truth is, I was determined to wiitt
a good letter, fnil of argument, aiiipbficitinn,
erudition, and, as Bayes says, u/l t/i it. I tli(iii;,'!it
of it, and thought of it, but for my soul I can-
not : and lest you should mistake the cause of
my silence, I just sit down to tell yon ro. Don't
give yourself credit though, that the strength ot
your lo^ic scares me : the triitii is, I never- in, -an
to meet you on that ground at all. You have
• The abo e extract is from a letter of one of the
ahle-it of our poet's eoiropoiuleiils, whieli e iiitaina
soiiieiiitercslinjjaneedoresof KerfiMss n, tliat .voliould
have been happy to have insene.l, if thev eoulil have
been avitlieiitieaied. '1 he writer ji. mi.-.t.ikcMi in .suiipos.
mg Kie magistrate^ of K.liiihur>;h liail an, sh.ire .n ihe
transaction res]iecti:ig tlie m inurienl ereer((l f.ir Ker-
(•Msson by our l)ar I ; ih'<, it i-i evidi-nt, |) -SNe-l l,-eiwpei»
Hiiiris .and the Ivirk beginn of the Canon-ate. Neiitiei
at Kdinbiirgh, nor anywhere e!-e, d;) ma]; s: rates usa
ally trouble themii-hcs to in(|iiire how rhe home of
poor poet is furniiheU. or how his grave i> adorneii
264
BURKS' WORKS.
shewn me one fl.infj, whicJi was to he deinon-
st lilted ; tli.it jitiiitij! pritlu of reasoning, with a
little affectation of singularity, may mislead tlie
best (if liearts. I, likewise, since you and I
Were first aequaiiited, in tlie pride of despising
old wiimen's stories, ventured in " the daring
path Spinosa trod ;" but experience of the
weakness, not tlie strcngtii, of human powers,
made nie gl id to grasp at revealed religion.
I must stop, but don't impute my brevity to
K wrong cause. I am still, in the Apostle Paul's
phrase, " The old man with his deeds" as when
we were sporting about the lady thorn. I shall
be four weeks here yet, at least ; and so I shall
txpect to hear from you — welcome sense, wcl-
oome nonsense.
1 am., with the waimest sincerity.
My dear old friend.
Yours.
No. XXXV.
TO THE SAME,
MT TEAR FR^F.KD,
I F once I were gone from this scene of hurry
and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure
of that correspondence being renewed which has
been so long broken. At present 1 liave time
for notliing. Dissipation and business engross
every moment. I am engaged in assisting an
honest Scots enthusiast.' a friend of mine, who
is an engraver, and has taken it into his head to
publish a collection of all our songs set to music,
of which the woids and music are done by Scots-
men. This, you will easily guess, is an under-
taking exactly to my taste. I have collected,
begged, borrowed, and stolen all the songs I
could meet with. Pompey's Ghost, words and
music, I beg from you immediately, to go into
his second number : the first is already pub-
lished. 1 shall shew you the first nundn'r when
] see you in Glasgow, which 'vill be in a fort-
night or less. Do be so kind as send me the
song in a day or two : you cannot imagine huw
Uiuch it will oblige me.
Direct to me at Jlr. W. Criiikshank's, St.
James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh.
No. XXXVI.
TO MRS. DUX LOP.
MADAM, EiUnhuTgh, March 22, 17S7.
I KF.AD your lettir with wateiy eyn. A lit-
tle, very little while ago, / Itad scarce a friend
iitt the atiilihorn pride of my own hosom ; now
( am distingiiislud, pationized, befriended by
you. Your friendly advices, I will not give
*Jtfhtuan, Uieiiublisherof theScotiMuiica\ .Museum.
them the cold name of criticisms, I receire wita
reverence. I have made some small alteration!
in wliat I before had printed 1 have the ad
vice of some very iudiclous friends among tin
literati here, but with them 1 sometimes find it
necessary tn claim the privilege of thinking for
myself. The n(d)le Earl of Gl-^ncairn, to whom
I owe more than tn any man. does me the hon-
our of giving me his strictures : his hints v^ itb
respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow im-
plicitly.
Y'ou kindly intere'^t yourself in my future
views and prospects ; there i can give you uo
light ; it is all
" D.iik as was chaos, ere the infant sun
Was roli'd together, or had tried his beami
Athwart the gloom profound."
The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far
my highest priile ; to continue to tleserve it is
my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and
Scottish story are the themes 1 coiil.l wish to
sing. 1 have no dealer aim than to have it in
my power, unpl.igued with the routine of luisi-
iiess, for which heaven knows I am unfit enough,
to make leisurely pilgt images through Cali'doma ;
to sit on the fields of her b.ittles ; to wander on
the romantic banks of her rivers ; and to muse
by the st:itely towers or venerable ruins, once
the honoured abodes of her heroes.
But these are all Utopian tlioughts : I have
dallied long enough with lite : 'tis time to be in
earnest. 1 have a fond, an aged mother to care
for ; and some other bosom ties perhajis equa'ly
tender. Where the individual only suffers by
the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, in-
dolence, or fiilly, he may bi* excus.ible : nay,
srhining abilitien, and some of the nobler virtues,
may half-sanctify a heedless character : but
where God ami nature have intrusted the wel-
fare of others to his care ; where the trust is sz-
cred, and the ties are dear, that man must l>e
far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to i Elec-
tion, whom the.se connections will not rouse to
exertion.
I guess that 1 shall dear between two and
three hundred jiouiids by my authorship ; with
that sum I intend, so fir as I may lie s.iid to
have any intention, to return to my old acipi lin-
tance, the plough, and, if I can meet with a
lea.se by which I can live, to comnienee farmer.
1 do not intend to give up poetry : being hied
to labour secures me independence ; and th«
muses aie my chief, sometimes have been my
only enjoymeiit. If my practiie second my re-
solution, I shall have principally at he.ii t the .se-
rious bu>iiiess of life : but « hlle lollowing my
|)lough, or building up iiiy shocks, 1 sha.l east a
leisure glance to ihit de.ir, that only feituie ol
my character, which gave me the notice of my
country and the patronage of a Wallace.
Thus, lionourtd mad. an, I have given yon th«
baril, his situation, and his views, native as thct
are in his own bosom.
CORRESPONDENCE.
265
No. XXXVIL
TO THE SAAIE.
MAD KM, Edi'thurph, \^^lh AprH. 17S7.
There is an alfoctation of gratitmle which I
dislike. Tlie periods of Johnson and the pauses
of Sti'rne may hide a selfish heart. I'or niv
part, Madam, I trust I have too much pilde for
S;'rvihty, and too little ])rudence for sel'isliMcss.
I have th.is moment bri'ke o])en your letter,
but
" Ruile am I in speech,
And therefore little can I grace my cause
]n s|)eaking for myself — "
so I sliall not trouhle you with any fine speeches
ind huiifed figcres. I shall just lay my hand
on mv lieart, ami s:iy, 1 hope I shall ever liave
the tr'iest, the warmest, sense of your goddness.
I come ahroa<l in print for certain on Wed-
nesday. Your orders I shall punctuallv attend
to ; only, by the way, 1 must tell you that I
was paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss W 's
ropies, through the medium of Commissioner
Cochrane in this |i!ace ; but that we can settle
wlien I have the honour of waiting on you.
Dr. Smith* was just gone to London the
aiorniug b'ifore I received your letter to him.
Mo. XXXVIII.
TO DR. MOORE.
E'/inhnr/f/i, -23(1 April, 17S7.
I RECEIVED the books, and sent tlie one you
ir.entionfd to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill-skilled in
bc-ating the coverts of imagination for metaphors
of gratitude. I thank you, Sir, for the honour
you have done me ; and to my latest hour will
warmly remember it. To be highly pleased
with your book, is what I have in common
with the world ; but tii regard these volumes as
a 'nark of the author's friendly esteem, is a still
more supreme gratification.
I leave l!i'.*fil)urgh in the course of ten dayg
or a fortnight ; and afier a few pilgrimages over
some of the clas-ic ground of Caledonia, Cow-
den Kmiivts, JJiiit/is of Yurroic, Twefd, &'C.
I shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli-
bood never more to quit them I have formed
many intimacies and friendships here, but I am
afraid they ar-e all of too tender a construction
to beat c.irri.ige a hundred aiid fifty miles. To
tile rich, tiie great, the fishioiiable, the polite, I
' have no eijuivilent to olfer ; and 1 am afraid '
my meteor appearanee will by no means entitle'
me to a settled coiiespondenee with any of you,
Tvho are the permanent lights of genius and li-
terature.
My mo'.t respectful compliments to Miss W
If once this tangent flight of mine wei-e over
and I were returned to my wimleil leisurely
motion in my old circle. I may probably endea.
vour to return her poetic coiupliinent in kind
No. XXXIX.
EXTRACT OF A LETTER
TO MRS DUNLOP.
EJinhuriih, nOth April, 17S7.
Your critieisins. Madam, I under-
stand very well, and could have wished to hive
pleased you better. You are right in your guesg
that I am nut very amenable to counsel. Poets,
much my superiors, have so 11 ittered toose who
possessed the adventitious (lualities of wealth and
power, that i am determined to Sattir no cre-
ated being either in prose or verse.
I set as little by , lords, cleigy, cri-
tics, &c. as all these respective gentry do by
my hardship. I know what I may expect from
the world by and by — illiberal abuse, and i)er-
hai)s contem|.>tuous neglect.
I am happy, Madiiin, that some of my own
favourite pieces are distinguished by your par-
ticular approbation. For my Dream, wliieh
has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea-
sure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to h ive the
honour of appearing at Duuiop iu its defence, in
person.
No. XL.
TO THE REVEREND DR. HUGH BLAIB.
Lawn-Market, Edinhurpt, 3il May, 1767.
REVEKENn AND MUCH RESfECTED SIR,
I LEAVE Edinburgh fo-n;orrow nwuiiing, but
could not go without troubiinu' you with half a
line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness,
prti'onage, and fiiendship you have sliown me.
I often telt the enib.ii r.is-ment of mv singular si
tuatioa ; drawn forth from the veriest shade*
of life to the glare ot rernaik ; and honourefl by
the notice of those illustrious names of my coun-
try, whose works, while they are appl ludnl tc
the end of time, will ever insti net and mend the
heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my
appearance iu the wmld might attract nutice,
and honour me with the aeijuaintance of the
permanent lights of genius and literature, those
who are truly benefactors of the immortal na-
tcre of man ; I knew very well, that my utuio
merit was far un'^rjual to the task of pieservi
that character when once the njveltv wus ov#
I have made up uiy iiiiud, that abuse, or almc
266
BURKS' WORKS.
rren neglect, will cot surprise nie in my
quirtfis.
I li.ive sent you a pioof imiircssion of Beu-
go's work fur ir.e, Jone on Indian piper, as a
trifling liut sincere te>tiniony with ubal beart-
warm gratitude I aai, &c.
No. XLI.
FROM DR. BLAIR.
Arffi/Ie- Square, Edinburgh, Mi May, 1787.
DEAR SIR,
I WAS favoured tliis forenoon with your very
oh'.ijfins: letter, together with an impression of
your portrait, for which I return you iny hest
thani\S. Tile success you liave met with I do
nut thuik was heyond your merits ; and if I
have had any small hand in cimtriliuting to it,
it gives me gieat pleasure. I know no way in
which literary persons, who are advanced in
years, can do more service to the woild, than
in forwarding the efforts of rising genius, or
bringing forth unknown merit from obscurity.
I was the first person who brought out to the
notice of tlie world, the poems of Ossian : first
by the Fraymttits of Ancitnt Poetri/, which 1
published, and afterwards, by my setting on
foot the undertaking for collecting and publish-
ing the Worhs if Ossian ; and 1 have aiw.iys
considered this as a meritorious action of my
life.
Your situation, as you say, was Indeed very
singular ; and, in being iirought out all at once
from the shades of deepest privacy, to so great
a share of public notice and observation, ynu
had to stand a severe trial. I am hapjiy that
yciu have stooil it so well ; and as fir as I have
known or heard, tbouj;h in the midst of many
temjitations, without reproach to your charac-
ter and behaviour.
You are now, t presume, to retire to a more
private walk of lil. ; and I trust, will conduct
yourself there with industry, prudence, and ho-
nour. You have laid the fouinlation for just
public esteem In the midst of those emidoy-
nients, which your situation will lender projier,
you will not, I Impe, neglect to promote that
wteeni, by cultivating your genius, and attend-
ing to such productions of it as may luise your
ehaiacter still higher. At the tame time, be
aot in too pi eat a ha<te to come forward, 'lake
lime and leisuie to impmve uiid mature your
talents ; for on any second [iroduction you give
Jit: world, your fate, as a poet, will veiy much
dcpnid. Tlicre is, no doul»t, a gloss of novel ry
which time wears off. As you very pro])erly
bint yourself, you are not to be Burprised if, in
}our r^ral retieat, you do not find yourself sur-
•ounded wit' that glare of notice and a|)|iliuso
which here sbmie upon you. No man can bu
j^.mk' pott vvilbiiut be-log somewhat of a phi-
losopher. He ma=t hy his account, tTjit ^nj
one, who exposes himself to public observafion,
will occasionally meet with the attacks of illi-
beral censure, which it is always best to over-
look and despise. He will be inclined some-
times to court retreat, and to disapjiear from
public view. He will not affect to shine al-
ways, that he may at proper seasons come forth
with more advantage and energy. He will not
think himself neglected if he be not always
praised. I have taken the liberty, you see, o(
an old man, to give advice and make reflection*
which your own good sense will, I dare say,
render unnecessary.
As you mention vour being iust about to
leave town, you are going, I should suppose, to
Dumfriesshire, to look at some of Mr. Jliller's
farms. I heartily wish the offers to be mad,'
you there may answer ; as I am persuaded you
will not easily find a more generous ami bettei^
hearted proprietor to live under than I\Ir. r»lll.
ier. When you return, if you come this way,
I will be happy to see you, and to know con-
cerning your future plans of life. You will
find me, by the 2-2d of this month, not in mv
bouse ia Argvle Scpiare, but at a country-house
at Restalrig, about a mile east from Edinburgh,
near the Musselburgh road. Wishing you all
success and prosperity, I am, with real regdi J
and esteem,
Dear Sir,
Youi3 sincerely,
HUGH BLAiR.
No. XLII.
TO WILLIAJI CREECH, Esq.
(^of Edinburyh,') London.
Selhlrh, ISth May, 1737.
MY HONOURED TRIE NO,
The enclosed* I have just wrote, nearly ex
tempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a
miserable wet day's riding. — I have been over
most of East Lothian, Berwick, R.:xhurgli, and
Selkirkshire's ; and next week I begin a tour
through the north of England. Yesterday I
dined with Lady Harint, sister to my noble pa-
tron. Quern Dcus cvnservel / I woiilil write till
I would tire you as much with dull |)riise as I
dare say bv this time you are with wretched
verse, but I am jaded to death ; so, with a grite-
ful farewell,
I have the honour to he,
Good Sir, yours sincere'v*
• Elegy ou W. Creech ; ^ee tJie Poetry.
CORRESPONDENCE.
267
No. XLIII.
FROM DR. MOORE
GUjford Street, May 23, 1787.
CTAR ilR,
I liAi) the pleasure of your K-tter by IMi'.
Crtedi, anil soon alter he sent me the new eili-
rion of your poems. You seem to think it \n-
juuilicnt on you to send to each subscriber a
number of eo])ies proportionate to his subseiip-
tion money ; hut you may (lei)enil upon it, few
lubsiTihers expect more than one copy, what-
ever they subscribed. I must inform you, how-
ever, that I took twelve copies for tho>e subscri-
bers for whose money you were so arxurate as
ti) send me a recei|)t ; and Lord Ei^linton told
me he had sent for six copies for himself, as he
wished to p;ive fiv« of them in presents.
.Sume of the poems you have added in this
last edition are beautiful, particularly the Win-
ter Ni/jlif, the Address to Edinburgh, (ireeu
grow the Rushes, and the two songs immediate-
ly fiillowing ; the latter of which was exijuisite.
Vt\ the way, I imagine you have a peculiar ta-
lent for such compositions, which you ought to
induli^c. * No kind of poetry demands uuu'e
delicieyor higher polishing. Horace is more
admired on account of his Odes than all his
other writings. But nothing now added is
equal to your Vision and Cutter's Satnrdny
Aiiiht. In these are united fine imagery, na-
tural and pathetic description, with sublimity of
language and thought. It is evident that you
already possess a great variety of expression and
cnmuiand of the English language ; you ought,
therefore, to deal more sparingly for the future
in the provincial dialect : — why should yuu, by
using thi:t, limit the number of your admiiers lo
those who understaiui the Scottish, when yo i
can extend it to all peisons of taste who under-
stand the English language? In my opinion,
you should plan some larger work than any you
have as yet attempted. I mean, leflect upon
some proper suliject, and arrange the plan iu
your miiid, witluuic begirming to execute any
p.ut of it till jou have studied most ot the best
, English poets, and read a little more of history.
The Greek and Rinnan stories you can read in
some abridgment, and soim become master of
the must brilliant ficts, which must h gbly de-
light a poetical mind. You shmttd also, aiul
very soon may, become master of the heathen
niyiliology, to which there are everlisting allu-
siiins iu all the poets, and which in itsell is
ch.irmingly fanciful. What will require to l)e
studied with more attention, is modern history ,
that is, the lii>tory of France and Great Rntain,
from the begiuningof Henry the Seventh's reign
I knmv very well you have a mind capable of
ittuining knowledge by a shorter pic)ce>s than
w cummualy used, aiul I am certain you are ca-
• His siitisequcnt comjuKitions will bear testimony
■a the ai-i'uraey of Dr. .NUiort's judyiutul.
pahle of making a better use of it, when attain
ed, than is generally done.
I beg you will not give yourself the trouble
of writing to me when it is itieonrentnit, and
make no apoloiiv, when you do write, for ha-
ving postponed it ; be assured of this, however
that I shall always be happy to hear fiom you
I think my fiieuil Mr. to'd me tl.at yoi;
had some poems in manuscript by you of a siti-
rical and humorous nature (in which, by thfl
way, I think you very strong), which your pru-
dent fiieuds prevailed on you to omit, particu-
larly one called S(>inihi>di/'s Confession , if you
will entrust me with a sight of any of tliese, I
will |)awn my word to give no cojjies, and vvill
be obliged to you for a perusal of them.
I understand you intend to take a farm, and
make the useful and respectable business of hus-
bandry your chief occupation ; this, I hope, will
not prevent your making occasional addresses to
the nine ladies who have shown you such fa-
vour, one of whom visited you in the r.idd chip
bii/t/i/i. Virgil, bet'iue you, proved to the world
that there is nothing in the business of husband-
ry inimical to poetry ; and I sincerely hope thai
you may alford an exam])le of a good poet being
a succes-fiil farmer. 1 fear it will nut be in my
power to visit Scotland this season ; when I ilo,
I'll endeavour to find you out, for I heartily
wish to see and converse with you. If ever
vour occasions call you to this place, I make no
doubt of your paying me a visit, and you may
depeiul on a very coidial welcome from this fa-
mily. I am, dear Sir,
Your friend and obedient servant.
J. MOORE.
No. XL IV.
TO MR. \V. MCOLL,
Master of the High-School, Edinburgh.
Ciirl'sle, June 1, 1TS7.
KIND, IIONFST-IIEARTED WILLIK.
I'm sitten down here, after seven and forty
miles riilin, e'en as furjesket and foriiiaw'd as a
forlougliten cock, to gie you some not mi o' my
land lowper-llke stravaguin sin the ^onowfu'
hour that I slieuk hands and puted wi' ada
lieeliie.
My auld, ga'd gleyile o' a meere his hucliy-
all'd up bill and down brae, in Scutland and
England, as teugh and birnie as a veia devil wi
me.' It's true, she's as pooi s a sang-maker
• This mare was the Poc's favnuriic Ji nnv On>
nis, iifwhiim lionnuraUle ami most hiiimimui lTlel^
liuii Is ma>!e in a lellet, iiiserleil ill IU. Ciiriie's einUoiL,
vol 1. i>. li.5.
Tliisiilil ami faithful servant ol the Poct''i was named
by hiin, .ifui lie oil WMUiaii, *nu m her «ai <Ka>nsi
reli^ii us ii>iiii\aQoii, threw a stool ai tin' Ue.m <><
K.',i:.l) ir^li's lie.il, wlieii lie aiteiiintnj iii 1 '.jT, to in
iroilu'f 'he bcoitish Litu ^y. •' On Sioulav, tne i.'.j4
268
BURNS' WORKS.
and as hanl's a kirk, and tippei-talpers when
she tdks the gate, first .ike a lady's gentlen'oinan
in a niiniiw.ie, or a hen on het girdle, but
she's a yauld, pnti'.herie Girran for a' that, and
has a sroniack like Willie Stalker's ineere that
wad hae dis'^eested tunihlcr-wheels, for she'll
vi'hip me afF her five stiniparts o' the best aits
at a d(!wn-sittiii and ne'er fa<h her thumb.
When anre her ringbanes and spavies, her crucks
and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she beets to,
beets til. and ay the hindmost hour the tightest.
I couhl wager her price to a thretty pennies
that, for twa or three wooks ridin at fifty mile
adi), the deil-stii-ket a five gallopers acqueesh
Clyde and Whithorn could cast s.ait on her tail.
I hae damler'il owre a' the kintra frae D;ini-
bir to Se craig, and hae forgather'd wi' mony a
guid fi.low, aiid monie a wcelfar'd hizzie. I
met wi' twa dink quines in particlar, ane o'
them a son-ie, fine, fudgel lass, l)aith braw and
bonie ; the tither was a clean- shankit, straught,
tight, weelfar'd winch, as blithe's a lintwhlte
on a fliiwerie thnrn, and as sweet and inode«t's
« new blawn plunirose in a hazle sliaw. Thev
Were liaitli bn (I to niaiiiers by the beiik, and
oiiie ane o' them had as muckle smeddum and
runiblgumtiun as the half o' some presbvtries
that yiiu and I baith ken. They play'ri me sik
a deevil o* a shavie that I daur say if my hari-
gals were turn'd out, ye wad see twa nicks i' the
heart o' nie like the mark o' a kail-whittle in a
castock.
I was ginn to write you a lang pvstle, hut,
Gude forgie nie, I gat mysel sae notouriously
bitchify'd the day after kail-time that I can
hardly stoiter but and ben.
IMy best respecks to the guidwife and a' our
comnuin fricns, espiciall Mr. and Mrs Cruik-
shank anil *l'4' bone-t guiilnian o' Jock's Lodge.
I'll be III iJimfries the morn gif the beast be
to the fore, aii.i the branks biile bale.
Gude be wi' you, Willie !
Amen !—
j throe years, at thirty pounds sterling a-ye»r)
and am happy some unexpected accidents inter-
vened that prevented your sailing wlrh tiie vei
sel, as I have great reason to think Mr. Dou-
I glas's employ would by no means liave answer-
ed your expectations. I received a copv of your
publications, for which I return von mv thanks,
and it is my own opinion, as well as that o.' r-ach
of my fr'ends as have seeti them, they an- most
excellent :n their kind ; although some could
have wished they had been in the English style,
as they allege the Scottish ilialeet is now be-
' coming obsolete, and therebv the eler;ance and
beauties of your poems are in a great measure
■ lost to far the greater part of the comniuuitv.
Nevertheless there is no <loubt you harl sufficient
reasons lor your conduct — peihaps the wishes
of some of the Scottish nobility and gentry, your
patrons, who will always relish their own (Id
ccuintry style; ana y(mr own inclinations for
the same. It is evident from several pissages
in your works, you are as capable of writing in
the Engli-h as in the Scottish dialect, and I am
in great hopes your genius for poetry, ficim the
specimen you have alieady given, will turn out
both for profit and honour to yourself and
country.. I can by no means advise you now
^ to think of coming to the West Iiulies, as, 1
I assure you, there is no encouragement fir a
' man of leaining and genius here ; ami am very
; confident you can do far better m Great Bri-
tain, than in Jamaica. I am glad to hear my
; friends are well, and shall always be happy to
hear from you at all lonvenient opportunities,
wishing you success in all your undertakings.
I will esteem it a particular favour if v<ui will
send me a copy of the other edition you are now
printing.
I am, with respect.
Dear Sir, yours, &c.
JOHN HUTCHINSON
No, XLV.
FROM MR JOHN HUTCHINSON.
Jamitica, St. Anus, \ilh June, 17S7.
KIR,
I iiECFivEn yours, dateil Ediid)urgh, 2d Ja-
nuary, I7S7, wherein yiui ac(juaiut me you were
engaged with Mr. Douglan of I'ort Antonio, for
of July, the l)c-n of Kilinbur(.»h prepared to ofFiciate
in St t;ile-'<. The eo:i(;ie^'ali(iM e'liiliniicil r|uic't 'ill
till- -erviee liejan, wliiii an old unman, iin|icllecl liy
suil.leii in.li nalion. sL:irIeil up. .mil exeUiiiiioK alood,
Vlll.tin! ■I<i-t ihoii siv ilic M is< at iiiv lui( '' llue.v
tile stool on which -lie h.id iK'ir. sittiiii;. at Ihe Dean's
lii-ail. A wild uproar eoiiiiiiciii ed that iiist.int. The
•i-rv.'io wa- mierrii|iied. Tlic woiiiru inv.iclod tlie
d<vl with exccr.i \,^u^, ancl onlcrics, a d the DtMii ili...
I'll! .iCeil hinisflf fiiin Iik siirpil e to isLMpc Itoin their
hand. "— tui/^/ji Uttl iif Scut and, vol. in. p. 122.
No. XLVr,
TO MR. W. NICOLL.
Mauchline, June 18, 1737.
My DEAR FRIEND,
I AM now ai rived safe in mv native country
after a very agreeable jaunt, and have the plea-
sure to find all my friends well. I Ureakfasted
with your grey-headed, reverend friend, Mr.
Smitli; and was highly pleased both with the
coriii d welcome he gave me, and his most ex-
cellent appeaiance and sterling good sense.
I have been with .Mr. Miller at Dalswinton,
and am to meet him again in August. Fioin
my view of the I.inds and bis reception of my
bardship, my hopes in that bu-iness are rather
nurided ; but .still thev are but si •nder.
I am (jiiite charmed with Diimliies folkf— •
Air. HurimiJe, the clergyman, in particula.*, M
CORRESPONDENCE.
2G9
s Tnsn whom I jVi ill ever pjrjtefuUy rememlier ;
anil his wife, Guild foipjie me, I h.iil almost
broke llie tent'.i coinm.indiiient on her account.
Slriiplicity, tie!r:ince, good sense, sweetness of
disposition, good luinioiir, kind hos[)it,ility, are
tile constituents of her m:iniier and heart ; in
short — hut if I say one word more ahout her, I
sl'ill be directly in love with her.
I never, my frieiul, thought mankind very
capihie of any thini; generous ; but the stiteli-
ness of the Patiicians in Edinburgh, and the
servility of my plebeian brethren, (who, per-
haps, formerly eyed me askance), since I re-
turned home, have nearly put me out of conceit
altogether with my species. I have Iwught a
pocket Milton which I carry perpetually about
with me, in order to study the sentiments — the
dauntless magnanimity ; the intrepid, unyield-
ing independence, the desperate daring, anil
noble defiance of hardship, in that great per-
sonage, S.vTA.v. 'Tis true, I have just now a
little cash ; t)ut I am afraid the star that hith-
erto has shed its m iligiiant, purpose-blasting
rays full in my zenith ; that noxious planet so
baneful in its influences to the rhyming tribe, I
much dread it is not yet beneath my horizon. —
Mijifortune dodges the path of human life ; the
poetic mind finds it-elf miserably deranged in,
and iiiitit for the walks of business ; add to all,
that, thoughtless follies an<l hire-brained whims,
like so many ir/nes fatiii, eternallv diverging
from the right line of sober discretion, sparkle
with st2p-bewitching blaze in the idly-gazing
eyes of the poor heedless Bard, till, pop, " he I
falls like Lucifer, never to hope again." God
grant tkis may be an unreal picture with re-
spect to me ! but should it not, I have very j
little dependence on mankind. I will clo-e my
litter with this tribute my heart bids me piiy
you — the many tics of acquaintance and friend-
eliip which I have, or think I have in life, I
have felt along the lines, and, d — n them ! they
are almost all of thuni of such "tail coutextuie,
that I am sure they would not stand the breath
of the least adverse breeze of fortune ; but fiom
yiu, my ever dear Sir, I look with conlidence
for the A])ostolic love that shall wait on nie
" through good report and bad report" — the
love which Solomon emphatically says " Is
strong as death." My comj)liments to Mrs. '
IS-Wl, and all the circle of our comiuon friends.
P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter
end of July.
No. XLVII.
TO GAVIX HAMILTON, Esq.
and Stirling, and am {eligbted with Ihelr ap-
pearance : richly waving crops of wheat, bai ley,
&c. but no harvest r.t all yet, except in one or
two places, an old Wife's Ridge Yestmday
morning I rode from this tcovr, iip the mean-
dring Devon's banks to pay my respects to some
Ayrshire folks at Ilarvieston. After breakfast,
we made a party to go and see the famous Ciu-
dron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the Devon,
about five miles above Harvieston ; and after
sjiending one of the most pleasant days I ever
had in my life, I returned to Stirling in the
evening. They are a family, Sir, thou;h I had
not liad any prior tie ; though they had not beea
the brother and si-ters of a certain geueroui
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 aa
tall as you are, but slender ratlier th.in other-
wise ; and I have the sitisfiction to inform you
that he is getting the better of those consump-
tive symptoms which I sujipose you know were
threatening hira. llis nuke, and particularly
his manner, resemble you, but he will still have
a finer free. (I put in the word still, to please
Mis. Hamilton.) Good sense, modesty, and at
the same time a just idea of that respect that
iirin owes to man, and has a right in his turn
to exact, are striking features in his character ;
and, what with me is the Alpha and the Ome-
ga, he has a heai t might adorn the breast of a
poet ! Grace has a good figure and the look of
health and cheeifulne-s, but nothing else re-
nijikable in her jierson. I scarcely ever s.iw >o
striking a likeness as is between her aiid }(iur
l.ttle Beenie ; the mouth and chin particularly.
She is reserved at first ; hut as we grew hiU"'
acquaiiiti-d, I was del ghted with the native
frankness of her manner, and the sterling sense
of her observation. Of Charlotte, I cannot
speak in common terms of adniiratioa : she is
not only beautiful, but lovely. Her form is ele-
gant ; her features not regular, ijut tliey hive
the smile of sweetness and the settled compla-
cency of good nature in the highest degice ; and
her complexion, now that she has ha])|)i!y re--
covered her wonted heal'h, is equal to Miss
Burnet's. After the exercise of our riding tc
the Falls, Charlotte waa exactly Dr. Donue'a
mistress :
" Her pure and eloquent blood
Spoke in her cheeks, and so dislinctly
wrought.
That one would almost say her body thought.*
Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressive ol
gO<id sense, tenderness, and a noble mind.
I do not give you all this account, my good
! Sir, to flatter you. I mean it to reproach you.
Such relations the fir>t peer in the realm mit'ht
MY DEAR SIR, Stirling, 2Stk Aug. 1787. own with pride; then why ilu you not keej' up
Here am 7 on my way to Inverness. I have more correspondence witt these so amiable
raniblea over the rich, fertile car»cs of Falkirk young folks? 1 had a tlpusand qnestioiis te
5f7C
BURNS' WORKS
answer about you a'l : I Imd to desciibe tliL'
little ones \v:t\\ the iv.iniiteiicss of an.iromv.
Thty were liiijlily rleliuhteil when I tolil thein
that J.)lm* \v,is so ^ood a bov, and so fine a
scholar, and that Willie f was goin-j on stili
very pretty ; but I have it in commission to
tell her from them that beauty is a poor silly
bauMe without she be good. Miss Chalmers I
had left in Eiiiii!)\ii-Lrh, but I had the pleasure
of ineetinnf \vith Mts. Chalmers, only Ladv
M'Kenzie beinsr rather a little alarmini^ly ill of
a sore-throat, somewhat marr'd our enjoyment.
I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks.
]My most respectful compliments to Mrs. Ha-
milton, Miss Kennedy, and Dr. M'Kenzie. I
shall probably write him fiom some stage or
other
I am ever, Sir,
Yours most gratefully.
No. XLVIir.
TO MR, WALKER, BLAIR OF
ATIIOI E
Inverness, 5th Sept. 1787.
MT DEAR Sla,
I HAVE just time to write the foregoing, |
and to tell you that it was (at least most part
of it), the effusion of an half hour I spent at
Rruar. I do not mean it was extempore, for I
have endeavoured to brush it up as well as Mr.
N 's that, and the jogginjj of the chaise,
woulil allow. It eases my heart a good deal,
as rhyme is llie coin with which a ])oet pays his
debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe to
the noble fam ly 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 pray-
ed for them very sincerely to-diy at the Fall of
Fyars. I shall never forget the fine family-
piece I saw at Blair ; the amiable, tlie truly
noble Ducliess, with her smiling little sera])ii
in her lap, at the head of the table ; the lovely
" olive |>lants," as the Hebrew bard finely says',
round the happy mother ; the beautiful Mrs
G , the lovely, sweet Jliss C. &c. I wish
I had the powers of Guido to do them justice !
My Liiid Duke's kind hos|iitality, markedly
kind, indeed Mr G. of F "s charms of
Co::versation — Sir W. M 's friendship— in
short, the recollection of all that jiolite, agree-
• This is tlie " wef cttilie Jchnnif," mentioned in
Bump's ilcilicaiion to Oaviti llanHlton, I•^(|. I'o this
gftitli'mnn, ami every branch of (he family, tlioFMiior
IS inilebteil for mmli intornintion resjieptinq the poet,
anil \ ery uratefully aeiiuowleilijes the kimlncss shewn
to him-elf.
t N..W married to the Rev. John Toci, Minister of
Mi'uelil Ml-.
t " 'I'ho humble Petition of Bruar-Water to the
Duke of -Mhole-
able company, raises an hon.'-c t:lo-.v in ihv tw
som.
Xo. XLIX.
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS.
Ediuhurgh, llih Sept. \']%1
MY DEAR BROTHER,
I AHKivED here safe yesterday evening, aftet
a tour of twenty-two day-;, and tiavelling near
six j-andred miles, windings included. My
farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond In-
verness. I went through the heart of the
Highlands, by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous
seat of Lord Breadalbaue, down the Tay,
among cascades and druidical circles of stones
to Dunkekl, a seat of the Duke of Athole ;
thence cross Tay, and up one of his tribvtary
streams to Blair of Athole, another of the
Duke's seats, where I had the honour of spend-
ing nearly two days with his Grace and family;
thence many miles through a wild country, a-
mong cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy
savage glens, till I crossed Speyand went down
the stream through Strathspey, so famous in
Scottish music, Badenoch, &c. till I reached
Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with
Sir James Grant and family ; and then cros-ed
the country for Fort George, but called by the
way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbe'ath ;
there I saw the identical bed in which, tradi-
tion says. King Duncan was murdered: lastly,
from Fort George to Inverness.
I returned by the coast, through Nairn, For-
res, and so on. to Aberdeen ; thence to Stone-
hive, whiMe James Burnes, 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
Caird, though born the same year with our fa-
ther, walks as vigorously as I can ; they have
had several letters from his son in New York.
William Brand is likewise a stout old fellow :
i)ut further particulars I delay till I see you,
which will be in two or three weeks. The
rest of my stages ara not worth rehearsing :
warm as I was from Ossian's country, where I
had seen his very grave, what cared I for fish-
ing towns or fertile carses .? I slept at the fa-
mous Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined
at Gordon Ca^tle next day with the Duke,
Duchess, and family. I am thinking to cause
my old mare to meet me, by means of John
l{on lid, at Glasgow ; b it you shall hear faithei
fiom me befoie I leave Edinburgh. My duty
and many comjiiinients from the north, to my
mother, and my brotherly compliments to tlie
rest. I lave been trying for a birtli for Wil-
liam, be; am not likely to be successfuL— -
FareweJ..
CORRESPONDENCE.
271
No. L.
FRO.M MR. R-
na, Ochtertyre, 22(/ October, 1787.
*TwAS only yesterday I i?ot Culonel Eiliuon-
jtdun's answer, that neitlier the words of
DuwH the burn JDavie, nor Dainty Davie (I
f(ir;;(it wlilcli vnn nu'iitioned), were written l)y
Colonel G. Crawford. Next time I meet liim,
I will inquire about his cousin's poetical talents.
Enclosed are tlie inscriptions you requested,
and a letter to !\Ir. Young, wliose company and
musical talents will, I a:n persuaded, be a feast
to you.* Nobody can give you better hints,
as to your present i)lan, than he. Receive
aJso Omeron Cameron, which seemed to make
such a deep impression on your imagination,
that I am not without hopes it will beget some-
" These Inscriptions, so much admiretl by Bums,
We below : —
WRITTEN IX 176S.
rC'R THE SALICTUM AT OCHTERTYRE.
SiLUDRiTATis voluptatisquc causa.
Hoc S.ilictum,
Palutiem olim infidam,
Mihi meisnue <le>icc() at exorno.
Hie, procul ueijotiis strepituque
Innoeuis dfiiciis
S;lviilas inter nasceiites reptantii,
.Xpiumque labnrcs suspicicncli,
Knior,
Hie, si fixit Dcus opt. max.
I'rope hunc fontera pelluciduin.
Cum qu.vlam jiiveiitutis amico superstite,
Sa;|ie conquiescam, senex,
.w<ittntu3 moiiieis, meoque Isetus!
Sin alitcr —
/Evique paululum supersit,
Vdssilvula-, et amici,
Caeteraque amcena,
Valete, diuque Ictaraini I
ENGLISHED.
To improve both air and soil,
I dram and decorate tliis plantation of willows,
W liich was lately an unprofitable marass.
Here, far from noise and strife,
1 love to wander.
Hovi fondly marking the i)rogrcss of my trees,
So.v studyini; tlie bee, its arts and manners.
Hero, if it |ilcases Alnui;lity God,
May I often rest in the evening of li.'e.
Near that transparent fountain,
With some surviv iiii; friend of my youSilt
Contented with a competciicy,
.And hapjiy with my lot-
If vain the>e humble wishes,
And life draws near a close,
Ve trees and friends.
And wh (tever else is dear,
FarCAcIi, and long may ye flourish.
ABOVE THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE:.
WRITTEN IN 177-5.
Miai mei^qne utinam continga< ,
Prope Taichi mAri^inem,
Avito in Agelio,
Rene vivere faustequa mori I
thin^ to delight the public in c,-.ie time : anJ,
no doubt, the circun.stances of this little tale
might be varied or extended, so as to make
part of a pastoral comedy. Age or wounds
iiiight have kept Omeron at home, whilst his
conntrymcn were in the tield. His station
may be somewhat varied, without losinjj his
simplicity and kindness .... A group
of characters, male and female, connected with
the plot, might be formed from his f.imily, or
soine neighbouring one of rank. It is not in-
dispensable that the guest should be a man of
high station ; nor is the political quarrel in
which he is engaged, of much importance, un-
less to call forth the exercise of generosity and
faithfulness, grafted on patriarchal hospitality.
To introduce state affiirs, would raise the
style above comedy ; though a sina'l spice of
them would season the ctmveise of swains.
Uptm this head I cannot say more than to re-
commend the study of the character of Euma'us
in the Odyssey, which, in Mr. Pope's transla-
tion, is an exijuisite and invaluable drawin?
froin nature, that would suit some of our coun-
try elders of the present day.
There must be love in the plot, and a happy
discovery ; and peace and par-ion may be the
reward of hospitality, and honest attachment
to misguided principles. When you have once
thought of a plot, and brought the story into
form. Dr. Blacklock, or ]\Jr. II. Mackenzie,
may be useful in dividing it into acts and
scenes ; for in these matters one must pay
some attention to certain rules of the drama.
These you could afterwards fill up at your lei-
sure. But, whilst I presume to give a few
well-meant hints, let ine advise you to study
the spirit of my namesake's dialogue, • which
is natural without being low, and, utiilLT the
trammels of verse, is such as country peo))le in
tl-.eir situatiims speak every day. You have
only to bring down your own strain a very lit-
tle. A great plan, such as this, would con-
center all your ideas, which faciht.ites the exe-
cution, and makes it a part of one's pleasure.
1 approve of your plan of retiring from din
and dissi[)ation to a farm of very mudeiate size,
.-ufficient to find exercise fcjr minil aiul body,
but not so great as to absorb better thin;^s.
And if s.mie intellectual pur-uit be well cliosen
and steadily pursued, it will be more lucrative
than most farms, in this age of rapid improve-
me;.t.
L'pon this subject, as your well-wisher auil
admirer, permit iv.e to go a step fartl er. Let
ENGLISHED.
On the banks of the Tcith,
In the small but sweet inheritance
Of my fathers,
.May I and mnic live .ii peace.
And die in joyful hope !
These in'oriiitions, and th; trinslatioas, are in tht
hand-wriliii!; of Mr. !l .
• Allan Ilamsay, in the Gentle Shephe:d.
272
BURNS* WORKS.
those l)rl;;lit tilcnts wli!(;h the Alinijhty has
bestoH'eil on you, \i; hcnct-fiirth einjiloveil ti>
the n(il)le piir|ji)se of su|ipi'rtiiig the caii>e of
truth and virtue. An iini^^inition so varieil
and forcible as yours, m ly <lo this in many dif-
ferent modes ; mir is it necessary to be always
serious, which you have been to gooil purpose ;
good morals may be recommended in a comedy,
or k'ven in a sonj. Great allowances are due
to the heat and iuexpeiience of youth ; — and
few poets can boa-it, like Thomson, of never
havi.ig written a line, which, dying, thev would
wisli to blot. In particular, I wish you to
keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, which
makes a man a hundred enemies for one friend,
and is doubly dangerous when one is supposed
to extend the slips and weaknesses of indivi-
duals to their sect or p irty. About modes of
faith, serious and excelletit men have always
difTered ; and there are certain curious ques-
tions, wliicli may aff.ird scope to men of meta-
physical he uls, b'.it selilom mend the heart or
temper. Whilst these points are beyond hu-
man ken, it is sufficient that all our sects con-
cur in their views of morals. You will forgive
me for these hints.
Well ! what think you of good lady G. ?
It is a pity she is so deaf, and speaks so ItkHs-
tiiictly. Her house is a specimen of the man-
sions of our gentry of the last age, when hos-
pitaliiy and elevation of mind were conspicu-
ous amidst plain fare and plain furniture. I
shall be glad to hear fiou! you at times, if it
Were no more than to show that you take the
eiFusiotis of an obscure man like me in good
part. I heg my best respects to Dr. and Mrs.
Bljcklock,*
And am. Sir,
Your most obedient humble servant,
J. RA.MSAY.
Nc Lf.
FROM MR. W
• TALE OF OMERO.V CAMERON.
Iw one of the wars betwixt the Crown of Scotland
ami the L irds of the Isles, Alex^iruler Stewart, Karl of
Mar (.1 distiiipuishe.l character in the tifreenth cen-
tury), and Donald siewail, Karl of Caithness, had the
conini.nul of the ro\al army. Tliey marched into
LoehabiT, with a view of attacking a body of M'Don.
aids, commanded by Donald Halloch, and' posted upon
an arm of the sea which intersects that conntrv. Hav.
iiig timely 'melligence of their approach, the iiisnr-
penLs got off precipitately to the opposite shore in their
turaghs, or boats covcrel with skms. The king's
troo|K cne.mipe.l n f ill ecurity; but theM'l")onalds,
rctionnig about midinglU. surprised them, killed the
Earl of Caithness, and destroyed or dispersed the wliole
army.
The Karl of Mar escaped in the dark, without any
utteii'lanis, and made for the more hilly part of lh<?
comitry. In the course of his tiight he came to the
house of a poor man, uh^e name was Omeron Came-
r'.it. The landlord welcomed his guest with the nt-.
inosl kindness; b it, as ihe.c was no meat in the house,
he told his wife he w(nild directly kill Maol Otlluir, \
to r.u-d the stranger. " K'll our only cow !" said she,
"our own and our little' dren's princiiia! siijiport !"
Moru attentive, however. ^.. the present call for hospi-
tality, than to the reiAonstraiices of his wife, or the
fii'ure exi^'encies of his familv, he killed the eoiv.
The best and tcmlcrtst parts weie immediately roasted
* Moot Odhar, (. t. the brown humble cow. |
Athoh House, 13M Sufte'nher, 17S-.
YoL'a letter of the .5th reached me only oj
the 11th; what awkward route it hid takeu !
know not ; but it deprived me of the pleasure
of writing to you in the manner vo i proposed,
as you must have left Dundee before a lerter
could possibly have got there. I hope your
disappointment on being forced to leave us \ra»
as gieat as appeared from ytmr expressions.
This is the best consolation for the greatness
of ours. 1 still think with vexatiim on that
ill-timed indi'-position which lost me a dav's
enjoyment of a man (I speak without flatteiy)
possessed of those very dispositions and talents
I most admire ; one
. . . . You know how anxious the Duke
wa? to have another day of you, and to let Mr.
Dundas have the pleasure of your conversation
as the best dainty with which he could enter-
tain an honoured guest. You know liliewise
the eagerness the ladies showed to detain you ;
but perhaps you do not know the si hems
which they devised, with tlicir usual fertility
in resources. One of the servants was sent to
your driver to bribe him to loosen or pull otT a
shoe from one of his horses, but the ambus''
before the fire, and plenty of iinirich, or Highlani*
soup, prepared to conclude their mial. — The whol- r*-
niily and their gnest ate lieartily, and the evemiiu' was
silent as usual, in telling talcs and singing scmgs 1 e-
siileaL-hecrl'ul tire. l!ed-timc cnmej ()n'.ei\.n hnishcd
the hearth, spread the cow hide- iijion it, and de-iroil
the stranger to he down. The E.irl wrapped his pl.iid
about him, and slept souml on the hide, whiM the
family betook Iheinsclvcs to rest in a corner of the
same room.
Next morning they had a plt^nliful hrcakfnsr, and at
his departure his guest askcil Cameron, il he knei"
whom he had cnterUiined? " Ymi may prubatiiv,"
answered he, " be one of the king's olTiccis ; hut who-
ever you ate, you came here in distrcs;, and herr it
was my duly to protect you. To what my cottage
aft'irded, you are most welcome." — " Vo'nr guest,
then," replied the other, " is the Earl of Mai : and if
hereafter you fall into any misfortune, fail not tocome
to the castle of Kildnimiiiic." — " M\ blessing be "ith
you I 1 oble stranger." said Omcion; " if 1 am ever in
distress, you shall soon see me."
The royal army was soon after re-assemblcd ; and the
insuigents, finding thcmschcs unable to make l:c,-:d
ag linst It, di-]H'rscd. The M'Donalds, however, got
notice that Omeron had been the Earl's host, and
forced him to lly the country, lie came with his wite
and children to'the gate of Kildrnmmie Cnslle, :ind
required admittance with a confidence which han ly
corresponded with his h.diit anil appearance. The
porter lold him rudely, his l.nrdsliip was at dinner, aid
mujt not be disturbed. Hi- bcaine noisy aid iiiipor-
tun.itc: at last his iiaine wasahnounced. Upon hear-
ingihat it wasOnipron Camco.n, the Eail st.irteil from
his S'.-at, and is said to have CNelaimed in asort of |ioc.
tical otanr.a, " I w.asanight in Ins house, and fircj
most plentifully: but linked of clothes w.is iiiv bid
Omeron from Hreugach is an excellent fellow !" He
was mtrodiiicl into the grcnt hall, and received with
the welcome he deserved- Up, in hearing ho.v I e had
been tr- ateit, ihe Earl gave him a four mcrk land ncai
thecasile; and it is said there are still in the countrj
a number of Cainerons descended of this llighlanc
£ urns us*
CORRESPONDENCE.
271^
hilc'd. Proh minim ! The driver was incor-
ruptiUt, Your VLMsi's have f^ivt-n lis iiiui-li
dfliijlit, iiml I think will pinduce their ]>io;icr
effect.* Tlii'y |iroi!iioi.'d a ])i)\vi'rful one iiii-
mi'iiiatcly ; for the morning after I read tlieni,
we all set out in proee^'i.ni to the Bruar, where
none oF the ladies had bee » these seven in
eii;ht years, and a;.^iin enjuyed tliera theie.
The p.i'^sj^i.'s we nio^t admired are the descrip-
tion of the 'lying troiits. Of the high fall
" twisting strensjth," is a happy picture of the
upper part. The characters of the birds,
" mild and mellow," is the thrush itself. The
benevolent anxiety for their happiness and safe-
ty I highly approve. The two stanzas be-
ginnini,' " Here haply too" — darkly dashing is
most descriptively Ossiaaic.
Here I cannot deny myself the pleasure of
mentioning an incident which happened yester-
day at tlie Bi uar. As we |)assed the door of a
most miserable hovel, an old woman curtsied
to us With ioiks of such povei ty, and sucii con-
tentment, that each of us iuvolunt.irily gave her
some money. She was astonished, and in the
confusion of her gratitude, in'-ited us in. Miss
C. and I, that we might not hurt her delicacy,
entered — but, good God, what wretchedness !
It w IS a cow-house — her own cottage had been
burnt last winter. The poor old creature stood
peifectly sihut — looked at I\I;ss C. then to the
inonry, and burst into tears — Miss C. joined
her, anil, with a vehemence of sensibility, took
out her purse, and emptied it into the old wo-
man's lap. What a charming scene ! — A sweet
accomplished girl of seventeen in so angelic a
bitUiition ! Take your pencil and paint her in
ynur most glomng tints. — Hold her up amidst
the darkness of this scene of human woe, to the
icy dames that flaunt through the gaieties of life,
witiii'Ut ever feeling one generous, one great
cniotiiin.
Two days after you left us, I went to Tay-
mouth. It is a chaiining place, but still I
ihink art has been too busy. Let me be your
Cicerone for two days at Dunkeld, and you
will acknowledge that in the beauties of naked
nature we are not surpassed. The loch, the
Gothic arcade, and the fall of the hermitage,
gave me most delight. But I think the last
has not been taken proper ;ulvantage of. The
hermitage is too nmch in the common-puce
style. Every body exp"cts the couch, the book-
press, a d the hairy gown. The Duke's idea
I think better. A rich and elegant apartment
is an excellent contrast to a scene of Alpine
horrors.
I must now beg your permission (unless you
have some other design) to have your veises
printed. They ajipear to me extremely cor-
rect, and some particular stanzas wojiM give
univeisil pleasure. Let me know, however, if
you incline to give them any farther touches.
Were they in some of the public papers, w«
could more easily disseminate them among our
trienils, which many of us are anxious to do.
N\'hen you |)ay your promised visit to the
Braes of Ochtertyre, Mr. and .Mrs. Graham of
B ilgowan beg to li.ive the pleasure of conduct-
ing you to the bower of Bessy licU and Mary
(iray, which is now in their possession. Tlie
Durhess would give any consideration fur an-
other sight of \»)ur letter to Dr. Moore ; we
must fall upon s(Miie methori ,f procuring it for
her. I shall enclose this to our mutual fiiend
Dr. B , who mav forward it. I shall be
extremely happy to hear from you at your first
leisure. Enclose your letter in a cover address-
ed to the Duke of Atholo, Dunkeld.
God bless you,
J W .
No. LIL
FRO:\I .AIR. A-
:\i-
siR, 6th October, 1TS7.
n.vviNo just arriveil from abroad, I had youf
poems put into my hands: the ple.isure I r».
ceived in reading them, has induce I me to »o.
licit your lilierty to publish them anumgst a
number of our countrymen in America, (tt
which |)lace I shall shortly return j, and wher«
they will be a treat of such excellence, tkit i
would be an injury to your merit and their feel-
ing to prevent their appeariiig in public.
Receive the following hastilv-writtaa liuei
from a well-wisher.
Fair fa' your pen, my dainty Rob^
Your lei-om way o' writing.
Whiles, glowiing o'er vour warks I sob,
Vt'hilcs laugh, whiles downright gieeting
Your sonsie tykes may charm a chiel,
Theii words are wondrous bonny.
But guid Scotch drink the truth dues si.^
It is as guid as ony
Wi*' you this day.
Poor Mailie, troth, I'll, nae but think*
Yc (lid the poor thing wrang.
To leave her ttther'il on the brmk
Of st.mk sae wide and lang ;
Her dyitvg woids upbraid ye sair,
C'ly fye on. your neglect ;
Guid f.iitli ! gin ye had got play fair
This dttid had stretch'd your neck
That mounifu' da^
• •■ The humble petition of 13ruar-W«tcr to ^.e 1 B"^„.Y'^'"' ""^' ^'"^ •'"^ ^ f*"' fa"'»
Duke of Athole." _ „ I Wi sic d wmsome baroje,
S 3
27*
BURNS' WORKS.
Whi pront Ml' st'ir!^ bcj^jn to (l;iut,
And tik' liiiii by the giirdie ;
it SL'ts na ony liiwhmd chiel,
Like you to vtrse cr ihynie,
For few like you can fley the de'il,
And skolp aukl wither'd Time
On ony day.
It's fair to praise ilk canty callan,
X?e lie of puiest fame,
If Ke but tries to raise as Allan,
Aukl Scotia's bonny name ;
To you, therefore, in humble rhyme,
Iktter 1 canni gi'e.
And tho' it's but a swatch of thine,
Accept these lines frae me,
Upo* this day.
Frae Jock o' Groats to bonny Tweed,
Frae that e'en to the line,
In ilka place wb.ere Scotsmen bleed,
There shall your hardship shine;
I!k honest chiel \\ ha reads your buick.
Will there aye mutt a brither,
Fe lang; may seek, and lang will look,
Ere he fin' sic anitlier
On ony day.
Feart that my cruicket verse should spalrge
Bome wark of wordie inak',
J'se iiae mair o' this head enlarge.
But now my farewell tak' :
Lang Biay you live, lang may you write.
And sing like English Wcischell,
This prayer I do myself indite,
From >y.uurs still, A • M .,
This very day.
No, LIII.
FROM MR. J. RAMSAY,
TO THE
REVEREND W. YOUNG, at Erskine.
LEAR Sin, Ochtcrtijre, 22d Oct. 1787.
Allow me to iutroduc*; Mr. Burns, whose
pneu's, I dare say, have given you much plea-
t-urc. Upon a ])ers()nal acquaintjnce, I doubt
tot, you will relish the man as much as his
works, in which there is a rich vein of intel-
lectual ore. ][c has heard some of our High-
land liiinic.'s or songs jjlayed, wliich delighted
hini so much that he has made words to one
(IV two of them, which will render these more
popular As lie has thought of l)cing in your
'i'laiter, I am persuaded you will not think it
labiHir lost to indulge the |ioet of nature with a
vauiple of those sweet artless melodies, which
only want to be murrivd (in MiLoti's phia.-e)
to congeiiial vords. 1 wisli we could conjure
up the ghost of Joseph M'D. to infuse into OUT
bard a portion of his enthusiasm for those ne-
glected airs, which do not suit the fastidious
musicians of the present hour. But if it h»
true that Corelli (whom I looked on as the
Homer of music) is out of date, it is no proof
of their taste j — this, however, is going out of
my province. You can slow Mr. Burns the
manner of singing these same luhiigs ; and, il
he can humour it in words, I do not despair ol
seeing one of them sung upon the stage, in the
original style, round a napkin.
I am very sorry we are likely to meet so sel-
dom in this neighbourhood. It is one of the
greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, that
one has so few opportunities (;f cultivating ac-
quaintances at a distance. I hope, however,
some time or other, to have the pleasure of
beating up your quarters at Erskine, and ol
hauling you away to Paisley, &c. ; meanwhile
I beg to be remembered to Mes.-rs. Boog lad
Mylne.
If Mr. B. goes by , give him a billet on
our friend IMr. Stuart, who, 1 presume, does
not dread the frown of his diucesun.
I am, Dear Sir,
Your most obedient humble servant,
J. RAMSAY
No. LIV.
FROM MR. RAMSAY,
TO
DR. BLACKLOCK.
DEAR SIR, Ochlerti/re, 21ih Oct. 1787.
I RECEIVED yours by Mr. Burns, and givfi
you many thanks for giving me an opportunity
of conversing with a man of his calibre. He
will, I doubt not, let you know what passe<l be-
tween us on the subject of my hints, to which I
have made additions, in a letter se;it him t'other
(lay to your care.
You may tell Mr, Burns, when you see him,
that Colonel Edmonstoune t(/ld me t'other day,
lliat his cousin. Colonel George Crawfoid, was
iio poit, but a great singer of songs ; but that
bis eldest brother Robert (by a former mail iige)
had a great turn that way, having written the
words of Ike Hush ulioon Traquair, and
Twetdside. That tlie Mary to whom it was
addressed was Jlary Stewart of the Castleiiiilk
finiily, afterwards wife of Mr. John Uelehes.
Tiie Colonel never saw Robeit Crawford, though
he was at his burial fifty-tive yea's aro. Ha
was a pretty young man, and had liveil 1 >iiir i.T
1 ranee. Lady Ankei ville is his niece, and maj
know more of his poetical vein. Ad epitiph
CORRESPONDEN'Cii.
276
Tir.nn.T lil<e me nii'^Tit moralize upon the v.inity
of liCi'. ;iMil tlie vanity of those swert rffn^ioMs.
— Hut I liavc liarilly room to otfer my l)ost com-
pliiiiiiiits to Mis. BliU'klock ; and I am,
Dear Doctor,
Your most oheilient humble servant,
J. RAMSAY.
No. LV
FROM MR. JOHN lAIURDOCII.
tiY DEAR SIR, L'tndnn, 2Sth Oct. 17S7.
As my friend, Mr. Brown, is goinc^ from this
[jlace to your neighhourhnod, I emhraee the op-
portunity of tellin;! you that I am yet alive, to-
Vralily uell, and always in cx|)ectation of being
l)etter. By the much-valued letters before me, I
see that it was my duty to have i,nven you this in-
telliijence aliout three vears aiul nine months a^o ;
and have nothin;i; to allej;e r.s an excuse but that
we |)oor, busy, l)nstliiig bodies in London, are so
much taken up with the Vdrious pursuits in which
we are here en^;aged, that we seldom think of
any person, creature, place, or thin;;^, that is ab-
sent. But this is not altoijether the case with
me; fiu- I often think of you, and Hirnie, and
I{)issel, and an nnj'athi»iud dipt/i, ami lowa/i
Iriinstiine, all in the same minute, althoutjh you
Hnd they ai'e (as I suppose) at a con»iderable dis-
tance. I flatter myself, however, with the pleas-
ing thought, that you and I shall meet some
time or other either in Scotland or Engl.ind.
If ever vou come hither, you will have the satis-
faction of seeing your poems relished by the Ca-
ledonians in London, full as much as they can
be by those of Edinburgh, We frequently re- [
jie.it some of your verses in our Caledonian so-
ciety ; aiid you may believe, that I am not a |
bttlt vain that I have had some share in culti-
vating such a genius. I was not absolutely cer-
tain that vou were the author, till a few days a-
po, when I m ide a visit to JSIrs. Hill, Dr.
IM'Comb's eldest (hur^hfer, who lives in town,
and who told me that she was inforined of it by
a letter from her sister in Edinburgh, with whom
yoM had been in company when in that capital.
Pray let me know if you have any intention
of visiting this huge, overgrown metropolis? It
would afford matter for a large poem. Here you
would hive an opportunity of indulging your
vein in the study of maidiind, perhaps to a gre it-
er degree than in any city ujion the face of the
globe ; for the inhabitants of London, as you
kuow are a collection of all nations, kindreds,
and tongues, who make it, as it were, the centre
ot their commerce.
took such uncommon pains to in.stil into your
minds from your earliest inf.incy ' May yo.l livE
as he did ! if you do, y(ui can never be unhappy.
I feci myself grown serious all at once, ai;d af
fected in a manner I cannot describe. I sh.i'!
only add, that it is one of the greatest |)lea'^uifS
I |)romise myself before I die, that of seeing the
family of a man whose memory I revere more
than that of any j)erson that ever I Wiis ac-
quainteil with.
I am, my dear Friend,
Yours sincerely,
JOHN MURDOCH.
No. LVL
FROM lAIR.
SIR, Gordon Castle, Sist October, 17S7.
If you were not sensible of your fiult as v.-eil
as of your loss in leaving this jila'-e so sudiU'nlv,
I should condemn you to starve upon cauld had
Uiv ae tinnnont at least ; and as for Dick La-
tine,* your travelling companion, without ban-
ning him wi' a" the curses contained in your let-
ter, (which he'll no value a bawbee), I should
give him nought but Stra^bogie custucks to chew
for sax onks, or aye until he was as sensible of
his error as you seem to be of yours.
Present my respectful com])!iments to Mrs.
Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the
rest o' her amiable childien. May the Father
of the universe bless you ail with those princi-
ples and dispositioi. that the best of parenta
Your song I showed without producing the
author ; and it was judged by the Duchess to be
the production of Dr. Beattie. I sent a copy of
it, by her Grace's desire, to a Mrs. M'Pherson
in Badenoch, who sings Morag and all other
Gaelic songs in great perfection. I have re-
corded it likewise, by Lady Charlotte's desire,
in a book belonging to her ladyship, where it is
in cumpiny y^.ih a great many other poems and
versL's, some of the wi iters of which are no less
eminent for their political than fur their poetical
abilities. When t!ie Duchess was informed that
you were the author she wished you had written
tile versus in Scotch.
Any letter directed to me here will come t«
hand safely, and, if sent under the Duke's cover,
it will likewi>e ccune free ; that is, as longastlia
Duke is in this country.
I am, Sir, yours sincerely.
No. LVIL
FROM THE REV. JOHN SKLN'NER.
SIR, Linxhart, Wtli Nov. 1787.
YfUR kind return without date, but of post«
mark October 25th, came to my hand only thij
day ; and. to testify my punctuality to my ptn
• Mr, Xicoiu
276
BURNS' WORKS.
etic cng.igement, I sit down imm,?rfiately to an-
swer it in kind. Your ai-kr.owledgnient of my
poor but just encomiums on your surprising ge-
niu!=, ami your ojiinion of my rhyming excur-
sions, are lioth, I think, by far too high. Tlie
difference between our two tracts of education
and wavs of life is entirely in your favour, and
gives you the jjreference every manner of way.
' know a classical education will not cieate a
veisifying t.i>te, but it mightily improves and as-
sists it ; and though, where both these meet,
there may sometimes be ground for approbation,
yet where taste appe;irs single, as it were, and
neitlier cramped nor sujjported iiy acquisition,
I will always sustain the ju.-ticeof its prior d.iiin
to aj»})l luse. A small portion of taste, this way,
I have liad almost from childhood, especially in
thv old Scottish dialect : and it is as old a thing
as I remember, my fondness for C/irist kirk o'
the Giien, which 1 had by heart ere I was
twelve years of age, and wiiich, some years ago,
I attempted to turn into Latin verse. While I
was young, I dabbled a good deal in these thmgs ;
but, on getting the black go»vn, I gave it pretty
much over, till my daughters grew up, who, be-
ing all good singers, plagued nie for words to
some of their favourite tunes, and so extorted
these effusions, which have made a public appear-
ance beyond my expectations, and contrary to
my intentions, at the same time that I hope there
is nothing to be found in them uncharacter-
istic, or unbecoming the cloth, which I would
aluays wish to se.- respected.
.'Vs to the assistance you propose from nic in
the ur.iiertaking you are engaged in,' I am sorry
1 cannot give it so far as I could wish, anil you,
perhaps, expect. IMy daughters, who were my
oiilv intelligencers, are all /i;r/s /'jm'V/a/c, and
tile old woinm their mother h is lost that t iste.
There are two from my own pen, which 1 might
cive you, if worth tiie while. One to the old
Scotch tune of Dumbiirlons Drums.
The other pel haps you have met with, as
viuir noble fi ieiid the Duchess has, I am told,
heard of it. It was squeezed out of me by a
brother parson in her neighbourhood, to accoin-
mo.late a new Highland reel for the Marquis's
biith-day, to the stanza of
« Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly," &c.
If this last answer your purpose, you niay
have it from a lirother of mine, 3Ir. James Skin-
ner, writer in Edinburgh, who, 1 believe, can
give the music too.
There is another humorous thing, I have heard
said to be ilone by the Catholic priest Geddes,
and which iut my taste mucl- :
'■ TL.'re was a weewifeikie was coming frae the
ftir.
Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred her
meikle care ;
It took upo' the wifie's heart, and slie began tt
spew,
And quo' the wee wifeikie, I wish I binna fou
/ iL-islt, §"e. ^c.
I liave heard of another new composition, Dy
a young ploughman of my acquaintance, thai 1
am vastly jileased with, to the tune of The hu-
mours of Gkii, which I fear won't do, as the
music, I am told, is of Irish original. I have
mentioned these, such as they are, to show my
readiness to oblige you, and to contribute my
mite, if I could, to the patriotic work you have
in hand, and which I wish all success to. You
have only to notify your mind, and what you
want of the above shall be sent you.
Rleintime, while you are thus publiclv, I
may say, employed, do not sheath your own
proper and piercing weapon. Fronj what 1
have seen of you is already, I am inclined to
hope f'U- much good. One lesson of virtue and
morality, delivered in your amusing style, and
from such as you, will operate more than dozens
would do from such as me, who shall be told it
is our employment, and be never more miniled :
whereas, from a pen like yours, as being one of
the many, what comes will be admired. Ad-
miration will produce regard, and regard will
leave an impression, especially whm cxamph
gi.es along.
Now binna saying I'm ill bred,
Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad
For cadgers, ye have heard it said.
And sic like fiy,
JIaun aye be harland in their trade,
And sae maim I.
Wishing you from my poet-pen, all success,
and in my other character, all happiness and
heavenly direction,
I remain, with esteem,
Youi sincere fr-'^nd,
JOHN SKINNER.
• •■ A plnn of publishing a completa collection of
<«ot'Jsh bongs," Ate.
No. LVIII. •
FROM MRS. ROSS.
SIR, Kilravock Castle, SOth Nov. 1787.
I HOPE you will do me the justice to beliere,
that it was no defect in gratitude for your
punctual performance of your paiting promise,
that has made me so long in ackn. ivlcdging it,
but merely the difficulty I had in getting the
Hluhlaiid songs you wished to have, accurately
noted : they are at last enclosed : but how shaL
I convey along with them those graces they ac-
quired from tiie melodious voice of one of the
fiir spirits of the hill of Kildruuimie ! These i
mu-t leave to your imaginatiijn to siipjjly. I
has powers sufficient to transport you to hi'f
CCRRESPONDEXCE.
277
ji<U>. to rccill her at rents, an J to make tliem
still viDrate in the ears of men ory. To l-.er I
etr. inilol)t(;(l for se;ting the enclnseil notes.
The/ are clothed with " thnuiilits that bre.ithe,
anil tcorils th;.t hurii." These, however, heiiijj
in ai\ nnknoirn ^K^\\'n^f■ to yo", you must ai^iiin
have recoiiise to *h\t same fertile iinacjinatioii
of y.iars to interpret them, anil suppose a lover's
(iescription of the heiiities of an adored mistress
— why did I say uiikiiovvn ? The langnaj^e of
love is an universal one, that seenw to have
escaped the eotifusion of B^bel, and to be un-
derstooil l)v all nations.
I rejoii-e to find tliat ynii were pleased with
so m my thinj^s, persons, and places in yonr
northern lour, heeause it leads me to hope von
may ho induced to revisit them ajriin. That
the old L..st!e of K k, and its iiihahitants,
were amontfst these, adds to my satisfiction. I
am even vain enim<!;h to admit your very fiat-
terinc; application of the line of Addison's ; at
anv rate, allow nie to helieve that " friendship
will maintain the 2'-ound she has occupied" iu
nicnits -^f ,I(ih, of afl1xtion-!)carir.!j memory,
when tlicv sat down with him seven .lays aitd
seven nij;hts, and spake not a word.
I am natural'y of a superstitious cast, anrt a«
soon as inv wonder-scareil im i'.;inatlr)n re;;ained
its consciousness and rcsumeil its functions, I
ca>t ahont what this in inia of yours mii,'ht por-
tend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretch
of possibility ; and several events, p;reat in their
mai;tiitu('.c, and important in their consequences,
oci-urred to my fincy. The downfil of the
conclave, or the iru^hius; of the cork rumps ; a
ducal coronet to Lord Georsje G and the
p'-i^estant interest ; or St. Peter's keys to . .
You want to know how I come on. I am
just in stutn quo, or, not to insult a gentleman
with my Latin, " in auld use an<l wont." The
noble Earl of olcncairn took me by the hand
to-dav, and interoted himself in my concerns,
with a goodness like that benevolent being,
both our hearts, in -pite of absence, anil that, whose image he so richly bears. He is a
when we do meet, it will be as acquaintance of, stronger pioof of the immortality of the soul,
a score of years standing ; and on this footing, ' than any that philosophy ever prodaced. A
consider me as interested in the future course of mind like his can never die. Lot the worship-
your fame, so spleniliilly commenced. Any ful squire, H. L. or the reverend M iss J. i\L
communications of the progress of your muse go into their piimitive nothing. At best they
will be received with s>t-'at gratitude, and the me but ill-dige'<ted lumps of chaos, only one of
fire of your genius will have power to warm, them strongly tinged with hituuiinous particles
even US, frozen sisters of the north. and su'phuretnis effluvia. Dut my noble pa-
Tbe .friends of K k and K c \ tron, eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimi-
unite in cordial regards to you. When you in- ty, and the generous throb of benevtdence, shall
ciine to figure either in your idea, suppose some look on with princely eye at " the war of ele-
of us re iduig your poems, and some of us singing ' ineiits, the wreck of matter, aad the crush of
your songs, and n «- little Hugh looking at your v,-orlds,'"
picture, and you'll seldom be wrong. We re-
member Mr. N. with as mu( n good will as we
do any body, who hurried Mr. Burns from us.
Farewell, Sir, I can only contribute the j^^ following fragments are all that now ex-
wi'/<)u-\s mite to the esteem and admir.itiim ex- j^^ „f twelve oi fourteen of the fine-t letters
cited by your merits and genius, but this I give jj^ ,{ Burns ever wrote. In an evil hour, the
U she <lid, with all my heart— being sincerely originals were thrown into the (ire by the
VHurs, E. R. late .Mrs. Adair of Scarborough; the C/tar-
litte so often mentioned in this (orrespon-
dence. and the lacly to whom " Jhe Jiitnkt
of the JJtvon'' is addressed. E.
No. LX.
TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS,
(now »irs. hav, of Edinburgh).
No. LIX.
TO.
-DALRYMPLE, Esq. OF
ORANGEFIELD.
I
BEAR SIR, Edinhvrffh, 1787.
1 scpposE tne devil is so elated with his suc-
ress with you, that he is determined by a coup
de main to complete his purposes on you all at
once, in making you a poet. I broke ojien the
letter you sent me ; hummed over the rhymes ;
and, as I saw they were extempore, said to my- the heart. 1 am determined to pay Charlotte
Mifthey were very well : but when I saw at a poetic compliment, if I could hit on some
Sept. 26. 17S7.
SEND Charlotte the first number of the
soti<fS ; I would not wait lor the second num-
ber ; I hate deliys in little marks of friend-
ship, as I hate dissimulation in the laiiKuatje of
the bottom a name that I shall ever value will
grateful respect, " 1 gapit wide I ut naethlng
•l>aic" I was nearly as much struck as tlie
glorious old Scotch air, in number second.*
• of the Seoli Musical Museum.
JJ
278
BURNS' WORKS.
You will see a smal attempt on a shred of pa-
per in the hook ; nut tliough Dr. Blackhjck
comniendwl it very hijrhly, I am not just sutis-
6ed with it myself. I intend to make it de-
gcription of some kind : the whining cant of
kive, except in real par.sion, and hy a masterly
nand, is to me as iiisulTerahle as the preaching
6«nt of old Fatlier Snieaton, Whig-minister at
Kdmaurs. Darts, fl.imes, cnpids, loves, graces,
and all that farrago, are just a Mauchline
. — a senseless rabble.
I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight
from the old, venerable author of Tullochgo-
runi, John of Badenyon, &c. I suppose you
know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest
pjttic c(Mnpliment 1 ever got. 1 will send you
a copy of it.
1 go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries to
wait on Rlr. Miller about hi.s farms. — Do tell
that to Lady IM'Kenzie, that she may give me
credit for a little wisdom. " I wisdom dwell
with ))rudence." What a blessed fire-side !
How hapi)v should I be to pass a winter even-
ing under their venerable roof! and smoke a
pipe of tobacco, or drink water-giuel with them !
What solemn, lengthened, laughter-quashing
giavity of phiz ' Wiiat sage remarks on the
ood-for-nothing sons and daughters of indis-
cretion and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as
we stiaitened the fire-side circle, on the u>es of
the poker and tongs !
JNliss N. is very well, and begs to he remem-
bered in the old way to you. 1 used all my
eloquence, all the [lersuasive flourishes of the
hand, ami heart-melting modulation
B'
our family), I am determined, if rt.y Dum^riei
business fail me, to return info partnership witli
him, and at our leisure take another farm ia
the neighbourhood. I assure you 1 look fot
high compliments from you and Charlotte on
this very sage instance of iny unfathomable, in-
compiehensihh; wisdom. Talking of Charlotte,,
I must tell her that I have to the best of my
power, jiaid her a poetic compliment, now com-
])letcd. The air is admirable : true ol 1 High-
land. It was the tune of a Gaelic song whicb
an Inverness laily sung me when I w \s there;
and I was so charmed with it that I begged hei
to write me a set of it from her singing ; for it
had never been set before. I a.n fixed that it
shall go in Johnson's next number; so Cha,.-
lotte and you nt-ed not spend your precious timt
in contradicting me. I won't saj 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 oidy sincere but
just.
{Here follows the song of " The Banks of thl
Devon.")
in my power, to urge litr out to Ilerveiston,
but all in vain. I\Iy rhetoric seems quite to
have lost its eflct iin the lovely half of man-
kind. I have seen the day — but that is a " tale
of other vears." — In my con>cierice I believe
that niv heart has been >o o!t on fire that it is
absolutely vitrified. 1 look on the sex with
suiiiething like the admiration with which I re-
gaid the starry sky in a frosty December night.
I admire the beauty of the Creator's workman-
shij) ; I am charmed with the wild but grace-
ful eccentricity of their motions, and — wish
them good night. I mean this with resi)ect to
a ceitaiii passion diint f iii tu Vhoiineur d'etre
vn mi^eriib/e esrhive : as for fiieiidsl.ip, you
and Charlotte have uiven me ])leaMire, perma-
nent pleasure, " wliiih the woild cannot ^ive,
nor take away," 1 hope; and which u'U ou.
Lst the heavens and the earth.
Edmhnrrih, Nov. 21, 1 7S7.
I HAVE one vexatious fiult to the kiudly-
welcome, well filled sheet which 1 owe to your
and Charlotte's goodness — it ccmtains too ui\,ch
sense, sentiment, ami good-sjielling. It :s im-
possible that even you f v>, whom 1 declare to
f periods j my God, I will givi cred't f..r a.-.y ■■}.:z'-''>' of
"Without (lute.
I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit
m^re shall be decided about a farm inthatcoun
e
1
an
excellence the sex are capi'de of attaining, it is
impossible you can go on to correspond at that
rate ; so like those who, Shenstme says, retire
because they have made a good speech, I shall
after a few letters hear no more o*" you. I in
sist that you sh.ill write whati-ver kmiics first
what ytm see, what you read, what you hear,
what you adn.ire, what you dislike, ti ilL-s, bag-
atelles, nonsense ; or to fill up a cm iitr, e'en
put down a laugh at full length. Now none
of your polite hints about flattery : I leave that
to your lovers, if you have or shall have ai:y :
though thank heaven I have found at last two
girls who can be luN-.iviantly happy in tluir
own minds and with one another, without ihat
commonly necessary appendage to female bl.ss,
A I.QVrK.
Char'.c*.te and you are just two favourite rest-
ing places for my soul in her wanderings through
the weary, thorny wddeiness of this world-
God knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle : i
gloiy in being a Pott, and I want to be thoughl
a wise man — I would foniily be generous, aiii
I wish to he rich. AUer all. I am afiaid I am
a lost subject. " Si;me folk h.ie a hunlic o
fauts, an' I'm but a m'er-do-weel."
ry 1 am rathi-i bipLl..ssiu it; but as my j ^IftiTiioon To close the nul.mcholy refl.-c-
jrothrr is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, tioiis at the end of last sheet, 1 shall just ad.l t
e.xceedin-ly prudent, scd) i m n. ((piilities piece of ilevotion ciminion'y known in CaiTick.
lich are only a jounger l;r..ther's foituue in by the title of the •' Wabster's grace."
CORRESPONDENCE.
279
'' f!f>nis say Trere (liiovo^, nnd o'en »ae arc \vc,
Some S1V Wc' lie, ana e fii sae ili) U'e !
Guide f(irj:(.' u<, iinci 1 Hope sue will he!
V[t and to )our louiiis, lads."
EiUnhurgh, Dec. 12, 1787.
I AM here under the care ot" asurfjeon, with
1 hniisfd HtiiI) extfnd'cd on a ciishiiui ; and tlie
tints of my mind vyin;^ with the livid honor
prv-iedint( a midnight tluimifr-storin. A drun-
ken coachman was tlie c.iiise of the fust, and
inconiparalily the lightest evil ; misfortune, bo-
dily constitution, hell and myself, have formed
a "Quadruple Alliance" to p;uarantee the other.
I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slow-
ly Letter.
I have taken tooth and nail to the hihle, and
am got through the five hooks of Mosos, and
hilt w.iy 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 eleg.mce of his craft.
I would give my best song to my worst ene-
my, I mean the merit of making it, to have you
and Ch.irlotte by n^-. You are angelic crea- |
tures, and would pour oil and wine into mv
wounded spirit.
I enclose you a proof copy of the " Banks of i
the Divon," which present with mv best wishes '.
to Charlotte. The " Ochil-hills,'" you shall i
probably have next week lor yourself. None of
your tine soeeches !
banners of iinagir, itioH: «liim, c.ipiice, anij
passion; anil the heavy -armed veteran regulars
of wisdom, pruc..nce ami fore-thought, move so
very, very slow, that I am almost iu a state of
perpetual warfare, and alas ! fre(iuent defeat.
There are just t^vo creatures ihit I would envy,
a horse in his wild state tiaveising the foresti
of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert
shores of Knrope. The oiit; has not a uisfa
without cnjoymeut, the other has neither wish
nor fear.
E'linhiirnh, Dec. 19, 17S7.
I BEGIN' this letter in answer to yours of the
I7fli current, which is not yet cold since i read
it. The atnio-pbere of my soul is vastly clearer
than when I wrote yiii last For the liist time,
yesterday I cros^eil the room on crutches. It
Would do your heart good too see my baidship,
not on my ptutic, but on my on/ten stilts;
throwing my best leg with an air ! and with
r.s much hilarity in my gait and countenance,
as a May frog leaping across the newly harrowed
ridge, enjoying the fiagrance of the refreshed
earth after the long-expected shower !
Editihnrgh, Ulrrch It, ]7f<8.
I KNOW, my ever dear friend, that you will
be pleased with the news when I tell you, 1
have at last taken a lease of a farm. Yester-
night I completed a bargain wi'h Mr. Miller,
of l),iNwlnton, for the farm of EHisI.imI, nn the
banks of the Nith, between five ,iiid six miles
above Dumfries. I begin at Whitsundjy to
build a house, drive lime, &c. and heaven he
my help ! for it will take a strong elfmt to
bring my mind into the routine of business. I
h ive dischiritcd all the army of r.iy former pur-
suits, f.incies ,md plea-nres ; a motley host ! and
have literally and strictly retained ordv the iileas
of a few frieiiils, whiih I have inco] purated into
a life-guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's oliserva-
tion, " Where much is attempted, something is
done." Fiimness both in sntlerance and exer-
tion, is a character I woulil wi-h to be t!i(nu>ht
to possess ; and havt 'ihv.iys despiseil the whin-
ing yelp of con\i)laiiit, and the cowardly, feeble
resolve.
Poor Miss K, is ailing a good deal this win-
ter, and begged ine to reniendier her to you the
first time I wrote you. Suiely woman, anii.ible
woimin, is (ii-fen made in vain I Top delicite'y
formed for the roii<;her pursuits of ambition ;
too noble for the diit of avarice, and even too
geiitle for the rage of pleasure : foiiied indeed
for and highly susi eptihie of enjoyment and rap-
ture ; but that enjoyment, al is ! almost wholly
ut the mercy of the caprice, malevidence, stupi-
dity, or wickedness of an animal at all time*
comparatively unteuling, and oitjii brutal.
I can't say I am altogether at my ease when
I Rcc any where in my path, that meagre, squa-
lid, Afinine-faced spectre, poverty ; attendtd as
he always is, by iron- fisted oppression, and leer-
inp contempt; but I have sturdily withstood
ji* l.uiTetings m my a hanl-labuwred day already,
a-.d still my motto is — I daiif. ! My worst
Hiieiny !s Moiinciiie. I lie so miserably open to
the inroaiis and incursinns of a mischievous,
ight-aniied, well-mounted banditti, under the
1 MaucUine, 7lh April. 17S8.
I I AM indebted to you and Mi«s Nimmo for
letting me know Miss Ki'n<'(ly. Strange ! how
apt we are to indulge pitji.ilices in our jud"--
nients of one another ! liven I, w lio |il(jne uiv-
self on my skill in marking diaiaeters ; bei«use
I am too jjrnud of my chiiacter as a man, to be
dazzled in my judgment /ir glaring wealth ; and
too proud of my situriou as a pnor man to be
biassed ac/ninst sipialid poverty ; I was unac-
quainted with Jlisti K.*s very uneonimon worth
ri
I am eoin£» on a jjood flc.il proc^esnive in mnn • pet any fliin^ to do. T wanted ».n Jiut, wliicb
grand but, tlie sober science of life. I have is a d.m^iToiis, an unh;i|)py sltii;itii>n. I go
lately made some sacrifices fi>r which, were I this without any hiinirinG; on, or mortifyina; -n)-
riv(t voce with you to paint the sit\iation and licitation ; it is ininiediate hn-ad, and thomrh
recount the circumstances, you would applaud ; poor in comparison of tiie last e'gliteen months
of my existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of oil
my preceding; life : besides, the counuissioneis
are some of them my acquaintances, and all of
tbein my firm friends.
N'o date.
Now for that wayward, unfortunate thing,
jTiVseif. I have broke measures with
and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter.
He replied in terms of chastisement, and pro-
mised me u|ion his honour that 1 should have
tlie account on Monday ; but this is Tuesday,
and yet I have not heard a word from hnn.
Ciod I'.ive mercy on me ! a poor d-mned, in-
caiiti(nis, doped, unfortunate foul ! The sport,
the miserable victim, of rebellious pride ; hypo-
chiinilriac iinajjination, agonizing sensibility,
and bedlam pa-sions !
" / wi.sli Unit I were dead, hut I'm no like
to die .'" 1 bad lately " a hairbreadth 'scape in
th' imminent dcailly breaeli" of love too. Thank
my stars 1 got off lieart-whole, " waur fleyd
than hurt." — Iitterruptitin.
I have this moment got a hint ....
I fear I am sometliing
like — undone — but 1 hope for the best. Come,
stubborn pride and unshrinking resolution ! ac-
company me througli this, to me, miserable
world ! You must not desert me ! Your fi iend-
•hip I think I can count on, though I should
date my letters from a marching regiment.
Kirly in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a
rciiiiting drum as my forlorn hope. Sericujsly
thouL'h, life at present presents me with but a
nularicbdly ])ath : Ijut — my limb will soou be
sound, and I shall struggle on.
NO. LXI.
TO MISS CHAOIERS.
MY DEAR MADAM, Edinliurijh, Dec. 17S7.
I JUST now have read yours. The- poetic
compliments I pay cannot be misunderstoc>d.
They are neither of them so particular as tc
point 7/ou out to the world at larije ; and the
circle of your acquaintances will allow all 1
have said. Besides I have complimented you
chiefly, almost solely, on your mental cliarms.
Shall I be plain with you ? I will ; so look to it.
Personal attractions, Madam, yon have much
above par; wit, understandinsr, and woith, vou
possess in the first class. This is a cursed ilat
way of telling you these truths, but let nie hear
no more of yinir sheepish timi.litv. I know
the world a little. I know what they will say
of my poems; by second sight I sup])o>e ; for
I am seldom out in my conjectures ; and you
may believe ine, my dear Madam, I would not
run any risk of hurting you by an ill-judged
compliment. I wish to show to the world, the
odds between a poet's friends and those of sim-
ple jirosemen. More for your information hnth
the pieces go in. One of them, " Vi'here brav-
ing all the winter's harms," is aheidv set —
the tune is Neil Gow's Lamentation for Aber-
cainey ; the other is to be set to an old High-
l.md air in D.iuiel Dow's " collection of ancient
.Scots music ; the name is lid n ('/idillich air
inn Dlieiith. My treacherous memory has for-
'^ot every circumstance about Les Incus, only
I think you mentioned them as being inC 's
possession. I shall ask him about it. 1 .iin
.ifciiid the song of " Somebody" will come too
late — as I shall, for certain, leave town in a
week for Ayrshire, and from that to numfries,
but there my hopes are slender. I leave my
dlrccticm in town, so any thinir, wheiever I am,
will reach me.
I saw your's to — ^-^— it is not too severe,
nor did he take it amiss. On the contrary,
like a wldpt s])aniel, ho talks of being with you
in the Chiistmas days. Mr. has given
him the invitation, and he is determined to ac-
cept of it. O selfishness ! he owns in his so-
bci moments, that from his own volatility of
berfttioD. 'I be (piest on is not at wh it door of inclination, the circum>rances in which he is si-
fortui'.c's jialace slull we enter in; but what tnited and his knowledge of his talhei 'a dspo
duurn •low she oiM'ii to us? I was not likely to [sition, — the wholt 'jllair is chiinerica! — yet b
Eilinhiirijh, Sundiiy,
Tn-,MORRow, my dear Madam, 1 leave
Edinburgh.
1 have altered all my plans of future life. A
farm that I eoiild liv,- in, I cmilil not find ; anil
indeed, after the necessary support my brother
aid the rest of the family required, I ould not
venture on firming in that style suitable to my
feelings. You will condemn me for the next
step I have taken. 1 have entered into the ex-
cise. I stay in the west about throe weeks, and
th<n return to Kdinburgh fur six weeks instruc-
tions ; afterwards, fnr I git employ instantly, I
go oil a fiiiiit a Dien, — it nuin Jioi. I have
ghosen tl'.is, my dear friend, al'ler mature deli
CORRESPCNDENCE.
281
trill gratify an ii!!o penchant at tlie enormous,
iTiiel ex|H-nsc of perh.ips ruining the peace ot"
llie vi'ty wdiiiin for wlioni lie professes tlie ee-
ni runs passion of love ! He is a f^entli'iiian in
Ills mini! ami manners, tant pis ! — He is a
volalilo sclioni-lioy : the heir of a man's for-
tni.i' vvlui will knows the value of two times
two !
IVrii'tion seize them anil their fortunes, lie-
fore tliey shnulil make the amialile, the lovul\
■ the (leiitled ohjeet of their pnrse-inouil
coritenipt.
1 am (loulily happv to hear nf I\Irs. 's
recovery, lit cause 1 leally tlioiifjht all was over
with her. There are days of pleasure yet a-
Waiting her.
' As I cam in l)y GUnap
I met «ith an aged woman ;
She hade me cheat up my heart,
For the be^t o' my days was coming;."
No. LXiI.
TO MISS 1\I
-N.
Sutart/inj Nou7i, No. 2. St. Jumes'is Sqr.
New- Town. lidinhiiTyh,
Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in the
Btony attitude of jeiplexed stmly for tifteen vex-
atious minutes, my head a>kew, benilini; over
the inteniied caid ; my fixed eye insensible to
the very light of day poured around ; mv pen-
dulous goose- feather, loaded with ink, lian;;ing
over the future letter ; all for the impoi tant
purpose of writing a complimentary card to ac-
company your trinket.
Coir.pliments is such a miserahle Greenland
exjiression ; lies at such a chilly pol.ir distance
from the ton id zone of my cOMstitiitlon, that I
cannot, for the very soul of me, n-e it to arv
jii'iMin fur whom I have the twentieth ])art of
the e^tcen., every one must have for you who
knows you.
As I leave town in three or four days, I can
give nijsclf the pleasure of calling for you only
tor a minute. Tuod ly evening, sometime ahout
seven, or alter, 1 shall wait on you, fur your
fari-«ell commands.
The hinge of your hex, I put into the hands
of the proper Connoisseur. The broken glass,
likewi«e, went under review ; but deliberative
WisiloiQ thought it would too much endanger
tiie w' jle fabiic.
1 am, du.ir Madam,
With all sincerity of enthusiasm,
Your very humble Servaut.
No. LXIII.
TO I\IR. ROBERT AINSLIR, EniNBURCH
jmdinhiirrjlu Siuiilin/ J[i>rnii:g,
Niw. 2:3, ITt^V.
I BFG, my dear Sir, von would not make
any appointment to take us to Mr. .Muslie's to-
night. On looking over my engairements, con-
stitution, present state of my he.i'th, some little
vexatious soul concerns, &c. I find I can't sup
abroad to-night.
1 shall be in to-day t\\\ one o'clock if you have
a lei-ure hour.
Yon will think it romr.ntic when I tell you,
that I find the idea of your friendship ainuist
necessary to my existence. — Yon assume a pro-
per length of face in my bitter hcnirs of blue-
devilism, and you laugh fuily up to my hiyhest
wishes at niv ponit t/iinr/s. — 1 don't know, upon
the whole, if you are one of the fust frllows in
God's world, but you are so to me. I tell you
this just now in the conviction that some in-
equalities in my temper atui manner inay per-
haps sometimes make you suspect that 1 am not
so warmly as I ought to be
Your /iicua.
No. LXIV.
TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq.
AVhii.e here I sit, sad and solitary, by the
side of a tiie in a little country inn, and diving
my wet clothes, in jiops a poor fellow of a soil-er
and tells me he is going to Ayr. By beavcns I
say I to myself, with a tiileof good spirit.s which
the magic of that sound, Auld Toon o' Avr,
cmijuied up, 1 will send my last song to Ml.
Ballantine. — Here it is —
( The first sketch of " Ye liatiks and liraes a
liuniiie Dunn.")
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES.
No. LXV.
FROM THE POET TO DR. MOORE,
GIVING A SKETCH OF HIS MI'E.
SIR, Miiuchlinc, 2'/ Aug. ITS?.
For some months past I have been iamb-
ling over the country ; but I atn now confined
with some lingering complaints, originating, a&
I take it, in the stomach. To divert niys)nrit»
a little in this mineral) e fog of cw/j'.-j, I b.ive ta.
ken a whim to give you a histoiv of ui\sclf
My n^aie has made surae little noise in this coua>
:;82
BTJRNS' WORKS.
try ; /au have (Tnne me the linnour to intcrept
Jduise t very waiiulv in my behalf; and I think
a faitli'nl atcount (if what diaratter of a man I
am; and how I camt' by that character, may ptT-
h«ps amn'e you in an idle nionunt. I will give
you an litmest nai native; though I know it wiil
he cffen at my own expense ; — for I assure you,
Sir, I liave, like Solomon, whose chaiactei', ex
ct'pt in the trifling affair of tciad'.m, I sonie-
tiines think I resemble, — I have, I say, like him,
tuntcil Jill/ ei/i.i to bthold madin'ss and fully, and,
like him too, frequently shaken hands with their
intoxicating friendship. . . After you
have perused these p ip;es, should you think them
triflin}; and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell
you, that tiie poor author wrote them under some
twitching quahns of conscience, arising from a
Biispici.m that he was doing what he ought not
to do ; a |iredicament he has moie tlian once
been in before.
I have not the most distant pretensions to
assume that character which the pye-coatcd
guardians of escutcheons call a Gentleman. \\'hen
at hdiiiburgb last winter, I got accjuainted in
tlie Herald's Office ; and, looking through that
giaaaiy of honours, I there fouiid almost every
name in the kinijdum ; but for me,
" Jly ancient but ignoble blood
Has ciept through scoundrels ever since tlie
flood."
Gules, purpure, argent, &c. quite disowned me.
My fatlu,'r was of the noith of Scot!and, the
son of a farmer, and was thrown by early mis-
fortunes on the woifd at large ; where, after many
years wanderings and sojouiiiings, he jdcked up
a pretty large quaijtity of observation and e.\|)e-
rieuce, to wh.ich I am indebted for most of my
little pretensions to wisdom. — I have met with
few who unileistood mtii, their vianiier!<, cint/
t/teir uo!/s, equ il to liiin ; but stubborn, uugaiii-
Jy integr.ty, and head oug, ungovernable iiasci-
bility, are disqualifying circumstances ; coiise-
quently I was born a very poor man's son. Tor
the fust six or seven years of my life, my fa-
ther was a gardeiier to a worthy gentleman of
small estate in the neiglibciurli lod of Ayr. Ihid
be c(Miiinued in that stati.iii, I u.'ist have march-
ed cif to be one of the little unoeriiui'.s atiout a
farm-bouse; but it was his dearest wi^h and
prayer to have it in his jjower to keep li;s chil-
dren 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 f-iiai on his estate. At those years
I was l;y no means a favour ite w ith any body.
1 was a t;o(jd deal noted for a retentive menioiy,
a litubliorn sturdy sunuthiiig in my di«|iiisi;ii>n,
gild an enthu-ia-tie idiot peiy. I siy i'l'ot j'iety,
because 1 wan then but a child. 'Ihou^;!! it eo-t
the scboolinjster some thrasbings, ] made an tx-
3elieiit liiiglisli Kcliidar ; and liy tlie tiiiit; 1 was
ten oi eleven years of a^'e, I wa.s a critic in >ul>-
ttantives, vei bn, und puitici]des. In my ii.taiit
' and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old
Woman wlio resided in the family, remark abli
for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition.
I She had, I suppose, the largest i ollection ia tlie
country of tales and songs concerning devils,
ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks,
' sjiuokies. keljdes, elf-candles, dead -ligVits, wi aiths,
j ajiparitions, cantrips, giants, enchanted towers,
(Iragon-i, and other trumpery.* This cultivated
■ the latent seeds of poetry ; but hail so strong an
: effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in
' my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp
j look-out in suspieioi's places ; and t'nough no-
body can be more sceptical than I am in such
masters, yet it often takes an effort of jihilosnphy
to shake of these idle terrors. The e irliest com-
position that I leeidlect taking pleasute in, wis
T/ie VUiuit of Mirza, and a hyniu of Addison's,
beginning, Hotv are thy Servants blest, O
Lord ! I particularly remember one half-stanza
which was music to my boyish ears —
" For though on dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave — "
I met with these ])ieces in Mason's Em/lish
Collection, one of my school-books. The two
first books I ever read in private, and which
gave me more pleasute than any two books I
ever read since, were. The Life of llannbid,
and The History of Sir William Wallace.
Hannibal gave my \oung ideas such a turn, th.it
I used to strut in raptiiies up and down after the
reciuiting drum anil bjg-jiipe, and wish luyseif
tall enough to be a soldier ; while tiie story ol
Wallace [louied a Scottish prejudice into my
veins, which will bod along there till the flood-
gates of life shut in eternal rest
Polemical divinity about this time was put-
ting the country half-mad ; and I, ambitious ol
shining in conversation parties (Ui Sundays, be-
tween sermons, at funer.ils, &e. used, a few years
afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so much
heat anri indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry
of heresy against me, which has not ceasc^d tu
this hour.
My vicinity to .\yr was of some advantage
to me. ]\Iy S( cial <li;position, when not check-
ed by some modifications of spirited pride, was,
hke our chatechi«ui-defiiiition of iufiuitude,
wil/ioiU bomids or limits. 1 formed several con-
nections with other younkers who possessed su-
perior advantages, the yoitncjliny actors, who
were busy in the rehearsal of parts in which tl ey
were shortly to appear on the stage of life,
where, alas! I was destined to drudge behind
the seenes. It is not coiiimojily at this gieen
ace that our vouni!; L'eiury have a lust sense of
the immense distance between them and llieir
riggid play-fellows. It t.ikis a few dashes into
the wi'rid, to give the young great man that pio-
jier, dec-eut, unuoticing disregard tor the | oor,
insignificant, stupid devils, the iiiechanics and
peasantry around him, who were perh.ips Witn
in the same village. My young superiors ncveJ
CORRESPONDEMCE.
283
msalted the clnnterlt/ appearance of my ploujli-
hoy c.ircass, the two extremes of wlm-li were of-
ten expo-ieil to .ill the inclemencies of all the sea-
tons. They u'ouid give me stray volumes of
looks amonc; them, even then, I could pick up
dome oIxervatioiH ; and one, whose heart I am
sure nut even the Mmuiii JJegum sceni-s h ive
tainted, helped me to a little French. I'artin;^
with tliese mv young friends ami henefictors, as
they occasionally went off for the East or West
Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; hut I
was soon called to more serious evils. My fa-
ther's "enerous master died ; the firm proved a
ruinous bargain ; and, to clench the mi>furtune,
we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for
the picture I have drawn of one in my Tdle of
Twa Dogs. Jly father was advanced in life
when he married ; I was the eldest of seven
children ; and lie, worn out by early hardships,
was unfit for libour. My fither's spirit was
soon irritated, but uot easily broken. There was
a fret'dom in his lease in two years more ; and to
weatlur these two years, we retrenched our ex-
penses. We lived very poorly : I was a dexter-
ous ploughman, for my aije ; and the next eldest
to me was a brother (Gd!)ert) who could drive
could make verses like printed ones, composed
by men who had Greek and Litin; but my
girl sun-^ a Sitn;^, which was said to be com-
posed by a small country laird's son, on one of hii
fither's maids, with whom he was in love ; and I
saw no reason wliy I might not ihvme as well as
he ; f )r, excepting that he could snieai' sheep, and
cast pears, his father living in the moor land?,
he had no more scholar-craft than my<e!f.
Thus with me began love and poetry ;
which at times have been my only, and till
within the last twelve months, h.ive been my
hi'.;hest enjoyment. Jly father struggleil on
till he reached the freedom in his lease, when
he entered on a l.irger farm, about ten miles
farther in the country. The nature of the
bargain he maile was such as to throw a little
ready money into his hands at the commence-
ment of his lease ; otherwise the affair would
have been inipracticalde. For four years we
lived comfortably here ; hut a d ffercnce com-
mencing between him and his landlord, as tc
terms, after three years tossing and whirling
in the vortex of lltigati(m, my f.ther was just
saved from the horrors of a jail by a consump-
tion, which, after two years' promises, kindly
the plough very well, and help me to thr.ish the j stepped in, and carried him away, to where the
corn. A novel writer might perhaps have view- Ui"t7.e(/ cense from troubling, and wJicre the
cd these scenes with souie s.itisfiction ; but saUceur!/ arc at rest.
did not I ; my indignation yet IkiIIs at the recol
lection of the s 1 factor's insolent threa-
tening letti.'is, which used to set lis all In tears.
This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a
hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley-
si ive, brou:;ht me to my sixteenth year ; a lit-
tle before which period I first comuiittel the sin
It is (luring the time that we lived en this
farm th.it my little story is most eventful. I
was, at the beginning of this peri id, perhaps
the most ungainly, awkward boy in the pari.ih
— no Sdlituire was less acquainted with the
ways of the world. What I knew of ancient
story was gatliered from Saliinins and (Juih-
of Ilhvme. You know our country cust in of t'ik's geo^ra|)liical grammars ; and tlie i.leas I
coupling a man and woman together as partners had formed of moilern tnanners, of litei.ituic,
in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth an- land criticism, I got from the Sjicctut r. Tlase
tumn my partner was a bewitching cieature a , with /^oyje'.v lf''.ir/;i, some plays of S'lakspeare,
year younger than myself. My scarcity of | Tull n/ul D'ckson on Agriculture, the I'lin-
English denies me the power of doin^ her jus- ] </(e -n, L che's Essmj on the Huiiuui l/n-
tice in that language ; but you know the Scot- ' '/er,s7aH'//«./, Stitchhouse's IHsti>rii of the
tish idiom — .-he was uliuniiie, siceet, sou.sie hiss. lhl:le. Justice's liritisk (iiirdeutr's .'. iriclot^.
In short, she altogether, unwittingly to herself, i Pnyle's Lectures. AUan llams'iys W iks,
iiiitrited me in that delicious p:s-i,)ii, which, in j Tui/I r's Scrijture ZJoi trine if Oiii/i^a/ Sm,
spite of acid disajipointment, gm-hor.-e prudence, x-1 Uttict LUtUctinn vf l£n<jlisU Shikjs, una
and book-worm philosophy, I hold to he i\\e .Hcrrcy's Medituti'.ns, \vm\ fuimcd the whole
irst of human joys, our de.ire-it blessmg here , of my reading. The c(dlection of songs w.is my
below ! How she c.iught the contagion. I can-
not tell : you meihcal peo|de talk much of in-
fection fro.n l)reathiog the same air. the touch,
&c. ; hut I never exjuessly slid I lovcd her.
Indeeil. I d.d not know my.-elf woy I liked so
muidi to loiter behind witn her. wh.ii return-
ing in the evening from our labours ; why the
v>tile nucuiii. 1 pored over them, driving my
cart, or wa'kin,' to lalxnir, song by s.ing, versa
by ver-e ; careful y mitiog th.c true tender, or
suilime, from alVectation anil fns:iiu. I am
convinced I owe to tli;s practice much of my cri-
tic cr.ift, such as it is.
Ill my -eventeeiith year, to give my manners
tones of her voice made my heart-string- thrill a brush. I went to a country daucing-schoo; — .
like an i1*;ulian harp ; and particol.ir y why my Aly father h.id an uiucctmntablc antipathy
pulse beat such a turious ratan wlien 1 looked , ag.iinst these meetings; and my giung wa.s,
»nd fiugered over her little li.iiid to |iick out the i wh,:t to this inoment 1 ripent, in 0|ipos tion to
cruel nettle-stings and thi-tles. Among her his wishes. My father, as 1 said before, was
r)thei l.ive iiispinog qualltie-, she sung .-weetly ; .subject to >troug pa->ions ; fioin that iii^t.iiics
tvd it was her tavourite reel, to which I at- j of (l:sol>edicnce in me, he look a soit of dislike
tempted givin.; an embodied vehicle in rhyme. ; to me, which I believe was ime cause of the di»
I Was oi't so presumptuous as to imagine that I ^ >ipat.ou which marked my — — v^-d'ng years
284
BURNS' WORKS.
»ay Hissipitinn, coTn,)aiati,rcIy with the stiipt-
ness, aim M)l)iitty, and rtijulaiity of I'lt-.-byte-
rlaii cDuntiy life ; fur though the Will-o'-Wisp
motivjis of thoughtless whim were almost the
sole li_i;lits of my p.ifh, yet early ingrained piety
and virtue kept me for several years afterwards
wltliin the liiie of innocence. The great inis-
f.irtune of my life was to want an aim. I had
felt early some stirrings of amhition, hut they
were the btinil po|)ings of Homer's Cyclops
roiinti tnt walls of his cave. I sitw my lather's
situation entr.i'.ed on me perpetual labour. The
onlv two openings hy which I crould enter the
teniple of Fortune, was the irate of niggarilly
economy, or the path of 1 .tie chicaning haigain-
niaking. The first is so contracted an aperture,
I never could squeeze myself into it ; — the last
I always hited — there was contamination in the
very entrance ! Tims abandoned of aim or view
in life, with a strong a petite for sociability, as
well from native hiliiriry, as from a priile of ob-
servation anil rem Ilk ; a constitution il melan-
choly or hypiichondriasm that made me fly so-
litude ; add to these incentives to social life, my
repiitali(m for bocdvish knowledge, a certain
wild logical talent, and a strength of thought,
someljiiiig like the rudiments of gooil sense;
and it will not seem surprising that I was ge-
nerally a welcome guest where I visited, or any
great wonder that, always where two or three
nut together, there was I among them. Hut,
far bevond all other impulses of my heart, w.is
itn pcnc/iiint ii I'ailnrable mnitie <Ju gviire hu-
main. My lieart was completely tiniler, ancl
was eternally lighted up by some goddess or
other ; and as in every other warfare in this
uoiid my furtuiie was various, sometimes I wis
received with favour, and sometimes I was nior-
tilijd with ■• icpii'se. At the plough, scythe,
or reap-lio(d<, I feareil no competitor, anil thus
I set absolute want at detiance ; and as ! never
c.ired flit her for my labours than while I was
in actual exercise. I s|)ent the evenings in the
way after my own heart. A cointry lad sel-
dom carries on a iove adventure without an as-
sisting coiilidaiit I possfssed a curiosity, zeal,
and intrepid ilexferity, that recommended me as
a proper secoiul on these occasions ; and I d.ire
say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the se-
■^ri.'t of ha'f the l.ves of the parish of Tarbolton,
ts ever d d st.itesmen in knowing the intrigues
of liilf the courts of Europe — The very goose-
fciitlier in my hind seems to know instinctively
the Well worn |ia'h of my iui.iginution, the fa-
vourite theme of mv song; and is wiih dithrul-
tv restrained from giving you a couple nt p ira-
gtipls on the love adveiitures of my compeeis,
tlie humble 'Tiriates of the f.irin-house and cot-
tage ; but the grave sons of science, ambition,
nr av.irice, baptize tlie^e tilings by the iiime of
folli,'-. To tlie sons and diughters of labour
liid poviiry, ihcy are ni.itter> of the "W-t seri-
ous iiitiiie; to them, the .iidelit Impe, the sto-
en inteivie\»', the tnd'. r I ire'vejl, arc tliegreat-
•lat uiid most di:licioiis partk uf theii' etiiovmentb.
Anot.ier cinnmstance in my iife wn^ii
made some alteration in my mind and inanners,
was, that I spent my nineteenth siunnier on a
smuggling coast, a good distance f--' tii home, at
a noted school, to learn mensuration, surveying,
dialling, &c. in which I made a prettv good
progress. But I made a greater progress in the
knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade
was at that time very successful, and it some-
times happened to me to fall in with those who
carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and
roaring dissipation were till this time new to
me ; but I was no en -my to social life. Her»
though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix
without fear in a drunken si)uabble, yet 1 went
on with a high hand with my geometry, till the
sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a
carnival in my bosom, when a charming yi/e^/e,
who lived next door to the school, overset n>y
trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from
the sphere of my studies. 1, liowever, striigglej
on with my sines, and cosines, for a few ihiys
more ; but stepping into the garden one charm-
ing noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met
ray angel,
" Like Proserpine, gathering flowers.
Herself a fairer tlower. "
It was in vain to think of doing any more
good at school. The rem lining week I staid,
I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul
about her, or steal out to meet her ; and tlie
two last nights of my stay in the country, had
sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this mo-
dest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless.
1 returned home very considerably iiiipiov-
ed. Mv reading was enlarged with the very
important addition of Thomson's and Shen-
stone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a
new pliasis ; and I engaged several of my
school-fellows to keep up a literary corresjjon-
dence with me. This improved me in compo.
sition. I had met with a collection of letters
by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and 1 poied
over them most devoutly : I kept copies of any
of my own letters that pleased nie ; and a com-
parison betvveen them and the composilion ol
most uf my corres|)onilents flattered my vanity.
1 carried this whir.i so far, that though 1 had
not three farthings worth of business in the
world, yet almost every post brought me as
many letters as if I hid been a biojd plodding
son of dav-book and ledger.
My life flowed on much in the same course
till my twenty-third year. Vn-e ruiiidur, H
V ve la biiyiiiille, were iiiv so)e piinci|des I'f ac-
tion. The addition of two nii.re autbois to my
library j;ave ire great pleasure ; S/cine and
AI' herizie — Tristniin H/ui/kIij and J In: Mint
'if I-'edin i — were my bosom favourites. I'uesy
w,is still a darling walk for :i v mind ; !iut it
was only indulged in accoidng to the liiimoui
id' the hour. I lud iisu.illy hall a dozen or iiiort
piecen on baud ; I took u^' one oi otber, ih p
CORRESPONDENCE
2c»o
jirtivl ttip momptitary tone of the mind, an.l
fli<iiussi.'(l the work as it hordored dii fatii^iic.
My ]).issii)iis, wlit'ii once li,;;hteJ up, raiji'd like
so niiir.y devils, till they got vent in ihvine ; and
then t!ie conninj^ over my verses, like a sj)i.'ll,
snotlied all into rjuiet ! None of the rhymes of
tlitwe i\d\< are in print, exeept Winter, a Uirijv,
the elile^t of my printeil pieces ; Tlie Diuitli (if
Poor Mui''e, Jiilin Jiarlei/cnrn, and Son.;s,
Cist, seeont , and third. Son;^ second was the
ehullition of that passion which ended the fore-
montioned schoul husiness.
My twentN-thinl year w;is to me an import-
ant era. I'artly throuj^li whim, and partly
that I wislu'il to set ahout doing something in
life, I joined a flaxdresser in a neighhonring
town (Irvine) to learn liis trade. This Wis
an unlucky affair. My ; and, to
finisli the whole, as we were giving a welcome
carini--il to the new year, the shop took fire,
and iinriit to ashes ; and I was left, like a true
pot t li t worth a sixpence.
1 V.MS o')!igcd to give up this scheme : the
clouils o; iiii-lortune wert gathering thick round
my father's head ; and, what was worst of all,
he was visihly far gone in a consumption ; and,
to crown my distresses, a belle Jllle, whom I
adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet
me in the ficM of matrinaony, jilted me, with
peculiar circumstances of nioitification. The
finishing evil that brought up the rear of this
infernal file, was, my constitutional melancholy
being increased to such a degree, that for three
months I Was in a state of mind scarcely to be
envieil by the hopeless wretches who have got
their iii;ttinius — Depart from me, ye cursed !
Fiooi this adventure, I learned something
of a town life; but the principal thing which
gave my mind a turn, was a friendship 1 form-
ed with a young fellow, a very noble character,
but a hapless son of misfortune. He was the
son of I simple mechanic ; but a great mm in
the neighbourhood taking him under his |)a-
tronage, gave h:m a genteel education, with a
view of bettering his situation in life. The
patron flying ju>t as he was ready to launch (>ut
into the world, the poor fellow in despiir went
to sea ; where, after a variety of good and ill
foitiine, a little liefore 1 was acquainted with
bim, he hid been set ashore by in American
privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught,
strip])ed of every thing. 1 cannot quit this jioor
fellow's story, without adding, that he is at this
time master of a large West Indiaman belonging
U the Thames.
His mind was fraught with independence,
m.ignaniuiity, am every manly virtue. I loved
and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm,
anil of couise strove to imitate him. In some
measure, I succeeded ; I had pride before, but
he taught it to flow in prop«r channels. His
knowledge of the world was vastly superior to
mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was
tUe only man I ever saw who was a greiter
fool tliau mystdf, \vJ>ere wom.ui was the presid-
ing star ; tint V.e s|)oke ( illicit fovi; with the
levity of a siilor, which hitherto I hid rcgirdeij
with hiuror. Here his friendship did me a mis-
chief; and the consequence was, thiit soon after
I lesuiiied the plough, I wrote the fuel's Wil-
ciime.' My reailing only iiu rea-^cd, while in
this town, by two stray volumes of /•'./dic///, and
one of Fentiniut'l Count J'ulliom, which gave
me some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some
religious pieces that are in print, I had given
up ; but meeting with Ferr/nsson's Scottish
I'oems, I struiig anew my wililly-soutiding lyre
with emulating vigour. When my fatl.er died,
his all Went among the hell-hounds that jirowl
in the kennel of justice ; but we made a shif"
to collect a little money in the family amongst
us, with which, to keep .(s together, my brother
and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother
wanted my hair-brained iina.;ination, as well a?
my social ar.d amorous madness; but, in good
sense, and every sober qualification, Ijc was far
my superior.
I entered on this farm with a full resolution,
Cinie, go to, I ivill be wise.' I read finning
hooks; I calculated crops ; I attendi-d markets ;
and, in short, in spite of tlic devil, and ike
world, and tlie flesh, I believe I should have
been a wise man ; but the fiist year, from un-
fortnn itely buying bad seed, the sfcmid, from a
late harvest, we lost halt'o'ir crops. This over-
set all my wisdom, and I returned, lih 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 neigh-
bourhood as a maker of rhymes. The fir>t of
my poetic off-^priiiij that saw the light, was a
burlesque lamentation on a quarrel l)ciween two
reverend Calvinists, both of them ilnimntis per ■
soncE in my Hohj Fnir. I had a imtion my-
self, that the piece had some merit ; but to pre-
vent the worst, I gave a co|)y of it to a friend
who was very fond of such things, and tolil him
that I could nut guess who was the author of
it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With
a certain description of the clergy, as well as
laitv, it met with a roar of ajiplau'e. I^'l;/
Willie's Player next made its appearance, and
alarmed the kiik-se.ssion so much, that they
held several meetings to look over their spiiitual
artillery, if haply any of itmi:lit be pointed
against jjrofane rhymers. Unluckily for me,
my wanderings led me on ancither side, witliin
point blank shot of their heaviest iiu tal. This
is the unfortunate story that gave rise to my
printed poem, Tlie Lament. This was a ni(i>t
mclanchiily affiir, which I cannot yet be.ir to
rcfl.ct on, and had very neatly givm me one or
two of the principal qn ilificatioiis for a place
among those who h.ive lost the chart, and nns-
taken the reckoning of Rationality. I gave up
my part of the farm to my brotlier ; in truth it
was only nominally mine ; atid n'ade what little
• Ilob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Uagtarc
CiiiM.
28G
BURN5' WORKS.
preparation was in my power for Jim.iica. But,
bef,)re leaviaj; my native country fur evjr, I re-
»o!v(.'(l to publish my poems. I weighed my
proiluctions as impartially as was in my power :
I tliou;:;ht they had merit ; and it was a deli-
cious idea that 1 should bo called a clever fel-
low, even thoUijh it should never reach my
»ais — a poor negro-driver, — or perhaps a vie-
.iui to that inhospitable clime, and gone to tlic
world of spirits ! I can truly say, that panvre
iacoiinu as I then was, I had pretty nearly as
high an idea of myself and of my works as 1
have at this moment, when the public has de-
cided in their favour. It ever was my opini-
on, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a
rational and religious point of view, of which
we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to
their ignorance of themselves. — To know jny-
self, had been all along ray constant study. I
weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with
others ; I watched every means of information,
to see how much ground I occupied as a man
and as a poet : I studied assiduously nature's
design in my formation — where the lights and
shades in my character were intended. I was
pretty confident my poems would meet with
some applause ; but, at the %vorst, the roar of
the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure,
and the novelty of West Indian scenes make me
forgot neglect. I threw off six hundred copies,
of which I h 1(1 got subscriptions for about three
hundred and fifty. — ^ily vanity was higlily gra-
tified by the reception I met with from the
pubiic ; and besides I pocketed, all expenses
deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum
caine very seasonably, as I was thinking of in-
denting niy?elf, for want of money to procure
mv passage. As soon as I was master of nine
guineas, tlie price of wafting me to the torrid
zone, I took a steerage passage in the iirst ship
that was to sail from tlie Clyde ; for
" Hungry ruin had me in the wind."
I had been for some days skulking from
covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ;
as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the
Kierci'ess pack of tlie law at iny heels. I had
taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my
chest was on the road to Greenock ; I h id com-
posed the last song I should ever mea^ure in
Caledonia, The (jlomny Jiirj/U is gatherhig fast,
when a letter from Dr. Blackiock, to a friend
of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening
new prospects to my poetic ambition, 'i'lie
D.ictor belonged to a set of critics, for whose
applause 1 had not dared to lio])e. His opi-
Dum that I woulil meet with encouracri'meut in
Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me sc
much, that away 1 posted for that city, with-
out a fiiigle acquaintance, or a single letter of
Jntrodujtion. The baneful star, that lud so
••jiig shed its blasting influence in my zenith,
f T iiiice made a rcvoluticvn to the nadir ; and
a kind I'rovidence jilaced ;ne undei the patron-
age of one of the noblest of rnek, the Earl o(
Glencairn. Oiblie moi. Grand Dleu, si jo
mtiis je I'otiblie !
I need relate no farther. ,\t Edinburgh 1
was in a nev/ world ; I mingled among many
classes of men, but all of them new to me, and
I was all attention to calch the characters and
the manners liv'uig as they rise. Wliether I
have profitedi time will sbow.
My most respectful compliments to Miss W.
Her very elegant and friendly letter I cannot an-
swer at present, as my presence is requisite ic
Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow.*
No. LXVI.
FROM GILBERT BURNS.
A RUN'NI.NG COMMENTARY ON THE FORK-
GOING.
The farm was upwards of seventy acres -f
(between eighty and ninety English statute
measure), the rent of which was to be forty
pounds annually for the first six years, ancl af-
terwards forty-five p lunds. My father endea-
voured to sell his leasehold property, for the
purpose of stocking tliis farm, but at that time
was unable, and !\Ir. Fo!gns>)n lent him i. hun-
dred pounds for that )nirpose. He removed to
his new situation at Whitsuntiile, ITOCJ. It was,
I thiidv, nut above two years after this, that
Murdoch, our tutor and friend, left this part of
the country ; and there being no school near us,
and our little services being useful on tlie farm,
my fither undertook to teach us arithmetic in
the winter evenings, by cai^dle-light; and in this
way my two eldest sisters got all the education
they received. I remember a circuinst.ciice ttiat
happened at thi«i time, which, thou','h trifling
in itself, is fresh in my memory, and may serve
to illustrate the early character of my brother.
Murdoch came to spend a night with us, and to
take his leave when he was about to go intc
Carrick. He brought us, as a present and me-
morial of him, a small compendium of English
Grammar, and the tragedy of Titus Amtroiii-
ciis ; and by way of passing the evening, he be-
gan to read the play aloud. We were all atten •
tiou for some time, till presently the wh.ole pn'-
ty was dissolved in tears. A female in the play
(I have but a confused remembraiice of it) had
• There are various copies of this letter, in the 3ii>
thor's ti.Mulwritiiij; ; ami one of lliese, e\ iilciniy cor-
reetej, is in the book in which he hail eopiiMi ^everaJ
of liis letters. This has been useil for the press, with
some <)inis>ii)iis, snd one sliglit allenilioii suggested by
(Jilbert liurns.
t Letter of Gilbert Rums to Mrs. Diiulop. 'Ilu
name of llii. faiin is Mount Ohph.iut, in A>r paiisii.
CORRESPONDEXCE.
281
htr hinds chopt off, and her tring'.ie cut out,
jnd tliin was insultingly dusiieii to call for wa-
ter to wash lier lumds. At this, in an agnny of
distro-s, we wiili one voice desired he w<iuld
read no more. My father ohserved, that if we
would not hear it out, it would be needless to
leave the play with us. Robert replied, that if
it was loft he would burn it. l\ly father v/as
^olug to chide hiui for this ungriteful return to
his tutor's kindness ; but Murdoch interfered, de-
claring that he liked tf) see so much sensibility ;
and he left T!te School for Love, a comedy
(translated, I think, from tlie French), in its
place.
Nothing could be more retired than our ge-
neral manner of living at Mount Ollphant ;
we rarely siw any body but the members of
our own family. There were no boys of our
own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood.
I/idcrd the greatest part of the land in the
vicinity was at that time possessed by shop-
keepers, and people of that stamp, who had
retirsd from business, or who kept their farm
in the country, at the same time that they f\)l-
lowed business in town. My father was for
•ome time almost the only companion we had.
lie conversed familiarly on all subjects with us,
as if we had been men ; and was at great pains,
wlale we accompanied him in the labours of the
farm, to lead the conversation to such subjects
as mi;;ht tend to increase our knowledge, or
confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed
Sulmon's GLor/rajihicdl Grammar fur os, and
endeavoured to make us acquainted with the
»ituarion ami history of the ditferent countries
in the world ; while, from a book-society ia
Ayr, he procured fur us the reading of Der-
Ar/m'i P/ii/sico and Astro - TIieoIo(iy, and
Roy^s Wisdnm of God in the Creation, to
give us some idea of astronomy and natural his-
tory. Robert read all tiiesc boidis with an avi-
dity and industry scarcely to be equalleil. I\Iv
father had been a subscribtr to Stuckhozise's
liistorr/ of the Bible, then lately published by
James Menros in Kilmarnock : from this
Robert collected a competent knowledge of an-
cient history ; for no book was so voluminous
as to slacken his industry, or so antiijuitated as
to (lamp his researches. A brother of my mo-
ther, who had lived with us some time, and
had learnt some arithmetic by our winter even-
ing's candle, went into a bookseller's shop in
Ayr, to purchase The Ready Reckoner, or
Tradesman's sure Guide, and a book to teach
him to write letters. Luckily, in place of The
Com/j/ete Letter- Writer, he got, by mistake,
& small collection of letters by the most emi-
nent writers, with a few sensible directions for
tttaining an easy epistolary style. This book
Was to Robert of the greatest consequence. It
inspired him v/ith a strong desire to excel in
letter-writing, while it furnished him with mo-
dels by some of the first writers in our lao-
My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, ]
when my father, regretting that we wtvite M
ill, sent us week about, ilui ini( a summer cjuar-
ter, to the parish sclioo of Daliymple, which,
though between two and three miles distant,
was the nearest to us, that we might have an
opportunity of remedying this defect. Abcmt
this time a bookish acquaintance of my father's
procured us a reading of two volumes of Rich-
ardson's Pamela, which w:fs the first novel we
read, and the only part of Richardson's works
my brother was acquainted with till towards
the peiiod of his commencing author. Till that
time too he remained unaciiuainted with Field-
ing, with Smollet, (two volumes of Ferdinand
Count Fathom, and two volumes of Ptrec/rint
Pickle excepted), with Hume, with Rubeitscm,
and almost all our authors of eminence of the
later times. I recollect indeed my father bor-
rowed a .volume of English history fnini Mr.
Hamilton of Bourtree-hill's gardener. It treat-
ed of the reign of James the First, and his un-
fortunate son Charles, bat I do not know who
was the author ; all that I remember of it is
something of Charles's conversation with his
children. About this time Muidoch, our for-
mer teacher, after having been in dillerent
places in the countiy, and having taught a
school some time in Dumfrlts, came to be the
established teacher of the English language in
Ayr, a circumstance of considerable consequence
to us. The remembrance of my father's former
friendship, and his attachment to my brother,
made him do every thing ia his power fur our
improvement. He sent us Piij)e's woi ks, and
some other poetry, the first that we bad an op-
portunity of reading, exce])ting what is cou
taiiied in The Lnytish Collection, and in the
volume of The Ldinburr/h 3Iai;azine (or 1772 ;
excepting also th jSe excellent new so7i(/s that
are hau kcd about the country in baskets, or
exposed on stalls in the streets.
The sumnu-r after we h id been at Dalrym
j)!e school, my father sent Robert to Ayr, to
revise his English graiumar, with his former
teacher. He had been there only one week,
when he was obliged to return, to assist at the
harvest. When the harvest was over, he went
back to school, where he remained two wee'tvs ;
and this completes the account of his school
education, excepting one sunuuer quarter, some
time afterwards, that he attended the parish
school of Kiik-O.swald (where he lived v. ilh a
brother of my mother's) to learn surveyicg.
During the two last weeks that he was with
^Murdoch, he himself was engaged in learning
French, and he communicated the instructions
he received to my brother, who, when he retur n-
ed, bri uglit home with Iiim a French dictlouirv
and grammar, and the A.dientures of TeleW'i-
chus in the original. In a little while, by the
assistance of these books, he had acquiieil such a
knowledge of the language, as to read and un-
derst.'nd nny French author in prose. Thil
.vas cons:(iered as a sort of pnidii'y, and, through
the medium of iMurdnch, procuied him the iC'
^88
BURNS' WORKS.
^uiintance of several krls in Ayr, who were at 1 IMmint Ollpliant, the farm my fatTier possessed
thit tune giibblin;^ French, ami the notice of in the pari^h of Ayr, i* alnio-t the very poorest
some families, [)articul irly that of Dr. Malcolm
where a knowledjje of FieQ.;h was a recommen-
dation.
Observing the facility with which he had
acquired the French language, IMr. Robinson,
the established writing-master in Ayr, and Mr.
Murdoch's particular friend, having himself ac-
quired a considerable knowledge of the Latin
language by his own industry, witliout ever ha-
vi:i" learned it at school, advised Robert to make
the same attem|jt, promising him every assist-
ance in his power. A.greeably to this advice, he
purchased T/ie Rudinieiits of the Lntin Tongue,
but finding this j-tuiiy dry and uninteresting, it
was quickly laid a^ide. He frequently returned
to liis Riidimtnts on any httle chagrin or dis-
appointment, paiticuhnly in his love affairs;
but the Larin sel(h)m precKiminated more than a
day or two at a time, or a week at most. Ob-
serving himself the ridicule that would attach to
this sort of conduct if it were known, he made
two or three humorous stanzas on the subject,
which I canuut now recollect, but they all ended,
" So I'll to my Latin again.*
Thus vou see Jlr. Murdoch was a princi|)al
means of my brother's improvement. Worthy
man ! though foreign to my present purpose, I
cannot take leavi- of him without tracing his
future history. He continued for some years a
respected and useful teacher at Ayr, till one
evening that he liati been overtaken in liquor,
he hap])ened to spe.ik somewhat disrespectfully
of Dr. Dalrymple, the parish minister, who had
not paid him that attention to which he thought
hiiiself entitled. In Ayr he might as well have
spoken blasphemy. He f mnd it proper to give
up his a|ipointnient. He went to London, v.'here
he still lives, a private teacher of French. He
has been a considerable time married, and keejis
a sliop of stationery wares.
The father of Dr. Paterson, now physician at
Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aberdeenshire,
and was one of the established teachers in Ayr
when my father settled in the neighbouihood.
He early recognised my fither as a fellow na-
tive of tlic noith of Scotland, and a certain de-
rce of intimacy sulisisted between them during
Mr Paterson's life. After his death, his wiilow,
who is a very genteel woman, and of great
worth, delighted in doing what she thought her
huslwud would have wished to have done, and
assiduously kept up her attentions to all his ac-
quaintance. She ke|)t alive the intimacy with
cur fimily, by ficqueiitly inviting my father and
n, other to her house on Sundays, whco she nut
tlicni at churcii.
When she came tn know my brother's passion
fiir bonks, she kindly offered us the use of her
husband's library, and from her we got the
soil I know of in a state of cultivation. A
stronger proof of this I cannot give, than that,
notwithstanding the extraordinary rise in the
va'ue of lands in Scotland, it was, after a con-
siderable sum laid out in improving it by the
prnpiietor, let, a few years ago, five poiii.ds per
annum lower than the rent paid for it liy my
father thirty years ago. My father, in conse-
quence of this, soon came into difficulties, which
were increased by the loss of several ol Ins cattle
by accidents and disease. — To the biifFetings of
misfortune we could only oppose hard l.dxmr and
the most rigid economy. We lived very spa-
ringlv. For several j'ears 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 la-
bours 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 uo hired servant, male or fe-
male. The anguish of minil we felt at our ten-
der years, under these straits and difficulties,
was verv great. To think of our father grow-
ing old, (for he was now above ii'ty), bioke.i
down with the long contimrd fitigues of his
life, with a wife and five other children, and in
a declining state of circumstances, these reflec-
tions produced in my brotlier's mind and nine
sensations of the deepest distiess. 1 doubt not
but tlie hard labour and sorrow of this pe-
riod of his life, was in a great measure the cause
of tliat depression of sjiirlts with w.liH-h Robert
was so often afflicted through his whole li/e af-
terwards. At this time he was almost con-
stantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull
headache, which, at a future ))eriod of his life,
was exchanged for a palpitation of the heart,
and a threatening of fiintiug and sufTucation in
his bed, in the night-time.
By a stipulation in my fither's lease, lie had
a right to throw it up, if he thought |ifoper, at
the end of every sixth year. He atvempted to
fix himself in a better *arm at the end of the
first six years, but failing in that attempt, he
continued where he was for six yean, nuire. He
then toidi the farm of Lochica, of 130 acres, at
the lent of twenty shillings an acre, in the ))a-
rish of Tarboltoni of IMr. , then
a merchant in Ayr, and now (1797) a merchant
in Liverpool. He removed to this farm at
Whitsunday, 1777, and possessed it only seven
years. No writing had ever been ntade out of
the conditions of the lease , a misunderstanding
took Jilace respecting them ; the subjects in dis-
|)ute were submitted to arbitration, and the de-
cision involved my father's alTaiis 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,
_ ^ The seven years we lived in Tarbol ton parish
Sprciiilor, Pope's Triinsliitiiin of llnZr, and (extending from the seventewith to the twei.ty.
*i;veral other books that were of use to us. | fourth of my brother's age), were not mat ied
CORRESPONDENCE.
289
br iniirn iitcrarv improvement ; Imt ilurlna;
tnis tiiiK' tlio fiHHid.itidn was 1 liil of crrtain lia-
bitu in iiiv bintlii-r's flianicter, which afterwards
beeame Imt too |)roiiiinent, ami whicli malice
and envy have taken delii^iit to enlarge on.
T!'.oui;h, when young, he was hashfiil and awk-
»-;rd in his intercourse with women, vf t when
he approacneil maniiooii, his attachment to their I
eocitty liecame very strong, and he was con-
stantly t le victim iif some fair enslaver. The
symptoms of his passion were often such as
nearly to cipial those of the celehrateil Sapjiho.
I never indeed knew that hv fainted, iunk, and
died away ; Iiut the agitations of his minil and
body exceeded any thitig of the kind I ever
knew in real life. He had always aparticular
jealousy of people who were richer than him-
self, or who had nrore consequence in life. His
love, therefore, rarely settled on persons of this
description. When he selected any one, out of
the sovereignty of his good p.tasure, to whom
he should piy his particular attentiim, she was
instantly invested with a sufficient stock of
charms, out of the ])lentiful stores of his own
imagination ; and there was often a great dis-
similitude hetween his fiir captivator, as she
S[ipeired to others, and as she seemed when in-
vested with the attributes he gave her. One
generally reigned paramount in his affections ;
but as Yorick's affections flowed out toward
Madime de L at the remise door, while
the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so
Robert was frequently encountering other at-
tractions, which formed so many under plots in
the drama of his love. As these connections
were governed by the strictest rules of virtue
jnd modesty (from which he never deviated till
he reached his 23d year), he became anxious to
be in a situation to marry. This was not likely
to be soon the case while he remained a farmer,
as the stocking of a farm required a sum of
money he had no probability of being master of
for a great while. He began, therefore, to think
of trying some other line of life. He and I had
fcr several years taken land of my father for the
purpose of raising flax on our own account. In
the course of selling it, Robert began to think
of turning flix-dresser, both a-* being suitable to
his grand view of settling in life, and as sub-
lervient to the flax raising. He accordingly
wrought at the business of a flax-dresaer iu
Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at that
period, as neither agreeing with bis health nor
inclination. In Irvine he had contracted some
acquaintance of a fieei manner of thinking and
living than he ha<l been used to, who>c society
prepared him for overleaping the bounds of rigid
virtue which bad hitherto restrained him. To-
wards the end of the period under review (in
his 24th year), and soon after his father's deith,
he Was furnislied with the sulijeit of bis epistle
to John Ratikin. During this period also he
became a freemason, which was his first intro-
duction to the life of a boon companion. Yet,
Botwith&tanding these circumstance!, and the
praise he has bc*tow"d on Scofch drink (which
seems to have misled his hi>toriaris), I do nol
recollect, (luring these seven >i'ars, nor till to-
wards the end of his comniencir.g author { whea
his growing celebrity occasioned his being oftea
in coin])any), to have ever seen him intoxicated,
nor was be at all given to drinking. A stronger
proof of the general sobriety of his conduct netd
not be required tli in wh it I am about to give.
During the wliole of the time we liveii in tiie
firm of Lochlea with my fither, he allowed my
brother and me such wages for our labour as he
gave to Other labourers, as a jiart of which,
every article of our clothing manufactured in
the fimily was regularly accounted for. When
my fither's affairs drew near a crisis, Robert
and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting of
1 18 acres, at the lent of ȣ9() jier annuiii (the
farm on which I live at jiresimt) from Mr. Ga-
vin Hamilton, as an asylum for the family in
case of the worst. It was stocked by tlie pro-
perty and individual savings of the whole family,
and was a joint concern among us. Every mem-
ber of the family was allowed ordinary wai.;<'»
for the laliour he pL-rfirmed on the farm. .N'y
brother's allow.mce and mine was seven pociidi
])er annum each. And during the whole tune
thisfdiiiily concern lasted, wliich was four J'imih,
as well as during the preceding period at L»n,h-
lea, his exjienses never in one yeir exceeded his
slender income. As I was intrusted with the
keeping of the f.imily accounts, it is not possi-
ble that tlieie can be any fillacy in this state-
ment in my brother's fivour. His teniperance
and frugality Avcre every thing that could be
wished.
The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, ami
mostly on a cold wet bottom. 'I'he first iV-iir
jear's that v.e were on the firm were very froity,
and the spring was very late. Our crops in
consequence were very unprofitable ; and, not-
withstanding our utmost (liiigence and econoinv,
we found ourselves obliged to give \x\) our Lir-
gain, with the loss of a consideralile part of our
original stock. It was during these four years
that Robert formed his connection with Jeau
Armour, afterwards .Mis, Burns. This connec-
t on could no loilffcr be caucealed, about the
time we came to a final determin.ition to quit
the firm. Robert durst not engage with a
family in his |)oor unsettk'd state, but was an-
xious to shield his partner by every means in
his power from tlw consequences of their im-
lirudence. It was agreeil therefore betweeo
them, that they shoulil make a legal acknow-
ledgment of an irregular and private marriage ;
that he should go to Jamaica, to jnah Ais 'i-r-
tiuie ; and tint she shoiiUi remain wjtii ]\tt
fither till it might ]ilease Providence to put th»
means of supporting a family in his power.
Mrs. Rums wa^ a great favourite of her fa-
ther's. The intimation of a private niarriapj
was the first suggestion he received of her ri.-a
situation. He was in the greatest distress, ao<l
fainted^ away. The marriage did not aujiea/ tu
290
BURNS' WORKS.
fcim to make the matter any better. A hus-
band in Jamaica appeared to him anil to his wife
little better than none, and an efTectual bar to
any other prospects of a settlement in life that
their daughter might have. They therefore ex-
pressed a wish to her, that the written papers
which rc-pectcd the marriage should be cancel-
led, and thus the marriage rendeied void. In
her moitfacholy state she felt the deepest remorse
at having brought such heavy affliction on pa-
rents that loved her so tenderly, and submitted
to their entreaties. Their wish was mentioned
to Robert. He felt the deepest anguish of
mind. He offered to stay at home and provide
for his wife and family in the best manner that
ills daily labours could provide for them ; that
being the only means in his power. Even this
oiler they did not approve of; for, hund)le as
Miss Armour's station was, and great though
her imprudence had been, she still, in the eyes
of her partial parents, might look to a better
connexion than that with my friendless and un-
hippy brother, at that time without house or
hiding-place. Robert at length consented to
their wishes ; but his feelings on this occasion
were of the most distracting nature ; and the
impression of sorrow was not effaced, till by a
regular marriage they were indissolubly united.
In the state of mind which this separation pro-
duced, he wished to leave the country as soon
as possllde, and agreed with Dr. Douglas to go
out to Jamaica as an assistant overseer, or, as I
believe it is called, a book-keeper, on his estate.
As he had not sufficient money to pay his pas-
sage, and the vessel in which Dr. Douglas was
to procure a passage for him was not expected
to sail for some time, Mr. Hamilton advised him
to publish his poems in the meantime by sub-
scription, as a likely way of getting a little mo-
ney to provide him moie liberally in necessaries
for Jamaica. Agreeably to this advic", sub-
scripti(m bills were piinted immediately, and
the printing was commenced at Kilmarnock,
his preparations going on at the same time for
his voyage. The reception, however, which
his poems metvv'ith in the world, and the friends
they procureii him, made him change his reso-
lution of going to Jamaica, and he was advised
to go to Eilinburgh to publish a second edition.
On bis return, in happier circumstances, he re-
newed his connexion with Mrs. Burns, and ren-
dered It permanent by a union for life.
Thus, .Madam, have I endeavoured to give
you a sim[)le narrative of the leading circum-
stances in my brotlier's early life. The remain-
ing part he spent in Edinburgh or in Dumfries-
shire, and its incidents are as well kiu)wn to
you as to me. Ills gi'nius having procured him
your patronage and fjiend>hip, this gave rise to
the correspondencp between you, in which, I
believe, his «entimcnts were rleliveied with the
most respectful, but most unreserved confidence,
and which oulv tcruiinotcd with the list days of
iis life.
No. Lxvn.
FROM MR. MURDOCa
TO
DR. MOORE,
AS TO THE poet's EARLY TUI7I0K.
SIR,
I WAS lately favoured with a letter from onf
worthy friend, the Rev. William Adair, in which
he requested me to communicate to you what
ever particulars I could recollect j'oncerning
Robert Burns, the Ayrshire piK't. JMy business
being at present multifarious and harassing, my
attention is consequently so much divided, and 1
am so little in the habit of expressing my thoughts
on paper, that at this distance of time I can give
but a verv imperfect sketch of the early part of
the life of that extraordinary genius with which
alone I am acquainted.
William Burnes, the father of the poet, was
born in the shire of Kincardine, an<l bred a
gardener. He had been settled in Ayrshire ten
or twelve years before I knew him, and had
l>een in the service of I\Ir. Crawford of Dooa-
side. He was afterwards employed as a gar-
dener and overseer by Provost Ferguson of
Doonholm, in the parish of AUoway, which is
now united with that of Ayr. In this parish,
on the road side, a Scotch mile and a hilt from
the town of Ayr, and half a mile from the
bridge of Doon, William Burnes took a puce
of land, consisting ot about seven acres, part of
which he laid out in garden ground, and ])art
of which he kept to graze a cow, &c. still con-
tinuing in the employ of Provost Ferguson.
Upon this little farm was erected a humble
dwelling, of which William Burnes was the ar-
chitect. It was, with the exception of a little
straw, literally a tabernacle of clay. In this
mean cottage, of which I myself was at times
an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a
larger portion of content than in any palace in
Europe. The Cotter s Saturday Niyht, will
give some idea of the temper and manners that
pievailed there.
In 17G5, about the middle of March, .Mr.
W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the school
where I was improving ia writing under my
L'Ood friend Mr. Robinson, desiring that I would
come and speak to him at a certain inn, and
bring my writing jook with me. This was
immediately complied with. Having ex.imined
my writing, he was pleased with it — (you will
readily allow he was not difficult), and told me
that he h id received very satisfactory itiforni a-
tion of Mr. Tennant, the master of the Eng-
lish school, concerning my impi-ovement in
English, and in his method of teaching. Ia
the mouth of JLiy following, I was engaged by
Mr. Burnes, and four of his neighbours, to teach,
and accordingly began to teach the little school
;.•• 'VUoway, whicb was situated a fevy yard*
CORRESPONDENCE.
291
from tlie arajillaceoiis fihric above mcntioni'd.
Mv five ctiiployers iiiulortnok to lioanl lue l)y
tiiiTis, and to make up a certain salary, at tlie
end of the year, provided my quarterly piy-
meuts from the different pupils did not amount
to til it sum.
My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between
six and seven years of asfe ; his preceptor about
eii^hteen. Robert and his younsjer brother (lil-
bei't, had been sjrounded a little in Eriijlish be-
fore they were put under my care. They both
inade a rapid procjress in reading, and a tolerable
pni'jjrcss in writing. In reading, dividing words
into sylLibles by rule, spelling without book,
parsing sentences, &c., Robert and Gilbert were
generally at the upper end of the class, even
when ranged with boys by far their seniors.
The books most commonly used in the school
were, the S])dltn(} Ilooft, the iVcw Testament,
the Sible, Muson's Collection of Prose and
Verse, and Fisher's Eiinlish Grammar. They
com nitted to ir .-mory the 'jymns, and other
poems of that collection, with uncommon facili-
tv. This facility was partly owing to the me-
thod pursued by their father and me in instruct-
ing them, which was, to m ike them thoroughly
acquainted with the meaning of every word in
each sentence that was to be committed to me-
mo'v. By the bye, this may be easier done, and
at an earlier period, than is generally thought.
As soon as they were capable of it, I taught them
to turn verse into its natural prose order ; some-
times to substitute synonymous expressions for
poetical words, and to supply all the ellipses.
These, you know, are the means of knowing thut
the pupil understands his author. These are
Excellent helps to the arrangement of words in
sentences, as well as to a variety of expression.
Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a
n'ore livelv imagination, and to be more of the
wit, than Robert. I attempted to teach them a
little chiHch music. Here they were left far be-
hind bv all the rest of the school. Robert's ear,
in particular, was remarkably dull, and bis voice
untunable. It was long before I could get them
to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's
countenance was generally grave, and expressive
of a serious, contem[ilative, and thoughtful mind.
Gilbert's face said. Mirth, with thee I mean to
live ; and certainly, if any person who knew the
two boys, had been asked which of them was
the most likely to court the muses, he would
surely never have guessed that Robert ha<l a
propensity of that kind.
In the year 1767, INIr. Burnes quitted his
mud e<iifice, and took possession of a farm
(Mount Oliphant) of his own improving, while
in the service of Provost Ferguson. This farm
being at a considerable distance from the school,
the boys could not attend regularly ; ami some
changes taking place among the other sup-
porters of the school, I left it, having conti.med
to conduct it for nearly two years and a half.
In the year 1772, I was appointed (being one
of five candidates who were examined) to teach
the English school at A\t ; and in 177."?, Robert
Hums came to board and hdge with nw, f(U' the
purpose of revising English grammar, &c. that
he might be better qualified to instruct Uiu \iro-
thers and sisters at home. He was now with
me day and ni',dit, in school; at me ils. and in all
lily walks. At tlu- end of one week, I told him,
that, as he was now pretty much master of the
parts of s])eech, fee, I should like to teach hiiu
something of French |ironnni;iation, that when
he should meet with the name of a Fiench town,
ship, officer, or t.he like, in the newspapers, he
might be able to pronounce it something like a
French word. Robert was glad to hear this pro-
posal, and immeiliately we attacked the French
with great courage.
Now there was little else to be he;ird but the
declension of nouns, the conjugation of verbs,
&c. When walking together, and even at meals,
I was constantly telling him the name? of differ-
ent objects, as they ])resented themselves, in
French ; s', that '.le was hourl/ laying in a stock
of words, and sometimes little phrases. In short,
he took such jileasure in learning, and I in teach-
ing, that it was difficult to say which of the two
was most zealous in the business ; and about the
end of the second week of our study of the
French, we began to read a little of the Adven-
tures of Telem-nclttts, in Fewelim's own wonls.
But now the plains of Tiiount Oliphant began
to whiten, and Robert was summoned to relin-
quish th.e |)leasing scenes that surrounded the
grotto of Calypso, and, armed with a sickle, to
seek glory by signalizing himself in the fields of
Ceres — and so he did ; for although but about
fifteen, I was told that he performed the work
of a man.
Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil,
and consequently agreeable companion, at the
end of thiee week-', tjne of which was spent en-
tirely in the study of English, and the other two
chiefly in that of French. I did not, however,
lose sight of him ; but was a frequent visitant
at his father's house, when 1 had my half-holi-
day, and very often went accompanied with one
or two persons more intelligent than mv-e!f, that
good William Burnes might enjoy a mental feast.
— Then the labouring oar was shifted to some
other hand. The fither and the son sat down
with us, when we enjoyed a conversation, v.-hcre-
in solid reasoning, sensible remark, and a mo-
derate seasoning of jocularity, were so nicely
blended as to render it palatable to all parties.
Robert liad a hundred questions to a-k me about
tlie French, &c. ; and the f.itber who had al-
ways rational information in view, had still
some question to propose to iny more learned
friends, ujion moral or natural philosophy, or
some such interesting subject. Mrs. Burnes
too was of the party as much as possible ;
" But still the Louse affairs would draw her thenca.
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch.
She'd come again, and, with a greedy car
Devour up their discourse."
292
BURNS' WORKS.
tr.d pai ticularly that of her husband. At all
times, and in all companies, she listened to him
with a mm e maiked atteutioi than to any body else.
When under the necessity of being absent while
lie was speaking, she seemed to regret, as a real
loss, thit she had missed wliat the good raiin
had said. This worthy woman, Agnes Brown,
had the most thorough esteem for her husband
jf any woman I ever knew. I can by no means
wonder that she highly esteemed him ; for I
mysrlf have always considered William Burnes
as by far the best of the human race that ever
had the pleasure of being acquainted with —
and many a worthy character I have known.
1 can cheerfully join with Robert in the la^t line
of his epitaph (borrowed from Goldsmith),
* And even his failings leau'd to virtue's side."
He was an excellent husband, if I may judge
and perpetuate the memory of those who excei
in moral rectitude, as it is to extol what an
called heroic actions : then would the mausoltv
ura of the friend of my youth overtop and sur-
pass most of the monuments I see in Vy'estmia-
ster Al)bey.
Although I cannot do ju-^tice to the charac-
ter of this worthy man, yet you will perceive,
from these few particulars, whiit kind of person
had the principal hand in the education of our
poet. He spoKe the English language with
more propriety (both with respect to diction
and pronunciation), than any man I ever knew,
with no greater advantages. This had a very
good effect on the boys, who began to talk, and
reason like men, much sooner than their neigh-
bours I do not recollect any of their coteinpo-
raries, at my little seminary, who afterwaids
made any great figure as literary ch.iracters, ex-
cept Dr. Tenant, who was chaplain to Colonel
from his assiduous attention to the ease and ! Fullarton's regiment, and who is now in the
comfort of his a^orthy partner, and from Vier i East Indies. He is a man of genius and learn-
affectionate behaviour to him, as well as her ling; yet affib'e, and free from pedantry,
unwearied attention to the duties of a mother. Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that he
He was h tender and affectionate father ; he had overrated Mount Ollphant, anil that he
took pleasure in leading his children in the path could not rear his numerous family ujjon it.^
of virtue ; not in driving them, as some parents After being there some years, he removed to
do, to the performance of duties to whicn they Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, 1
themselves are averse. He took care to iihd believe, Robert wrote most of his poems,
fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when he i But here, Sir, you will permit me to pause,
did rebuke, he was listened to with a kind of I can tell you but little nure relative to our
reverential awe. A look of disapj)rol)ation was poet. I shall, however, in my next, send you
felt ; a reproof was severely so ; and a stripe ; a copy of one of his letters to me, about the
with the tau'f, even on the sklit of the coat,
gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lamenta-
tion, and brought forth a Hood of tears.
He had the art of gaining the esteem and
good-will of those that were labourers under
him. I think I never saw him an'^ry but
twice . the one time it wa- with the foreman of
the band, for not reaping the field as he was de-
sired ; and the other time, it was with an old
man, for using smutty iiuiindoes and double en-
tentirts. Were eveiy foul-mouthed old man to
receive a seasonable check in this way, it would
be to the advantage of the rising generation.
As he was at no time overbeaiing to inferiors,
he was equally inca])able of that ])assive, ])itifu!,
paltry spirit, that induces some people to kttp
booing iind booing in the presence of a great
man. He always treattd superiors with a be-
coming resj)ect ; but he nevjrgave tlie smallest
encouragement to aristocratical arrogance. But
I must nut pretend to give you a description of
all the manly qualities, the rational and Chris-
tian virtues of the venerable William Burnes.
year 1783. I received oue since, but it is mis-
laid. Please remember me, in the best man-
ner, to niy worthy friend Mr. Adair, when you
see him or write to him.
Hart Street, Bloom--burv SqiiarCj
Loudon, Feb. 22, 1 799.
No. Lxvni.
FROM PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART
TO
DR. MOORE,
CONTAINING HIS SKETCHES OF THE POET.
The first time I saw Robert Burns was on
the 2'id of October, 1786, when he dined at my
house in Ayi shire, together with our commoQ
fiienrl Mr. John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauch-
Time would fail me. I shall oidy add, that he] line, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure ol
tarefuUy piactised every known duty, and avoid- I his acquaintance. I am enabled to nientiiui the
fd every thing that was criu'inal ; or, in the 'date particularly, by some verses which Burtis
»I)ostle*s words, Herein did lie exercise A/hi- ! wrote after he returned home, and in which the
telf, in livinr; a life void of iff nee lownrds ^t]iiy of our tneeting is recorded. My cxcellLiit
Gild and towards men. O for a world of men | and much lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord
of sudi dispositions ! Vfe should then have no Daer, hap))ened to arrive at Catrine the same
Wars. 1 liive often wished, for the good of day, and by the kindness and frankness of hit
tnankind,. that it were as customary to honour J manners, left an imjiression on the mind of th»
CORRESPONDENCE.
293
nooti whic ni /er w.is cffdccd. The verses I
ailiiJe lo aie among the ino^t imperfect of his
pier«?s , but ;i few stanzas may pel haps he an
ohiect of curiosity to you, botli on acoMint of
the character to which they relate, and of the
!ii(l'.t whii'h they throw on the situation and
feeliiifjs of tlie writer, before his name was
kniiwri to the puhl c. *
I cannot positively say, at this distance of
time, wlutlier, at the period of our first ac-
quaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of his poems
h.id been just published, or was yet in the press.
I suspect that the latter was the case, as I have
ttill in my possession copies in liis own hand-
wrino!;, or some of his favourite performances ;
particularly of his verses " on turnini^ up a
Mouse with his pIouq;h ;" — " oa the Mountiin
D.iisy ;" and " the Lament." C)n my retutn to
Edinburi^h. I showed the volume, and mention-
ed what I knew of the author's history, to se-
veral of my friends, and aniorig others, to Mr.
Henry Mackenzie, who first recommended him
to pulilic uotice in the 97th number of The
Louiii/cr.
At this time Buins's prospects in life were so
extremely ploomy, that he had seriou>ly forined
(I plan of going out to Jamaica in a very humble
situ ition, not, however, without lamenting, that
liis want of patronage should force him to think
of a project so repugnant to li's feelmgs, when
his ambition aimed at no higher an object than
the station of an e.xciseman or ganger in his own
country.
His manners were then, as they continued
ever afterwards, simple, manly, and indepen-
dent ; stiongly expressive of conscious genius
and worth ; but without any thing that indica-
ted forwardness, airogance, or vanity. He took
his >liare in conversation, but not mere than
belonged to him ; aiui listened with apparent
attention and defeience, on subjects where his
Want of ediicatiiui depiiveii him of the means of
information. If there bail been a little more of
gentleness and accommodation in bis temper, he
would, I think, hive been still more interest-
ing ; but he h id been accustomed to give law
in the circle of his ordinary acquaint .nee ; arid
his dread of any thing aiiproacbing to meanness
or servility, leiideied his /iianncr somewhat de-
cided aiid hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more
remarkable among his various attainments, than
the fluency, and precisiim, and originality of
his language, when he spoke in company ; more
paiticulaily as lie aimed at purity in his turn of,
e\pres>iou, and avoided more succe-sfuily than
most Scotchmen, the peculiarities of Scottish ■
phraseology. I
He '-ame to Eilinburgh early in the winter'
following, and remained there for several montli».
By vchose advice he took this step, I am unable!
.o sav. Peihajis it was suggested only by bis
^Wll curiosity to see a little more of the world ;
Dut. I confess, I dreaded the conseijuentes from
• See sonj;s, [>. 210.
the first, and aiways wi-hed that his pursiii»y
and h ibils should confimie the same as in thi?
former part of life; with the addition of, what
I considered as then completely within his reach,
a good farm on inoderate terms, in a part of the
country agreeable to his taste.
The attentions he nceived during his stay ic
town from a'l r.inks aii<l descriptions of persons,
were such as would have turned anv head but
his own. I cannot sav that I ccuild perceive
any unfavourable effect which they left on his
mind. He retained the same simplicity of man-
ners ar.; appearance which had struck me so
forcibly when I first saw him in tlie country ;
nor dl<l he seem to feel any additional self-im-
portance from the niiaiber and rank of his new
acijiiaintance. His dress was pcrfectiv suited to
his station, plain and unprettiiding, with a suf-
ficient attention to neatness If I recollect right
he always wore boots ; and, when on more that:
usual ceremony, buck-skin breeches.
The variety of his engagements, while in
Edinburgh, [irevented me from seeing him so
often as I could have wi-hed. In the course of
the sjiring he called on me once or twice, at
my reiinest, early in the morning, and w.ilked
with me to Braid-Hills, in the neighbourhood
of the town, when he charmed me still more by
his private conversation, than he had ever done
in comp inv. He was passionately fimd of the
beauties of nature ; and I recollect once he told
me, when I was admiring a distant prospect in
one of our morning walks, that the sight of so
many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his
mind, which none could understand who had
not witnessi-d, like himself, the happiness and
the woith which tliev contained.
In his political priucijiV's he was then a Ja-
cobite ; which was perhips owing partly to
this, that his father was originally fioni the es-
tate of L<'rd Mansih.ill. Indeed he <liil not
appear to have thought much on such subjects,
nor very consistently. He had a very strong
sense of religion, and expressed deep regret at
the levity with which he had heard it treated
ociasionarv in some conviv al meetings which
he frcijuentcd. I speak of him as I.e wa.s in
the winter of I7S()-7; f.ir afterwards we met
but se'dom, and our conversat.oas turned chief-
ly on his literary projects, or his private? affairs.
I do not recollect whether it app^'ars or not
from any of your letters to me, that you had
ever seen Burns. If you have, it is superfluous
for me add, tli.it the idea wliich his conversa
tion conveyed of the povvers of his mind, ex-
ceeded, if possible, that which is suggisred by
his writings, .\mong the p ets whom I have
hapjiened to know, I have been struck, in more
than one instance, with the un,iccouiitable dis-
piritv between their general talents, and the oc-
casional inspir.itioiis of tlieir more favoured mo^
ment-.. But all the facultiLS of Burn^'s mind
were, as far as I could judg-, equ illy vigorous;
and his piedllectioii tor poetry was r.itber the
result of his own enthumastic and impassioned
294
BURNS* WORKS.
temper, than of a jreiiius exclusively adapted to defjree of true crenius. tTie extreme facility zni
that species of composition. From liis couver- good nature of liis taste, in judging of the com-
eation I should have pronounced him to he fit- positions of otheis, where there was any rea.
ted to excel in whatever walk of ambition he ground for praise. 1 repeated to him many
had chosen to exert liis abilities. { i)assages of English poetry with which he was
Anion? the sulijects on whidi he was accus- , unacquainted, and hive more than once wit-
tomed to'^dwell, the characters of the iiidividu- nessed the tears of admiration and rapture with
als with whom he happened to meet, was plain- wliich he heard them. The collection of songs
ly a favouiite one. Tlie remarks he made on jby Dr. Aiken, which I first put into his hands,
them were always shrewil and jiointed, though ihe read with unmixed delight, notwithstanding
frequently inclining too much to sarcasm. His his former efforts in that very difficult species
praise of those he loved was sometimes indiscri-
minate and extravagant ; but this, I suspect,
proceeded rather from the caprice and humour
of the moment, than from the effects of attach-
ment in blin<iing his judgment. Ills wit was
ready, and always impiessed with the marks of
a vigorous understanding ; but, to my taste,
not often pleasing or happy. His attempts at
epigram, in his printed works, are the only per-
formances, perhaps, that he has produced, to-
tally unworthy of his genius.
In summer, 1787, I passed some weeks in
Ayrshire, and saw Hums occasionally. I think
that he made a pretty long excursion that sea-
son to the Highlands, and that he also visited
what Beattie calls the Arcadian ground of .Scot-
land, upon the baidcs of the Teviot and the
Tweed.
I should have mentioned before, that not-
withstanding various re|)orts I heard during the
preceding winter, of Burns's ])redilection for
convivial, and not very select society, I should
have concluded in fivour of his habits of so-
briety, from all of him that ever fell under my
own observation. He told me indeed himself,
that the weakness of his stomach wis such as
to deprive him entirely of any merit in his tem-
perance. I "vas however somewhat alarmed
about the effect of his now comparatively seden-
tary and luxurious life, when he confessed to
ine, the first night he spent in my house after
his winter's campaign in town, that he had been
muidi disturbed « hen in bed, by a palpitation
at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint
to whi(di he had of late become subject.
In the course of the same season, I was led
bv curicsitv to attend fiir an hour or two a Ma-
son-Lodge in Mauchliue, where Buins presided.
He had occasion to make some short unpre-
meditated ciimiilimeuts to ditferent individuals
from whom he ha I no reason to exjjcct a visit,
anil every thing he said was ha|>pily conceiveil,
and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. If
] am not mistaken, he to'd me, that if *bat
village, l)efore going to Eiliid)urgb, he had be-
longed to a small club of such of the inhabi-
tants ,-is had a taste fiir books, when they uM-d
to conver-e and debate on any interesting ques-
tions that occurred to them in the course of
vheir reading. His manner of sjieaking in |Mib-
lic had t viilently the marks of some practice in
extenip'iie elocution.
I must not omit to nu-ntion, whit I have al-
wuis considereil as characteristical in a high.
of writing ; and I have little doubt that it had
some effect in polishing his subsequent compo-
sitions.
In judiing of prose, I do not think his taste
was equally sound. I once read to him a pas-
sage or two in Franklin's Works, whidi I
thought very happily executed, upon the modeJ
of Addison ; but he did not appear to relish, or
to perceive the beauty which they derived from
their exquisite simplicity, and spoke of them
with indifference, when compared with the
point, and antithesis, and quaintness of Junius.
The influence of this taste is very perceptible
in his own prose compositions, although the.r
great and various excellencies render some of
them scarcely less objects of wonder thi^n his
poetical performances. The late Dr. Robertson
used to say, that, considering his education, the
former seemed to him the more extraordinary of
the two.
His inemory was uncommonly retentive, at
least for [loetry, of which he recited to me fre-
quently long compositions with the most mi-
nute accuracy. They were chiefly balh'.d-^, and
other pieces in our Scottish dialect ; great part
of them (he told me) he had learned in his
childliood, from his mother, who delighteil in
such recitations, and whose poetical taste, rude
it prcibably was, gave, it is presumable, the
first direction to her son's genius.
Of the more polished verses which acciden-
tally fell into his hands in his early yeais, he
nu-ntioned particularly the recommendatory
poems, by different authors, prefixed to Ilirvir/s
Mcdital'ions. ; a book which has always had a
very wide circulation among such of the coun-
try people of Scotland, as affect to unite so>—
degree of taste with their religious studies. And
these poems (altJioug^ they are certainly below
medioi-iity) he continued to read with a degree
of lapture beyond expression.. He took notice
(if this fact himself, as a proof how much the
taste is liable to be influenced by accidental cir-
cumstances.
His father appeared to me, from the account
be gave of him, to have been a respectable and
worthy character, possessed of a mind superior
ro what mii,'bt have been expected from his
station in life. He ascribed much of his own
priiu-ipl.'s and feelings to the early imines-lons
lie had received from his instructions and evim-
]i!e. I recollect that lie once applied to him
(and he added, that the passi'ie wa« a litera.
statement of fact, ) the two last lines of the fol
CORRESPONDENCE.
•295
iowing passap;e in il>e Minstrel ; the whole of
wliitl: be rcpcati'il witb great uiithusiiism :
" Shall I lie left foigo'ten in the dust,
When fate, rcieiitin!,', I"ts the flower revive ;
Shall i.atiire's voice, to man alone unjust,
Bid him, though dooni'd to perish, hojjc to
live ?"
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive
With (lisa]i|)oiiitnieat, pcnuiy, and pain?
No ! Heaven's ininiortal spi in^ shall yet arrive ;
And man's maje-tic beauty bloom aijain,
Bfiglit *hrmigh th' eternal year of love's trium-
phant reigu.
This tndli sublime, Ills simple sire had tauyht :
In south, 'tii-as utnwst all the shtjiherd knew.
With respect to Buins's early ediicat'on, I
cannot say any thing with ceitainty. He al-
ways spoke with respect and gratitude of the
school-master who h id taught him to read Eng-
lish ; and u ho, finding in his scholar a moie
than ordinary ardour for knowledge, h id b-,en
at pai;is to instruct him in the graiiimati'.\il
principles of the language. He began the study
}{ Latin, but drop; ed it before he hid fiuislud
the verbs. I have sometimes heaid him quote
u few Latin words, such as omnia vincit umor,
fifc, but they seemed to be such as he had
caught from conversation, and which he re-
])eateil by rule. I think he hail a project, after
he came to Ediidjurgh, of pnisi ciiting the study
under his intintate friend, the late JMr. Nicoll,
one of the master> of the grainniar-school here ;
but I do not know that he ever proceeded so
far as to make the attempt.
He certainly possessed a smattering of French ;
and, if he had an affectation in any thing,
it was iu introducing occasionally a woid or
phrase from that language. It is possible that
his knowledge in this respect might be more
extensive than I suppose it to be* '"ut this yon
cia learn from his moie intimate acquaintance.
It would be worth while to inquire, whether
he was able to read tiie French authors with
such facility as to receive from them any im-
piovt-meiit to his taste. For my own part, I
doubt it iiiiicli — nor would 1 believe it, but on
very strong and pointed evideme.
If my memory does not fail me, he was well
instructed in arithmetic, and kiiew something
of practical geometry, particularly of smveying.
— All his other attainments were entirely his
Dw a.
The last time I saw him was during the win-
ter, J7S&-S9; when he jiasstd an evening with
ni>' at Drumshtu_v;h, in the neighbourhood ot
Edini)iiri;h, where I was then living. My friend
l\lv. .•Vhsoii was the only other person in com-
pany. I never saw him more agieeable or in-
teresting, A present which Mr. Alison sent
him afurwaiu^ if his Kssuys on . uste, drew
Irom Burns i letter of aiknowledgmeut, which
1 reuiim'",r to I'dve read »vilh some legree of
surprise at the distinct c(>nieptioc he nppeired
from it to have formed, of the general princi-
ples of the doctrine of ussociutinn. When I
eaw Mr. Alixn in .Shropslnre last autumn, I
forgot to inquire if the letter be still in exist-
ence. If it is, you m.iy easily procuie it, b>
means of our friend Mr. llouiurooke.
No. LXIX.
FROJI GILBERT BURNS
TO
DR. CURRIE.
GIVING THE IlISTOKY OF THE OillGIN OF TJH
I'KlNCirAL rOEMS.
It may gratify curiosity to know some partu-u-
lars ot the history of the preceding Poems,
on which t!ie celebrity (;f our Baril has been
hitlurto founded ; and with this view the
fcillowiiig extract is made from a letter of
Gilbert Burns, the brother of our Poet, and
his fiieiid and confidant from' his earliest
yeais.
DEAR SIR, Mossfiid, 2'/ yljiril. 1793.
Youii letter of the 14th of March I leceiveil
in due course, but, fioiii the hmry of the sea-
son, have been hitheito hindeied ficiii answer
ing it. I will now tiy to give you what satis-
faction I can iu regard to the particulais you
mention. I cannot pretend to be very accurate
in respect to the dates of the poems, but none
of them, e.\cept Winter, a DIrrje, (whicli was
a juvenile production), the JJmth innl Di/uifj
W(,nls if your Jiluilie, and some of the songs,
weie composed before the year ITS'i. Tlie cir-
cumstances of the poor sheep were pretty much
as he has described them. He had. partly by
way of frolic, bought a ewe and two lambs fnaa
a neighbojr, and she was tethered m a lield ad-
joining the house at Lochlie. He and I were
going out with our teams, and our two younger
lirotliers to drive fiu- us, at mid-d.iy, when
Hugh Wilson, a curioys looking awkward boy,
clad in |dai'ling, came to us with much anxiety
in his face, with the information that the cue
had entangled heiself in the tether, and was ly-
ing in the ditch. Ilobert was ii.uch tieLI"(l
with IJii(,h'ic's appearance and postiues on the
occasion. P<K)r Mailie was set to right', and
when we returned troiii the p!(>ii'.;h in the even-
ing, he repeated to me )ier JJta h und Uijiiiy
Wards pretty much in the way they now staii.i.
Among the earliest of his poems was tbe
7i;,/.>//e to Udvte. Kobei t often ci.mposi-d wirli-
out any regular pi, in. When iuiy It iiig i:iade a
strong lUipr^vsiun on his uuml. so a; ai rous* il
BURNS' WORKS.
w poetiR exertion, he woiiM give wiiy to tiie
iiii|)iiNt>, and eiiilK)(ly the thought in rhyme.
Il lie hit on two or tiiree stanzas to please him,
lie woulil then think of proper introductory,
connectinir, and concluding .stanzas; hence the
middle of a poem was often fir^t pniduc-ed. It
was, 1 tliink, in suiiimer 17S+, when in tlie
'ntevvi! of harder lahoiir, he and I were weed-
ing in tlie garden (k.iilyard) that he rejieited to
me t!ie principal part of this epistle. I helieve
the first idea of liohert's hecoiuiug an author
was started on this occasion. I was much
pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was
of opinion it would hear being printed, and
that it would he well received by people of
taste ; that I thought it at least equal, if not
superior, to many of All in Ramsay's ejiistles,
and that the merit of these, and much other
Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally in
the knack of the expression — hut here, there
was a strain of interesting sentiment, and the
Scotticism of the language scarcely seemed af-
fected, hut ai)peared to be the natural language
of the poet ; that, besides, there was certainly
some novelty in a pott pointing out the conso-
lations that were in store for him when he
sliould go a-begging. Robert seemed very well
pleased with iny criticism ; and we talked of
smding it to some magazine, but ts this plan
atToided no opjiortanity of knowing how it
would take, the idea was dropped.
It was, 1 think, in the winter folKtwIng, as
we Were going together with carts for coal to
the family tiie (and I could yet point out the
particular spot), that the author tirst repeated
to nie the Aildress to the Deil. The curious
idea of such an address was suggested to him,
Ijy riiuning over in his mind the many ludicrous
accounts anil repiesentations we have, from va-
rious (juaiters, of this august personage. Death
and Dr. llnriiliixik, though not published in
the Kilmarnock edition, was produced early in
the vear ITH.o. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton
parish, to eke up the scanty subsistence allowed
to that u--eful class of men, had set up a shop
of grocery goods. Having accidentally fallen in
with some medical books, and become most
holibv-horsically attached to the study of iiiedi-
ciiK, hi- hid aclded the sale of a few nieilicioes
to his little trade. He had git 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." Robert wis at a mason-
meeting, in Tarbolton, when the " Dominie"
nnfortun itely made too ostentatious a disjilay of
his ine>lical .skill. As he parted in the evening
from this mixture of pedantry and physical
the place where lie describes his meeting with
Death, one of those floating ideas of apparition,
he menticus in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed
fils mind ; this set him to work for the rest of
the wav home. These circuuistanc.es he relat-
ed when he repeated the verses to me next af-
Wriviuu, -a* 1 was holding the plough, and he
was lettiig the wate; ofT the field bwide me
The Epistle iiJiifin Lapraih w.is prcdacfd
exactly on the occasion described bv the authoi.
He says in thit poem. On fasten e'vn he hail a
rcickin'. I believe he has omitted the word
ri>cking in the glossary. It is a term derived
from those primitive times, when the country-
women employed their spire hours in spinning
im the rock, or distaff. This simple instrument
is a very portable one, and w»li fitted to the so-
cial inclination of meeting in a neiijhhour's
house ; hence the phrase of going a-rockini; or
with the rock. As the connection the phrase
hid with the implement was forgotten whec
the rock gave way to the spinning-wheel, the
phrase came to be iiseil by b ith sexes on socia.
occasions, and men talk of going with their
rocks as well as women.
It was at one of these rockings at our house,
when we had twelve or fifteen young people with
their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginnings
" When I ujion thy bosom lean," was sung,
and we are informed who was the author.
Upon this Robert wrote his fir>t epistle to Lap-
raik ; and his second in reply to his answer.
The verses to the Afiuse and Mounttiin-Daisy
were composed on the occasions mL'ntioiied, and
while the author was holding the plough ; '
could point out the particular spot where each
was composed. HoMlog the plough was a fa-
vourite situation with Robert for poetic compo-
sitions, and some of his best verses were pro-
duced while he was at that exercise. Scveial
of the poems were produced tor the purpose of
bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the
author. He used to remark to me, that he
could not well conceive a inor« mortifying pic-
ture of human life than a man seeking work.
In casting about in his mind how this sentiiiietit
might be brought forward, the elegy ?tlnn was
imide to Miiurn. was composed. Robert hid
freijuently remi ked to me, thit he thought
theie was jo.^,'hing peculiarly veneiab'e in the
phrase, " Let us worship God," used by a de-
cent sober head of a family introducing f.imily
worship. To this sentiment of the author the
world is indehti'd for the Colter's Sat;:rday
A'ii/ht. The hint of the plan, and the title of
tiie poem, were taken from Feigusson's Fiinnera
Inijle. When Itobert had not some plea-iire iv
view in which I was not thoiulit tit to jiar'ici-
pate, we used frequently to w.ilk toge'her when
the weather was f.ivourable, on the Sunday af-
ternoons, (those jirecious breathing-times to the
labouring part of the commuuity), 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 pl.M^ure of heiiiii;.'
the author rejie.it the Cotter's Sitnrdty Nn/ht.
I do not recohect to have read or he.ini any
thing by which I was more highly electrified,
The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth,
thrilled with peculiar ec>tasy through my soul
I mention tins to you, thai you m ly see wtiat
hit the taste of v^Ieltcred criticism. I should
CORRESPONDENCE.
297
ke C'*"' •" U.Ti"', if -lie en.ightcneil minil ami
rffirifii ta-iti' (if .Mr. Kiiscoe, whit h is liorm- siu-li
'n>':i'iuiMi):t; tc^itiiiuitiy to tliis poem, usjiti's ultli
nil' 111 tin- Micction. I-Vrs;u«.s(>n, in his llnlhiw
J-cir of IvIiiiliiH i;li, I lii'lii've, likewise fiiiiii«li-
i"(i :i liiiit of tlu' title and plan of tlie //"/// Fuir.
The fiieieal scene tlie jioet there fleseiihes
wa>i often a favoiiiite field of his observation,
and tl e most of the incidents he mentions
had ai-tii.illy passed before his ejes. It is searee-
Iv necess'ii V to mention, that the Lament was
compo-efl <>ii that Uiifoi tunate p issage in his ma-
trinioni.il history, whieh I have mentioned in
my leffir to Mrs. Diiiilo]), after the first distrac-
tion of Ills lielintjs had a little subsided. The
7' lie of Tint D'li/s was composed after the re-
solution of piiblishinc; was nearly taken. Robert
h.id had a doj, whieh lie called Luiitli. that was
a ijreat favourite. The dog had been killed bv
tl;e wanton enielty of some person the night be-
fore my fither's death. Robert said to me, that
he sluiiild like to confer such immortality as he
could bestow upon his old friend Luath, and
th.it be had a g;reat n.ind to introduce soniethinn;
info the book un<ler the title of Slunziis ti> the
Jilmiiri/ of a qiitnhtipvd Friend ; but this pl.in
Wis given up for the Title as it now staruls.
Casitr was merely the creature of the poet's
imagination, cieated for the purpose of holding
chat with his favourite Lmith. The first time
Roliert heard thespimu-t plaved upon, was at the
house of Dr. l.awrie, then miuisier of the |)arish
of Loudon, now in Glasgow, having given up
the |i.iiisli in fivour of his son. Dr. Lawne
lias several d iii'^hters ; one of them ])la\ed ; the
f.itlur ami mother led down the dance ; the rrst
of the sisters, the brother, the poet, ai;il the
other guest, mi.\ed in it. It was a deiiglittiil
family scene for our poet, then lately introilueed
to the world. His mitiil was roused to a pnetic
enthusiasm, and the st.mzas, p. AG, were left in
the room where he slept. It was to Dr. Law-
rie that Dr. Blaekhick's letter was addressed,
which my buother, in his letter to Dr. Moore,
mentions as the re.ison of his going to Edinburgh.
When my inthw fetieil his little projierty near
\lloway Kirk, the wall of the ihurehyard had
gone to ruin, and cattle had free liberty of pas-
turing in it. My father, with two or three other
neighbours, i:nnL(l in an application to the town
council of A\r, who were superiors of the ad-
joining laud, lor liberty to rebudil it, and raised
by sub-cription a sum for enclosing this ancient
cemetery with a wall ; hence he came to con-
sider it as his burial-place, and we learned that
reverence for it, people generally have fur the
buri.d-pi.'ice of their ancestors. My brother was
living ill Kllislaiid, when C.iptain Grose, or. his
peregrin itious through Scotland, s.aid some time
St Curse-house, in the neighbuiirhood, with
Captain Holiert Riddel, of Glen-Uiddell, a parti-
tul.ir friend of my brother's. The Antiquarian
ind the Poet were " U:icj pack and 'hick the-
jiiher. ■* Robert r-iju'isreil I'f Cajitaiu Grose,
ivhea he sbuald couih cu Ayrihir-:, lodt he would
make a drawing of Alloway Kiik, as it was the
burial-place of his fitlier, ami where he liimsell
had a sort ol claim to lay down his bones when
tluy slioiil,! he no longer serviceable to hiin ;
and added, by way of eiK'onr igcment, that it
was the scene of many a good story of witches
and ajiparitious, of which he knew the Captair
was very fond. The Oiptain agreed to the re-
quest, provided the Poet would furnish a witch-
story, to be printed along with it. Tmn i>'
Sliunlir was ])ro(liiced on this occasion, and was
first ])ublished in Grose's Antiquities of Scot-
land.
This poem is founded on a traditional story.
The leading circumstances of a man riding home
very late from Ayr, in a stormy night, his seeing
1 light in Alloway Kirk, his having the curiosity
to look in, his seeing a d.iiice of witches, with
the devil playing on the bag-pipe to them, the
scanty covering of one of the witches, which
made him so far forget himself a.5 to cry — " Weel
loupeu, short saik !" — with the melancholy ca-
tastrophe of the piece ; is all a true story, that
can be well attested by many respectable old
people in that neighhom hood.
I do not at present recollect any circnmsi.tncei
respectig the other poem", that coiiM be at all
interesting ; even some of tliose I have mentioa-
ed, I am afraid, may appear tiillmg enough, but
you will only make use of what appears to you
of cimsequence.
The following Poems in the first Edinliurgii
edition, were not in that published in Kilmar
nock. Dentil and Dr. /lornbou/t ; The Jirii/i
of Ai/r ; The Cnlf ; (the pott had been with
Mr. Gavin Hiniilton in the morning, who said
jocul.irly to him when he was going to church,
in allusion to the injunction of some parents to
their children, that he must be sure to bring
him a note of the sermon at mi(l-il,iy ; this ad-
dress to the Revere-jd Geutlemaii on his t«.\t
was accordingly produced ). The Ordination;
The Address to the Unco Gnid ; 'J'uni Sam-
son's Ele[iy ; A Winter Niylit ; tstanzu.i on
the same occasion as the jircceiliiig prayer ;
Verses left at a Jieverend Friend's house. ; J'ht
frsl I'sulin i I'rai/er under the jiressure of vio-
lent anii'iisli ; The fir>t sij. verses (f tlie nine-
teiiith Ps'ilin ; Verses to Miss Luyan, with
JJmttie's J'oems ; To a ilaayis ; Address to
Edinburyh ; John Jjarleycorn ; W/ien (iiiil.
fird Guifl ; Jiehind yon /(.//< ichire Stinchar
flows , Green grow the Rushes ; Ayam re-
jiilciny Nature sees ; The yluomy Niyht ; Nt
Churchman am I.
No. LXX.
FROM GILIiEUT BURNS
TO
DR. CURRIE.
Di-nniny, Dumfriesshire, 2 K/J Oct. IBOO.
UEA a SIR,
Yoi'iis of the ITtii iustant came to tny haiul
T2
298
BURNS' WORKS.
yesterilay, antl I sit down this affernnon to write
you in return; hut when I shiill he al)!e to
tiiil-h ill! I wish to say to you, I canniit tell. I
am sorry ynur i-onvictiou is not cO!ii|jK'te re-
SjU'cting fmh. Tliure is no douht tliat if you
Take two English words whicli appear synuuy-
ni'ius to in>inij feck, and jiidxe by tlie rules of
English constiui tion, it \v;ll appear a barbarism.
I btlieve if you take this mode of translating
from any language, the effect will frequently be
the same. But if you take the expres^ion moi.y
feck to have, as I li.ive stated it, the same mean-
ing with the Engli-h expression very muni/,
(and sueli license every translator must be al-
lowed, especially when he translates from a
simple dialect which has never been subjected
to rule, and wheie the precise meaning of words
is of conseijuence not niinutelv attended to), it
will be well enough. One thing I am certain
of, that ours is the sense universally understood
in this country ; and I believe no Scotsman who
has lived contented at home, pleased with the
simple maniiers, the simple melodies, and the
simple dialect of his native country, unvitiated
by foreign intercourse, " whose soul pioud
science never taught to stray," ever discovered
barbarism in the sotig of Etrick Banks.
The story you have heard of the gable of my
fjthei's house fallin;^ down, is simply as fol-
lows . — When mv father built his " clav bi"^-
gin," he put in two stone-jambs, as they are
called, and a lintel, carrying up a chimney in
bis cl ly- gable. The conseipience was, that as
the gable subsided, the jambs, remaining firm,
threw it off its centre ; and, one very stormy
morning, when my brother was nine or ten
divs old, a little before diy-light, a part of the
gable lell imt, and the rest appeared so shatter-
ed, that my mother, with the young poet, hid
ti) be carried through the stonn to a neighbour's
house, where they remained a week til their
own dwelling was adjusted. That you may not
think too meanly of this house, or of n:y fa-
ther's taste in building, liy supposing the jmet's
description in the Vision (winch is ei.tlrely a
fancy picture) applicable to it, allow me to take
notice to you, that the house consisted of a
kitchen in one end, and a room in the other,
with a fire-place and chimney ; that my father
Lad constructed a concealed bed in the kitchen,
with a small closet at the end, of the same ma-
tciials with the house, anil, when altogetiier cast
over, uutsule and in, with lime, it had a neat,
c.'imfortable ajipeirance, such as no family of the
same rank, in the piesent impioveil style of
living, would think themselves ill-lodged in. I
wish likewise to tike notice in |iassiiig, that al-
thojgh the " Cotter," in the Saturday Night,
is un exact cojn' of my father in Jii^ manners,
his tiuiily devi.tion, and exhoita ions, yet the
other parts of the description do not apply to
our family. Nnue of us were ever " at service
out iniang the iieehors rouii." IiiBfead of our
de, (isitiiig our " sair won peniiv-fee" with our
y^rents, my fallier laboured liaid, and lived with
the most rigid economy, that he might be sbU
to keep his children at home, thereby having an
opportunity of watching the progress of our
young minds, and forming in them early habit*
of piety and virtue ; and from this motive alone
did he engage in farming, the source of all his
difficulties and distresses.
When I threatened you in my last with a
long letter on the subject of the books I recom-
mended to the Mauchline club, and the effects
of refinement of taste on the laliouring classes
of men, I meant merely that 1 wished to write
you on that subject, with the view thit, in some
future communication to the public, you might
take up the subject more at large, that, by means
of your happy manner of writing, th.e attention
of people of power and influence might be fixed
on.it. I had little expectation, however, that
I should overcome my indolence, and the diffi-
culty of arranging my thoughts so far as to put
my threat in execution, till some time ago, be-
fore I had finished my harvest, having a call
from i\Ir. Ewart, with a message from yttu,
pressing me to the performance o. this ta^k, 1
thought myself no longer at liberty to decline
it, and re^olved to set about it with my first
leisure. I will now therefore endeavour to lay
before you what has occurred to my mind on a
subject where people capable of observation, and
of placing their remarks in a proper point of
view, have seldom an opportunity of making
their remarks on real life. In doing this I may
pel haps be led sometimes to write mine in the
manner of a person communicating information
to you which you did not know l/efore, and at
other times more in the style of egotism than I
would chouse to do to any person in whose can-
dour, and even personal good-will, 1 had less
confidence.
There are two several lines of study that ojien
to every man as he enters life : the one, the ge-
neral science of life, of duty, and ot happiness ^
the other, the paiticular arts of his euiplnviiiep?
or situation in society, and the several br.inclies
of knowledge therewith connected. This last is
c>rtaioly indispensable, as nothing can be more
disgraceful than ignorance in the w ly of oui-'o
own profession ; and whatever a ni.in's specula-
tive knowledge m ly be, if he is ill inforiiied
there, he can neither be a useful nor a respect-
aide member if society. It Is nevertheless true,
that " the proper study of mankind is mm ;"
to consider what duties are encuiiibeiit on him
as a rational creatuie, and a member of society ;
how he may increase or secure his h.ippioess ;
and how he may prevent or soften the many
miseries incident to human life. 1 think the
pursuit of happiness is too frequently confined
to the endeavour after the acipii.>itlon of wealth.
I do not wi'h to be considered as an idle de-
claimer against riches, which, after all that can
be said against them, will still be consldiied by
men of common sense as objects of iniportioce ;
and |)overty will be felt as a sore evil, alter ali
the tine tliingii that can be said of its advaa
CORRESPONDENCE.
29S
tages ; on the contrary I am of opinion, that a
grcMt proportion of the niiseriL-s ol' life arise from
the want of economy, and a prudent attention
to money, or the ill-directed or intemperate pur-
suit of it. But however valuable riches may be
as the means of comfort, indejiendence, ami the
pleasure of doing good to others, yet I am of
opinion, that they may be, and frequently are,
purchased at too great a cost, and that sacrifices
are made in the pursuit which the acquisition
cannot compensate. I -emember iK-anflg iily
Worthy teacher, Mr. IMiird.icli, relate an anec-
dote to my father, which I think sets this mat-
ter in a strong light, and perhaps was the ori-
gin, or at least tended to promote this way of
thinking in me. When Mr. Murdoch left Al-
loway, he went to teach and reside in the fimily
of an opulent farmer who had a nuniber of sons.
A neighbour coming on a visit, in the course of
conversaticm asked the father how he meant to
dispose of his suns. The father replied, that he
hid not determined. The visitor sairl, that were
he in his place he would give them all good
education and send them abioad, without (per-
hapsj having a precise idea where. The fatlier
objected, that many young nien lost their health
in foreign countries, and many their lives. Tiue,
replied the vi^itor, but as you have a number of
sons, it will be strange if some one of them does
not live and make a fortune.
Let any person who has the feelings of a fa-
ther comment on this story : but though few
will avow, even to themselves, that such views
govern their conduct, yet do we not daily see ,
people shijiping otf their sons, (and who would |
do so by their (laughters also, if there were any
demand fur them), that they may be rich or
peri>h ?
The education of the lower classes is seldom
considered in any other point of view than as
tlie means of raising them from that station to
which they were born, and i f making a lortiine.
1 am ignorant of the niystei ies of the art of ac-
quiring a fortune without any tiling to begin with,
and cannot calculate, with any degree of ex.ict-
Dess, the d fficulties to be surmounted, the mor-
tifications to be suffered, and the degradation
of character to be submitteil to, in lending one's
Bclf to be the minister of other |ieojile's vices, or
in the practice of rapine, fraud, oppression, or
diss'.mul.itiun, in the progress ; but even when
the wished for end is attained, it m ly be ques-
tioned whether happiness be much increased by
the change When I have seen a fortunate ad-
venturer of the lower rank- of life returned fiom
the Ei^l or West Indies with all the h.iuteur of
a vulgai mind aicusruined to be xi veil by slaves,
assuiiMiig a chiractiT, which, from the early ha-
bits of life, he is ill fitted to support, displaying
magnificence which raises the envy of some, and
the CO:. tempt of others ; claiming an equality
with the great, « Inch tln-y are unwilling to al-
low ; iiiiv p uing at the pie^ edence o the heie-
ditjry gentry ; maddened by the pcdi>hed inso-
knce of kome of the uiiwoi thy part of them;
seeking pleasure in the society of men who cac
condescend to flatter him, and li>ten to his ab-
surdity for the s ike of a good dinner and good
wine; I cannot avoid concluding, that his bro-
ther, or comiianion, who, by a diligent a])plica-
tioii to the labours of agriculture, or some use-
ful mechanic employment, and the careful lius-
banding of his gains, has acijuired a competence
in his station, is a much happier, and, in the
eye of a peison who can take an enlarged view
of mankind, a much more lesjiect ible in in.
But the votaries of wealth may be considered
as a great number of candidates striving for a
few piizes, and whatever addition the successiul
may make to their pleasure or happiness, the
disappointed will always have more to suffer, I
am afraid, th.in those who abide coiitented in
the station to which they wcie born. 1 wish,
therefore, the education of the lower clavse* to
be piomoted and directed to their iin|)roveiiieiit
as men, as the means of increasing their virtue,
and opening to them new and dignified sources
of pleasure and happiness. I iiave heard some
Jicojile object to the educiUion of the lower cl.is-
ses of men, as rendering them less useful, by
abstracting them from their jiioper buMiicss ;
otheis, as temliiig to make them saucy to their
superiors, impatient of their condition, and tai-
biilent subjects; wl.ile yon, with more iiuiiia-
nity, have your fe.irs alarmed, lest the delicacy
of mind, indui'ed by that sort of education and
reading I lecouimeiid, should render the eviU
of their Mtuation in upportable to them. 1 wi.>h
to examine the Validity of each of these o jec-
tions, beginning with the oijc you have men-
tioned.
I do nut mean to controvert your criticism ol
my fivour te books, the Mirror and Lounger,
although I understand there are people who
think themselves judges, who do nut agree with
you. The acquisition of knowledge, except
what is connected uitli human life and con-
duct, or the particular business of his employ-
ment, does not appear to me to be the fittest
pursuit for a peasant. 1 would say with tlie
poet,
'* How empty learning, and how vain is xrj,,
Save where it guides the life, or meuJs the
heart !"
There seems to he a considerable latitude in
the use of the word taste. I uiideistaiid it to
be the perception ami lelish of I eauty, order,
or any other thing, the contemid.ition of v.- hi, h
gives pleasure ami delight to the eiiiid. I >iip-
jio«e it is in this sense you wish it t.i be uiid< r-
stood. If I am right, the taste wiiich the^e
bonks are calcukited to cultivate, (beside the
t.iste for fine vvrit.ng, wliich niai.y of the pajiers
tend to improve and to gratify), i* what is pro-
per, consistent, and bi-coming in hiiuiin ch.i-
racter and couiluct, as almost every paper relate*
to tlie>e subjects.
I a.n sorry 1 have not these Looks bj me,
800
BliRNS' WORKS.
that I raiglt point out some instances. I re-
mcr. her two ; one, the heautiful story of La
Rdcne, where, beside the pleasure one derives
from a heautiful simple stury tcild in M'Kenzie's
happiest iiicinner, the mind is led to taste, with
heartfelt rapture, the consolation to be derived
in deep affliction, from habitual devotion and
trust in Almighty Gud. The other, the story
of General \V , where the reader is led to
nave a high relish for that firmness of mind
which disregards appearances, the common forms
and vanities of life, for the sake of doina: justice
in a case which was out of the reach of hura»n
laws.
Allow me then to remark, that if the mora-
lity of these books is subordinate to the cultiva-
tion of ta-te ; that taste, that refinement of
mind and delicacy of sentiment which they are
intended to give, are the strona;est guard and
surest foundation of morality and virtue. Other
moralists s^uard, as it were, the overt act ; these
pa|)ers, by exalrins^ duty into sentiment, are cal-
cul ited to make every deviation from rectituile
and propriety of conduct, painful to the mind,
" Whose temper'd powers,
rtefine at length, and every passion wears
\ chaster, uulder, more attractive mien."
I readily grant you that the refinement of
mind which I ccintind for, increases our sensi-
bility to the evils of life ; but what station of
life is without its evils ! There seems to be no
such thing as perfect happiness inthiswdild,
and we must balance the plL'a>ure and the pain
which we derive from taste, befiiie we ran pro-
perly appreciate :t in the ca^ before us. I ap-
prehend that on a minu'e ex.iiriin.ition it will
appear, th f» "he evils peculiar to the lower rauk>
of life, derive their power to wound us, more
frcim the sugcesrions of false pride, and the
" c(>ntagiiin of luxury weak and vile." than the
refinement of our taste. It was a favourite re-
iriark of my brother's, that there was no part
of the constitutiun of our n.Jture, to which we
were more indebted, than that by which " c«a'-
l,iin iiii/kes tliiiiiiK familinr iinil ensij," (a copy
Ml-. i\Jurdi)ch usi-d to set us to write), and there
is little labour which custom will not make easy
to a man in health, if he is not ashamed of his
empli'vinrnt, or floes not begm to compare his
situation with those he may see going about at
their ease.
Hut the man of eid irgcd mind fi'cls tlie re-
cpoct due to him is i man ; he has learned that
no employment is dishonourable in itself; that
while be performs aiiglit the duties of that sta-
tion in whith Gt'il has placttd him, He i* as
f leat "IS a king in the eyes of Him whom he is
piiucipdly disirous to pleise; for the man of
t.i>te, who in con^t.intly obliged to labour, must
of nece-sity be religi'ius. II voii teach h:ni only
to reaMiii, you may ii.akehim tii atheist, a ilcma-
gofjui', or any vile thiu'.; ; but if you teach him
*o Ital, hut feeliiii^s can only find tlieir proper]
and natural relief in devotioa iXA religinas n,
signation. He knows that those people wiio art
to appearance at ease, are not without theii
share of evils, and that even toil itself is not
destitute of advantages. He listens to the wordj
of his favourite poet :
" O mortal man, that livest here by toil,
Cease to repine and grudge thy hard estate ;
That like an emmet thou must ever moil,
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ;
And, certes, there is for it reason great ;
Although sometimes it makes thee weep and
wail,
.■\nd curse thy stars, and early drudge and late;
Withouten that would come a heavier bale.
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale ! "
And, while he repeats the words, the grateful
recollection comes across his mind, how often he
has del ive<l ineffable pleasure from the sweet
song of " Nature's dailing child." I can say,
from my own experience, that there is no sort
of farm labour inconsistent with the most re-
fined and pleasurable state of the mind that I
am acquainted with, thrashing alone excepted.
That, indeed, I have always considered as in-
supportable drudgery, and think the ingenious
mechanic who invented the thrashing madiine,
ought to have a statue among the benefactors of
his country, and should be placed in the niche
next to the person who introduced the culture
of potatoes into this island.
Perh.ips the thing of most importance in the
education of the coninion people is, to prevent
the intrusi(m of artificial wants. I bliss the
memory of my worthy father for almost every
thing in the dispositio.'is of my mind, and my
habits of life which I can approve of; and for
none more than tlie pains he took to impress my
miiid with the sentiment, that nothing was more
unwortiiy the character of a man, than that his
hajipiness should ir. the least depend on what he
should eat or drink. So early did he impress
my mind with this, that although I was as fond
of sweetmeats as chiMren generally are, yet I sel-
dom laid out any of the half-pence which rela-
tions or neighbours g.ive me at fairs, in the pur-
chase of them ; and if 1 did, every mouthful I
swallowed was accompanieil with shame and re-
morse ; and to this hour I never indulge in the
use of any delicacy, but I feel a considfi able de-
gree of self-reproach and alarm for the degrada-
tion of the human character, .^uch a habit oi
thinking I consider as of great conseijiii nee,
both to the virtue and happiness of men iu the
lower ranks of life. And thus, Sir, I am of
opinion, that if their miods are eai ly and deeply
imprest with a sense of the dignity of man, as
such ; with the love of independence and of iu-
dustry, economy and tempei auce, as the most
ol.yio'.is means of making themselves indepen-
dent, and the virtues most l)ec(uning their situr
ation, and necessary to their liapj; iiess ; men ir
the lower ranks of life may partake of the plea
CORRESPONDENCE.
30
»ure« tn be deiivcd from the perusal of books
calculated to iiii|H(iVL' the iiiiini and refine the
taste, witliout any d,iii;;er of bi'^oiniiig more un-
h,il)[)v in tlieir situation, or discontented with it.
Nor do I thiidc tlieie is any danger of their l)e-
roniing less useful. There are some hours every
day that the most constant labourer is neithi'r
St work nor asleep. These hours are either aj)-
pro])riated to amusement or to sloth. If a taste
for employing these hours in reading were cul-
tivated, I do not sup])ose that the return to la-
bour wo\dd be more difficult. Every one will
allow, that the attachment to idle amusements,
or even to sloth, has ,is powerful a tendency to
abstract men fiom their proper l.usiness, as the
attaclmient to books ; while the one dissipates
the mind, and the otlier tends to increase its
powers of self-government. To those who are
afraid that the inijirovement of the minds of the
common ])eopIe might be dangerous to the state,
or the established order of society, I would re-
mark, tli.it turbulence and commotion are cer-
taiidv very inimical to the feelings of a refined
mind. Let the matter be brought to the te.-t
of experience and ohservatlon. Of what de-
scription of people are mobs and insurrections
composed ? Are they not universally ow'ng to
the want of enlargement and improvement of
mind among the common j)eople ? Nay, let
any one recollect the characters of those who
formed the calmer and more deliberate associa-
tions, which lately gave so much alarm to the
government of this country. I suppose few ot
the common jjeojde who were to l,e found in
such societies, had the education and turn of
mind I have been endeavouring to retommcnd
Allow me to suggest (me reason for endeavour-
ing to erdighten the minds of the conmion peo-
ple. Their morals have hitherto been guarded
by a sort of dim religious aw", which from a
variety of causes seems wearing off. I think the
alteration in this respect considerable, in the
short period of my observation. I have alreadv
given my opinion of the effects of refinement of
mind on mi;rals and virtue. Wiienever vilg ir
minds begin to shake ofi' the dogmas of the le-
ligion in which they have been educated, the
progress is (juick and immediate to downri;;ht
infidelity : and nothing but refinement of mind
can enahle thi-m to distinguish between the pure
essence of religion, and the gross systems which
men hnve been perpetually connecting it with.
In addition to what has already been done for
the education of the common people of this coun-
try, in the establishment oi' parish schools, I
wi^h to see the salaries augmented in some pro-
portion to the present expense of living, and the
earnings of peojile of similar rank, endowments
and usefulness, in society ; and I hope that the
liberality of She present age will be no longer'
disgraced by refusing, to so useful a class of men,
Buth encouiuigement as may make parish schools
worth the attenti(m of men fitted for the imjior- |
tant duties of that office. In filling up the va- j
,ancies, I woiJd have more attention paid to the j
candidate's cajiaci'y of ti'ading .lif English Ian
guage with grace and propriety ; to his under
standing thoroughly, and having a high relisL
for the heauties of English authors, both in poetry
anil prose ; to that good sense antl knowledge
of human nature which would enable him to ac-
qvire some inlluence on the minds ami atfctions
of his scholars ; to the gener.il worth of his clia-
racter, and the love of liis king and his counti v,
than to his proficiency in the knowledge of Latin
anil Greek. I would then have a sort of high
English class established, not only for the pur-
pose of teaching the pupils to read in that grace-
ful and agreeable manner that might make them
find of reading, but to make them understand
what they read, and discover the beauties of the
author, in composition and sentiment. I would
have established in every parish a small ciicu-
lating library, consisting of the books which the
young people had read extracts from in the c<d-
lections they had read at school, and any other
books well calculated to refine the mind, improvo
the moral feelings, recommend the practice ct
virtue, and communicate such knowledge as
miirht be useful and suitable to the IdioLrinz
classes of men. I would have the scliool master
act as librarian, and in recommending Ijooks to
his young friends, formerly his pupils, and let-
ting in the light of them upon their voung minds,
he should have the assistance of the minister.
If once such education were become general.
tjie low delights of tlie public-hou-e, and othet
scenes of riot and depravity, would be contemn-
ed and neglected, while indii>try, ordei, cleanli-
ness, and every virtue whiidi taste and indepen-
dence of mind could recommend, would prevail
and flourish. Thus possessed of a virtuous and
eidii;htened popul.ice, with hi.;h iieii'.;ht I ^hollld
consider my native country as at the iiead of all
the nations of the earth, ancient or inodern.
Thus, Sir, have I execut.'d my threat to the
fullest extent, in regard to the length of my let-
ter. If 1 had not presumed on doin^ it more
to my liking, I should not have uudt-rtaken it ;
but I have not time to attempt it anew ; nor, if
I would, am I certain that I should >ucceed any
better. I have learned to have less confiilence
in my capacity of writing on such subjects.
I am much obliged by ymir kind iiujuirics
about my situation and prospects. I am miu-h
pleised with the soil of this farm, and with the
terms on which I possess it. I receive great
encouragement likewise in building, enclosing,
and other conveniences, from my lindloifl Mr.
G. S. Monteith, whose general character and
conduct, as a landlord and country gentleuia.
I am highly pleased with. IJut the land is in
such a state as to require a considerable imme-
diate outlay of money in the puicha'e of ma-
nure, the grubbing of brush-Wood, removing of
stones, &c. which twelve years' st. uggle with a
farm of a cold ungrateful soil has hut ill prepar«
ed me for. If I can gvt these things done,
however, to my mind, I think there is next to
a certainty tlvat in five or six years I shall be if
302
BURMS' WORKS.
B hopeful way of attaining a situation which I
think is eliijible fur happiuoa as any one I
know ; fur I luve always been of opinion, that
if a man, bred to the habits of a farming hfs,
who possesses a farm of good soil, on such terms
as enables him easily to pay all demands, is not
haDpy, he ought to look somewhere else than to
nis situation fur the causes of his uneasiness.
1 beg you will present my most respectful
compliments to Mrs. Currie, and remember me
to Mr. and Mis. Roscoe, and Jlr. Roscoe jun.
whose kind attentions to me, when in Liverpool,
I shall never forget 1 am, dear Sir, your most
obedient, and much obliged humble servant,
GILBERT BURNS.
DEATH AND CHARACTER OF
GILBERT BUR. VS.
This most worthy and ta'ented individual
fied at Grant's Braes, in the neighbourhood of
i-Lddington, and on the estate of Lady Blan-
-yre, for whom he was long factor, on Sund.iy
3th April 1827, in the sixty-seventh year of his
age.* He had no fixed or formed complaint,
but for several months preceding his dissolution,
there was a gradual decay of the powers of na-
ture ; and the infirmities of age, condjined with
severe domestic affliction, hastened the release
of as pure a spirit as ever inhabited a boman
bosom. On the 4th of January be lost a daugh-
ter who had long been the pride of the family
hearth ; and on the 26 th of Felnuary fulluu ing,
his youngest son, — a youth of great piumise,
died in Edinburgh of typhus fever, just as he
was about being licensed for the ministry. These
repeated trials were too much for the excellent
old man ; the mind which, throughout a lung
and blameless life, had pointed unweariedly to
its home in the skies, ceased as it were, to hold
coninjunion with things earthly, and on the re-
currence of that hallowed morning, which, like
his sire of (dd, he had been accustomed to sanc-
tify, be ex[)ired without a groan or struggle, in
peace, and even love with all mankind, and in
liund)!e confidence of a blessed immortality. —
The early life of Mr. Gilbert Burns is inti-
mately blended with that of the poet. He was
eighteen months younger than Robert — posses-
sed the same ])enetrating judgment, and, accord-
ing to Mr. Blurdoch, their first instructor, sur-
passed liim in vivacity till pretty nearly the age
of manhood. When the greatest of our bards
was invited by Dr. Blacklock to visit Edinburgh,
the subject of the present imperfect Memoir was
struggling in the churlish farm of Mossgiel, and
toiling late and early to keep a house over bis
aged mother, and unprotected sisters. In these '
tircunistauces, the poe*.*s success was the first]
thing that stemmed the ebbing tide of the for-
luues of bis ianiily. In settling with Mr. Creech '
in February 1 'JSS, hi received, as the profits nf
his second publication, about j£500, and with
that generosity, which formed a part of his na-
ture, he immed ately presented Gilbert witn
nearly the half of his whole wealth. Thus suc-
coure<l, the deceased married aMissBreckenridge,
and removed to a better farm (Dinning in Dum-
friesshire ), but still reserved a seat at the fami-
ly board fur his truly venerable mother, who died
a few yeai's ago. While in Dinning, he was re-
commended to Lady Blantyre ; and though our
memory does not serve us precisely as to date,
he mcst have been an inhabitant of East Lothian,
for very nearly a quarter of a century. Her
Ladyship's affairs were managed with the greatest
fidelity and prudence ; the factor and his con-
stituent were worthy of each other ; and in a
<listrict distinguished fur *he skill, talents, and
o]!ulencc of its farmers, no man was more re-
s|;ected then Mr. Gilbert Burns. His wife,
\vho still survives, bore him a family of six sons
anr' five f'.aught.rs; hat of Jiese, one Sjn, anci
four daughters, predeceased their father. His
means, though limited, were always managed
with enviable frugality, as a proof of which we
may state that every one of his boys received
what is called a classical education.
• This skctcli is bv Mr. Macriiarmid, of the Dum-
fries Courie.-, -n which Journ-jl it fifif appeared.
No. LXXL
THE POET'S SCRAP-BOOK,
The Poet kept a Scrap-Book, which was
what the title imports, really a thing of shieds
and patches. In the following extracts, v.e
have not been quite so sparing as Dr. Currie,
whose extracts are above, nor so very jirotuse an
Mr. Cromek, who, in his Reliques, has turned
the book inside out. The jirose articles are
chiefly in the way of maxims or observations
th(!y have less of worldly selfishness, and more
of the religious feeling, than those of Rochfou-
caud : The poetical scraps are numerous — such
of them as are worth jireserving, and have not
already appeared amongst the poems, will be
found below.
MV^ FATHER WAS A FARMER.
Tune—" The Weaver and his Shuttle, O."
Mv Father wag a Farmer upon the Carrick bo'der, O,
Aiul carefully he bred n>e in deceiicv ami urder, () ;
He bade nie act a manly part, tliouyli 1 liad ne'er a
farlliing, O,
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth
regarding, O.
Then out into the world my course I did dctcrniine, O,
Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great wai
charminj;, O.
My taleiiti they were not the wors'. ; nor yet my edu-
eat'on, O :
R(soIv'd was 1, at least to try, to mend my r.'tuation, O.
In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's fa-
vour, () :
Some cau>ie uu'^ccn, still stept between, to frusirjte
caci eiido ;vi)ur, O ;
Scmelimcs liy foes I was o'eipow'rd; »)metimcs by
friends forsaken, O j
And whiM try Impe was at tlie top, I s;ill w.is wor»>
iniMtakei^ U.
CORRESPONDENCE
303
Hien sore Iiirass'd, and tir'i at last, with fortune's
v.iin ilelusion, O ;
I dropt uiv schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this
conclusion, O ;
riic pa^t was bad. and the future hid ; its good or ill
iintrved, O ;
But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would
enjoy it, O.
No help, nor hone, nor view had I ; nor person to be.
friend me, O;
So must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sus-
tain me, O,
To pl(iuc;h and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred
me earlv, O ;
For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for for-
tune fairly, O.
Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro" life I'm
doimcd to wander, O,
Till down niv weary bones 1 lay in everlasting slum-
ber, O':
No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me
pain or sorrow O ;
I live to day, as well's I may, regardless of to-mor-
row, 6.
But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch in a pa.
jncc, o,
Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her
wonted malice, O ;
I make indeed, my daily bread, Uut ne'er can m.ike it
farther, O; '
But as (iailv bread is all I need, I do not much regard
her, O.
Vhen sometimes by my labour I earn a little inoney,0.
Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon
me, O;
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd
folly, O;
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be
melancholy, O.
All you who fallow wealth and power with unremit-
ting ardiiur, O,
Then- ore in this you look for blUs, you leave your
view the farther, O ;
Had you the wialth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore
you, O,
A checVf il honest hearted clown I will prefer before
you, O.
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF
ROBERT RUISSEAUX.*
Now Robin lies in his last lair.
He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,
Caidd poverty, wi' hungry stare,
Nae mair shall ff.ir him ;
Nor anxious fear, nor cankcrt care
E'er mair come near him.
To tell the truth, thev seldom fash't him.
Except the moment that they crush't him;
For sune as ehaiieo or fate had husht 'em,
Tho' e'er sae short,
riien wi a rhyme or song he lasht 'em,
And thought it sport.—
Tho' he was bred to kintra wark.
Anil cniinted was baiih wight and stark.
Vet that was never Robin's mark
To mak a man ;
But tell hiin, he was a lenrn d dark,
V'e roos'd him then, f
Mehn>chrihj. — There was a certain period of
my life tli.it my spirit was broke Iiy rcpeateti looses
and disasters. wh:ch threatened, and indeed eflfcct-
ed, the utter ruin of my fortune. My liody too
Was attacked by that most dreadful distemper,
a hypochondria, or confirmed melancholy : In
this \v I etched state, the recollection of which
• Ruls.'eaiiT — sfeains — ;
. Ve roos'd— ye prais'd.
play on his own nam*.
makes me yet s-hudder, I hiinp; my harp on tie
willow trees, except in some lucid intervals, ia
one of which I composed the following. ( Here
t'olliiws the prayer in distress, p. 73. ) — March
"17S4..
Ildifjious Sentiment. — What ,a creature is
man ! A little alarm last night, and to-day, thai
I am mortal, has made such a. revolution on my
spirits ! There is no philosophy, no divinity,
that comes half so much home to the niinil. I
have no idea of courage that braves Heaven :
'Tis the wild ravings of an iniagiii.iiy hero in
Bedlam.
]My favourite feature in Milton's Satan is his
manly fortitude in supporting what cannot be
remedied — in short, the wild, broken fragments
of a noble, exalted mind in ruins. 1 meant no
mure by saying he was a favourite hero ol
mine.
I hate the very idea of a controversial divini-
ty ; as I firmly believe that every honest upright
man, of whatever sect, will be accepted of the
deity. I despise the superstition of a fanatic,
but I love the religion of a man.
Nothing astonisnes nie more, when a little
sickness clogs the wheel of life, than the thoiiaht-
Icss career we run in the hour of health.
" IS'one saith, where is God, my raaktr, that
giveth songs in the night : who ttatheth i<.g
more knowledge than the beasts of the field,
and more uiideistandiug than the fowls of the
air."
jMy creed is pretty nearly expressed in the last
clause of Jamie Deans grace, an honest weaver
in Ayrshire ; " Lord grant that we may lead a
gude life ! for a gude life maks a gude end, at
least it helps weel !"
A decent means of livelihood in the world, an
approving God, a peaceful conscience, and one
firm trusty fiiend ; can any body that has these,
be said to be unhappy ?
The d-ignified and dignifying consciousness of
an honest m.an, and the well giounded trust in
approving heaven, are two most substantial
sources of happiness.
Give me, my Maker, to remember thee !
Give me to feel " another's woe ;" and con-
tinue with me that dcar-lov'd fiiend that feels
with mine !
In proportion as we are wrung with gritf, or
distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a compas-
sionate Deity, an .\lmighty Protector, are doubly
dear.
I have been, this morning, taking a peep
througli, as Young finely says, " the dark post-
ern of time long elapsed ;" 'twas a rueful i)ros-
pect ! Vi'hat a tissue of thoughtlessness, weak-
ness, and fully ! My life reminded me of a ruin-
ed temjile. What strength, what proportion ia
some parts ! What unsightly gaps, what pros-
trate ruins in others ! I kneeled down before
the Fatlier of IMercies, and said, " Father I
liave si ,ned against Heaven, and in thy sight
and am no morj worthy to be called thy son.'
I ro3»v eased, and strengthened.
S04
BURNS' WORKS.
TTERS, 1788.
No. Lxxir.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
Edinhvrph, 2 1 at Jan. 1 7S8.
After six weeks' ronfinement, I am be"-in-
ising to walk across the lodin. They have been
«ix horrible weeks; ang:>iish and low spirits
made me unfit to read, write, or think.
I have a hundred times wished that one
could resign life as an officer lesigns a commis-
sion : for I would not take in any poor, igno-
rant wietch, by seUlnq out. Lately I was a
jixpenny private ; and, God knows, a miserable
wldier enough ; now I march to the campaign,
a starving cadet: a little more conspicuously
wretched.
I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do
want bravery for the warfare of life, 1 could
wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal
my cowardice.
As soon as I can bear the journev, which
will I)e, I suppose, about the middle of next
week, I leave Edinburgh, ami s.xm after I shall
pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-house.
but ypu are sure of being re»(«Li<»oit- — yon ca»
afford to pass by an occasion to dispi.iy you
wit, because you may de])eiid for fame on your
sense ; or if you choose to be silent, you know
you can rely on the gratitude of many and the
esteem of all ; but Goii help us who are wits ol
witlings by pi-ofession, if we stand not for fame
there, we sink unsupported !
1 am highly flattered by the news you tell
me of Coila.* I may say to the fair painter
who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beatlie
says to Ross the poet, of his .Muse Scotia, fioin
which, by the bye, I took the idea of Coila:
('Tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scots dialect,
which j)erhaps you liave uever seen. )
" Ye sbak your bead, but o' my fegs,
Ye've set auld Scotia on her legs :
Lang had slie lien wi' huffe jnd flegs,
Bombaz'd and d:zzie,
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs,
Waes me, jtoor Lizzie.*'
No. LXXIIL
EXTRACT OF A LETTER
TO THE SA.ME.
Edhihiirgh, \2ffi Feb. 1788.
So^iE things, in your late letters, hurt me :
not that yiu sat/ t/iein, but that yiiu mistake me.
Religion, my honoured INIadam, has not only
been all my life my chief dependence, but my
dearest enjoyment. 1 have indeed been the
luckless victim of wayward follies; but, alas i
I have ever been " more fool than knave."
A mathematician without religion, is a jjroba-
ble character ; an irreligious poet, is a monster.
No. LXXIV.
TO A LADY.
MAPAM, Mossf/iel, Ith March, 1788.
TiiK last paragraph in yours of the 30th Fe-
bniirv affi-rted inc 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
ao |)urpose, to find out when it was employed
Jijamst ynu. I bate an (inginerous sarcasm, a
treat de.il worse than I do the devil ; at least
«.•< IVinton describes liiin ; and though I may be
r;u-ca»iy euo'igh to be sometimes guilty of it my-
Belf, I cannot endure it in others. You, my
No. LXXV.
TO iMR. ROBERT CLEG HORN.
Mat/chline, 3\st March, 178S.
Yesterday, my dear Sir, as 1 was riding
through a track of melancholy jovlcss niuii-s,
between Galloway and Ayrshire, it lieiiig Sun-
day, I turned my thoughts to psalms, arid '
hymns, and spiritual songs ; and your favourite
air, Captain O'Aean, coming at length in mv
head, 1 tried these words to it. You will .see
that the first part of the tune must be repeated.f
I am tolerably pleased with tliese 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 my muse baa
degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that
ever picked cinders, or followeil a tinker. When
I am tairly got into the routine of busiru'ss, I
shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; jierliips
with some queries respecting firming ; at pie-
sent, the world sits such a load on my mind,
that it has effaced almost every trace of the
in me.
Uly very best coiiiplimeuts and good wishes
to Airs. Cleghorn.
No. LXXYL
FROJI MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN.
Satipfitnn Mills, 271/1 April, 1788.
SIY DEAR BKOTIIER FARMER,
I WAS favoured with your very kind letter of
• A laily was m.aking a picture from the ilcscriptiot
of Coila in the fision.
, I /■ • 1 1 ,• , • I t Merc the bard gives thp flrst stanza Of the C/fi^
bouuured Irieud, who cannot ajipear in any light, | lUr't Lament,
CORRESPONDENCE.
theSlst n't. and co.;siiU'r myself p:rp;itly ohlii;eil
to \iui, fur vdur atfiMitiiiii in sftidiiis; mo the
Bons^ to mv f'avuiiiite air, Ciiptuin O' Keiin.
1 lie wiir.l-. iloli>;lit mo muc!i ; tlioy fit tlie tune
to a liair. I wish you would soml mo a vorso
or two more ; and if yon have no olycction, I
winiUl liave it in tlie Jacohite style. Suppose
it shoul.l 1)0 -^uns; afcer the fatal field of Cullu-
don hv the upfoituii ite Charles : Tondiicci per-
sonates the lovely M.iry Stuart in the soni;
Qiieai Marys Luinentntion. — Why may not
1 siii'jj in the person of her great-great-great
grandson ?*
Any skill I have in country husiness you may
truly command. Situation, soil, customs of
countries may vary from each other, hut Fiir-
mer Attention is a f^ood firmer in every place.
I he;^ to hear fioni you soon. IMrs. Cleghoru
loins me \n host compliments.
I am, in the uuxt coiuprehensive sense of the
word, yo'ir very siiucere friend,
UOBEUT CLEGHORN.
No. LXXVlI.
TO MR. JAMES S.AITTH,
AVO.V PRINTFIEI.D, LINLITHGOW.
Manchllne, April 2S, ITS'?.
Beware of your Strashurgh, my good Sir!
Look on this as the opening of a correspondence
like the opening of a twenty-four gun l)attery !
There is no understanding a man properly,
without knowing something of his previous ideas
(that is to say, if the man has any ideas ; for I
know many who in the animal-muster, pass for
men, that are the scanty m isters of only one
idea on any given suljject, and hy far the great-
est <irt. of your acquaintances and mine can
barely hiiast of ideas, 1.25 — 1.5 — 1.75, or some
such fractional matter), so to let you a little
Vito tlie secrets of my pericranium, there is, you
must know, a certain clean-limhe<l, handsome,
bewitching voung hussy of your acijuaintance,
to whom I have lately and privately given a nia-
trLaonial title to my corpus.
" Bode a robe and wear it,"
S.'.y* the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to pre-
sige ill-luck ; and as my girl lias been dimbly
kinder to me than even the best of women
usually are to their partners of our sex, in simi-
lar circumstances, I reckon on twelve times a
brace of children against I celebrate my twelfth
wedding day : these twenty-four will give me
twenty- four gossiiipings, twenty-four christen-
ings, (I mean one equal to two), and I hope by
the blessing of the uod of my fathers, to make
• Our Poet took this advicp. See iioctry for the
vAole ot that beautiful song— ilie CheTaiicr'i (uwMit.
tliem .venty-fo'ir dutiful cliildren tr> tbeir plfc-
rent'*, twenly-loiir u-eful iiuMiilpers of iiociet^,
and twenty-four approven servants id' their find '
" Lij;hl's heart-ome," quo' tht
wife when she was stealing sheep. You see
whit a lamp I hive hung up to lighten your
paths, when you are iille enough to exploie tr.e
combinations and relations of my ideas 'Tis
now as plain as a pike-statf, why a tuenfy-four
gun battery was a metaphor 1 could readily
employ.
Now for business. — 1 intend to present Mrs.
Burns with a printed shawl, an articU ot woicb
I dare say you have variety : 'tis my first pre-
sent to her since I have irrevocahly calleii ner
mine, and I have a kind of whimsical wish to
get her the said first present from an old and
uiiu'h valued fjiend of hers and 111100, a trusty
Trojdii, on who^e frieuilship I count myself
possessed of a lile-reut lease.
Look on lliis letter as a " beginning cf iior-
rows ;" I'll write you till your eyes ache with
reailing mmsense.
Mrs. Burns ('tis only her jirivate designa-
tion J, begs her best coiiiplimeuts to you.
No. LXXVIII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
MADAM, Mavchline, 28</t Ajiril, 1 'SS
Your powers of reprehension must be ereal
indeed, as I assure yon they made my heart
aclie with penitential pangs, even t!iou'.;h ii was
really not guilty. As I ronimence firmer at
Whitsunday, you will easily guess I must be
jiretty I'Usy ; but tliat is not nil. A^ 1 got the
(lifer of the excise business without solicitation ;
and as it cost.s nie only six months' attendmce
for instructions, to entitle me to a commission ;
which conimissiim lies by me, and at any futuie
period, on my simple petition, can he resumed ;
1 thou<;lit five and thiity pouiuls a-year was no
bail dernier resort for a pour poet, if loi tune 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 attending
these instructions, to have them conviletcd he-
fore Whitsumlay. Stiil, Madam, I |ircpared
with the sincerest jileasure to meet yon at the
Mount, ami came to my brother's on Saturday
nitjlit, to set out on Suiid.iy ; but fur somj
night.s preceding I had slept in an apaitment,
where the force of the winds and rain was only
mitigated by being sifted through numher'es*
ajiertiiies in the windows, walN, Skc. In con-
sequence I was on Sunday, Monday, and part
'of Tuesday unable to stir out of bed, with a)}
; the niiserabls eiluctii of a violent culci.
S(G
BURNS' WORKS.
You see, Midim, the trutn of the French
maxim, L,e vr.ji ti'est })as toi/jimrs le vrai-sem-
biuble ; yciiii- 1,1st was so lull of expostulation,
tntl was ^(>methinc; so like the languaete of an
offeiirled fiienil, that I began to tremble for a
corresponileiice, which I had with grateful plea-
iure set down as ont of the greatest enjoyments
of my future life.
Your books have delighted me ; Virgil, Dry-
den, and Tasso, were all equal strangers to me ;
but of this more at large in my next
No. LXXIX.
FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER.
BEAR SIR, Linshart, aS'A April, 1788.
I RECEIVED your last, with the curious pre-
sent you have favoured me with, and would
have made proper acknowledgments before now,
out that I have been necessarily engaged in
matters of a different complexion. And now
that I have got a little respite, I make use of it
to thank you for this valuable instance of your
good will, and to assure you that, with the sin-
cere heart of a true Scotsman, I highly esteem
both the gift and the giver : as a small testi-
mony of which I have herewith sent you for
your amusement (and in a form which I hope
you will excuse for saving postage) the two
songs I wrote about to you already. Charming
Nuncy is the real production of genius in a
ploughman of twenty years of age at the time
of its appearing, with no more education than
what he picked up at an old farmer-grandfa-
ther's fireside, though now, by the strength of
natural parts, he is clerk to a thriving bleach-
field in tlie neighbourhood. And I doubt not
but you xvill find in it a simplicity and delicacy,
with some turns of humour, that will please
one of your taste ; at least it pleased me when
I first saw it, if that can be any recommenda-
tion to it. The other is entirely descriptive of
my own sentiments, and joii may make use of
one or both us you shall see good.*
• CHARMING N.VN'CV.
A gONO, BY A DUL'HAM PLOUGHMAN.
Tunc—" Humours of Glen."
/mil MMMu Hive* n» sriig in me iiiinu>urs or (/icn.
But iny (inly t'iuicy, is my pretty N.inov,
In ventinj^ my passion, I'll strive to lie plain,
I'll isk no more treasure, I'll seek no more pli'asurc,
Hut thee, my dear Nancy, giu thou wert my aio.
n isK no more treasure, 111 seek no more pli'i
But thee, my dear Nancy, giu thou wert my
Her be.Tf-ty dilights mc, ncr kindne.s invites me,
Her pleasant bellaviour is fine fioui all stain :
You will oblige me w presenting my respects
to your host, Mr. Cruikshank, who has given
such high approbation to my poor Latinity
you may let him kuow, that as I have likewise
been a dabbler in Latin poetry, I have two
things that I would, if he desire* it, submit not
to his judgment, but to his amusement : the
one, a translation of Christ's Kirk 0' the Green,
printed at Aberdeen some years ago ; the other,
Batriichnmyomachia Homen Latinis versibut
cum additamentis, given in litely to Chalmers,
to print if he pleases. JIi. C. will know Se-
ria non semper dekctant, nnn joca semper.
Semper delectant seria mixta jocis.
I have just room to repeat compliments and
good wishes from.
Sir, your humble servant,
JOHN SKINNER.
No. LXXX.
TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART.
SIR, MancMlne, Sd May, 1787.
I ENCLOSE you one or two more of my baga
telles. If the fervent wishes of honest grati-
tude have any influence with that great, un-
known Keing, who frames the chain of causes
and events ; prosperity and happiness will at-
tend your visit to the Continent, and return yoB
safe to your native shore.
VVherevei- I am, allow me. Sir, to claim it as
my privilege, to acquaint you with my progress
in my trade of rhymes; as I am sure I could
say it with truth, that, next to my little fame,
and the having it in my power to make life
Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel.
Consent, my dear Na ey, and eoine be my ain :
Hor carriai,'e is comely, her language is homely.
Her dress is quite decent when ta'en in the main : '
She's blooming in fiaturc, she's handsome in stature.
My charming, dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain !
Like Phoebus adorning the fair ruddy morning.
Her bright eyes are sparkling, lier brows are serene,
Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining,
My cliarming, sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain.'
The whole of her face is with maidenly graces
Array'd like the gowans, that grow in yon glen.
She's well shaped and slender, true hearteil and teiukr.
My charming, sweet Nancy, O wert thou my am '.
I'll seek through the nation for some habitation.
To shelter my dear from the cold, snow, and rain.
With songs to my deary, I'll keep lier aye cheery,
My eharmin!;, sweet Nancy, gni thou'weit my air.
I'll work at my calling, to furnish lliy dwelling,
\\ ith ev'ry thing needful thy life tii sustain ;
Thou slialt not sit sniglc, but by a cK.ir uigle,
I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my am.
I'll rnake true affoction the constant direction
Of loving my Nancy while life doih reii ain :
Tho' youth will be wasting, true lo\ e sli:ill be Listing
My charming, sweet Nancy, gin lliou wert my ain.
But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy,
To (avour another lie forward and lain,
I will not coiiiiicl her, but plainly I'll tell licr,
Ucgoiie thou falsi' Nancy, thou'sc ne'er be rry Bia«
The Old Man's Song, (see o. 13jJ
CORRESPONDENX'E.
307
more conifortaWe to tliose whom nature has
made dear to me, I shall ever regard your eouu-
tinance, your patronage, your frienilly good of-
fiee<, as the most valued consequence of my late
success iu life.
No. LXXXI.
EXTRACT OF A LETTER
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
MADAM, Matichllne, ith May, 1788.
DiivrEN's Virgil has delighttd me. 1 do
not know whether the critics will agree with
me, hut the Gtorgics are to me by far the best
of Virgil, li -s indeed a species of writing en-
tirely new to me; and has filled my head with
a thousand fancies of enmlation ; but, alas 1
when I read thi Genrgics, and then survey mv
own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Sliethind
poney, drawn up by tlie side of a thorough-bred
hunter, to start for the ])late. I own I am dis-
appointed in the ^neid. Faultless correct-
ness may please, and does highly please the let-
tered critic ; but to that awful character I have
not the most distant pretensions. I do not
know whether I do not luizard my pretensions
to be a critic of any kind, when I say that I
third; \ irgil, in many instances, a servile copier
of Homer. If i had the Othjssei/ by me, I
could parallel many passages where Virgil has
evidently copied, but by no means improved
Homer. Nor can 1 think there is any thing of
this owing to the translators ; for, from every
thing I have seen of Dryden, I think him, in
genius and fluency of language. Pope's master.
I have not perused Tasso enough to form an
opinion : in some future letter, you shall have
my ideas of him ; though I am conscious my
criticisms must be very inaccurate and imper-
fect, as there I have ever felt and lamented my
want of learning most.
No. LXXXII.
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.
Mauchllne, May 26, 17SS.
Mt hear friend,
I AM two kind letters in your debt, but I
have been from home, and horridly busy Iruying
and prepaiing for my farming business; over
and above the plague of my Excise instructions,
which this week will finish.
As I flitter my wishes that I foresee many
ifuture years" correspondence between us, 'tis
foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles : & dull
letter may be a very kind one. I have the plea-
«uie to tell jou tin. I have bsen extremely for-
tunate in all my liuyings and bargainings hither,
to ; Mrs. Bums not excejited ; wliich title I
now avow to the world. I am trulv p!ea<:cd
with this last affair : it has indeed adil.-d u> nj
anxieties for futurity, but it hasg.'ven :i s'll i^iiv
to my mind and resolutions, unknmvM ' .■'' rt-
and the |)oor girl has the most sacred .■lulm^i .sm
of attachment to me, and has not a wish but to
gratify my every idea of her deportment.
I am inteirujjted.
Farewell ! my dear Sir.
Nr» LXXXIII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
MADAM, 27</t May, 1788.
I HAVE been torturing my philosophy to no
purpose, to account for tliat kind partiality of
yours, which, unlike
, has followeil me in my
return to the shade of life, with assiduous be-
nevolence. Often did I regret in the fleeting
hours (if my late wilbo'-wisp apjiearance, that
" here I had no continuing city ;" and but fi;r
the consolation of a iew solid guineas, could
almost lament the time that a momentary ac-
quaintance with wealth and s])lend.iur put me
so much out of conceit with the sworn com-
panions of my road through life, insignificance,
and poverty.
There are few circumstances relating to the
unequal distribution of the good things of this
life, that give me more vexation (I mean in
what 1 see around me) than the importance the
opulent bestow on their trifling faiiidy affairs,
compared with the very same things on the con-
tracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had
the honour to spend an hour or two at a good
woman's fireside, where the jilaoks that com-
posed the floor were decorated with a splendid
carpet, and- the gay table spirkle<l with silver
and china. 'Tis now about term-day, and there
has been a revolution among those creatures,
who, though in appearance partakers, and
equally noble partakers of the same n.iture with
madame ; are from time to time, their nerves,
their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom,
experience, genius, time, nay, a good part oi
their very thoughts, sold for months and years,
not only to the necessities, the conveniences, but
the caprices of the important \\:\v.'' We talked
of the insignificant creatures ; nay, notwith-
standing their general stupidity and rascality
did some of the poor devils the honour to com-
» Servants in Scotland are hired from term to jcrm.
i. e. from Whit^uuduv to Marliniiias, ike.
308
BURNS* WORKS.
mend them. But light De the turf upon ' is
breast, who taught " Reverence thyself." We
>oi)l\e<] down on the u])()lisheii wretches, their
inijiei tinint wives and chiiiterly lirats, as the
loidly hull dues on the little dirty ant-hill,
whose puny iiihahitants he crushes in the i-are-
lessness of his rainhle, or tosses in air in the
wantonness of his pride.
No. LXXXIV.
TO THE SAME.
(at MR. DUNLOP's, KADDINGTON.)
EUhland, VMh June, 1798.
" Wliere'er I roam, whatever realms I see,
Wy lieart, untr.ivell'd, fondly tuins to thee ;
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at eadi remove a lengthen'd chain."
GOLDSMITH.
This is the second day, my honoured friend,
that I have heen on my farm. A solitary in-
nute of an old, smoky sj>tnce ; far from every
ohject I love, or liy wliiim I am loved ; nor any
acquaintance older than yesterilay, except Jen-
ny (ieddes, the oM mare I ride on ; while un-
couth cares, and novel plans, hourly insult my
awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience.
Theie is a toggy atmosphere native to my soul
lu the hour of care, conseijueiitly the dreary ob-
jects seem larger than the life. Extreme sensi-
bility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy
side l)y a series of misfortunes and dis:i|i))()iot-
ments, at tliat period of my existence when the
soul is laying in her cai go of ideas for the voyage
of life, is, 1 believe, the principal cause of this
unhappy frame of mind.
" Tlic valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ?
Or what need he regard his siiiyle woes ?" 8cc.
Your surmise, Aludam, is just ; I am i&deed
a husband.
a good wife, though she shou' !] never have read
a pjge, but the Scriptures of the Old and Neui
Tfstameitt, nor have danced in a brighter a»
sembly than a penny pay-wedding.
I found a once inuch-Iovcd and still much-
loved female, literally and truly cast out to the
mercy of the naked elements, but as I enabled
her to piirchiise a shelter ; and there is no
sporting with a fellnw-creature's happiness or
misery.
The most jdacid good-uature and sweetness
<f disposition . a warm heart, gratefullv devoted
with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health
and spiightly cheerfulness, set (iff to the best
advantage, liy a nicne than common h indxune
^j^ure ; iIksc. 1 think, in a woman, may make
No. LXXXV.
TO MR. P. HILL.
MY DEAR HIM.,
1 SHALL suy nothing at all to your mad pre-
sent— you have so long and otten been of im-
portant Service to me, and I suppose you mean
to go on conferring obligations until I shall not
be able to lift up my face before you. la the
meantime, as Sir Roger de Coveiley, because it
happened to be a cold day in which he made
his will, ordered his servants great coats for
mourning, so, because I have been this week
plagueil with an indige>tion, I have seut you by
the carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese.
Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil
and all. It besets a man in every one of his
senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of suc-
cosful knavery ; and sicken to loathing at the
niiise and nonsense of self-important folly.
When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by
the han<l, the feeling spoils my dinner ; tlie
proud man's wine so offends my palate, that it
chokes me in the gullet ; and the pulvilWd,
feathered, pert coxcomb, is so di?gustful in my
nostril that my stomach turns.
If ever you have any of these disagreeable
sensations, let me pre-cribe for you ])atitnce and
a bit of my cheese. I know tliat you are no
niggard of your good things among your friends,
and some of them are in much need of a slice.
There in my eye is out friend SuuUie, a man po-
sitively of the first abdities and greatest strength
of mind, as well as (me of the best hearts and
keenest wits that I have ever met with : when
you see him, as, alas ! he too is .smarting at tl"«
pinch of distressful circumstances, aggravate!
liy the sneer of contumelious greatnes a bit of
my cheese aUme will not cure him, but if you
add a tankard of brown stout, and superadd a
magnum of right Op(uto, you will see his sor-
rows vanish like the morning mi^t before the
summer sun.
C h, the earliest friend, except my only
brother, that 1 have on earth, and one of the
worthiest fellows that ever any man called by
the name of friend, if a luncheim of my cheese
would help to rid him of some of hi.s su|ier;»-
buiidant modesty, you would do well to gi'.e it
him.
David • with his Courant come«, tr », across
my recollection, and I beg you will nelp him
• Printer of the Eilniburgli Kvcnnig Coura»U
CORRESPONDENCE.
SOS
An^ely from the s.iiil cu'e-tnilk cTiee«e, to ena-
ble him to diijest tlio^e hcilauliiiij; paia-
giapli-i with which lie is eteinilly I.iicliii;; the
l<Mii i-h:irai'tcMS of certain sj'"'-'-'' "'*'" '" ■^ certain
^le.U town. I grant yon tiie iieriods are very
well turned : so, a fresh es:'j; is a very j^ood
inin;; ; hut when thrown at a man in a pillory
\t does not at ail improve liis figure, not to nien-
rion the irreparahle loss of the egg.
Jly facetious friend, D r, I would wish [
also to lie a partaker ; not to digest his spleen,
for that he laughs o'T, hut to digest his l.ist
night's wine at the last field-day of the Croch-
xHan corps. *
Among our commim friends I must not for-
get one of the dearest of them, Cunningham.
The hrutahty, iu<oIince, and selfishne-s of a
world unworthy of having such a fellow as he
is m it, I know sticks in his stomach, and if
yon can help him to any thing that will make
liim a little easier on that score, it will he very
obliging.
As to honest J S e, he is such a
contented happy man that I know not what can
annoy him, exce|)t perhaps he may not have got
the lietter of a parcel of modest anecdotes which
a certain poet gave him one night at sup[)er,
the 1 1st time the said poet w is in town.
Though I have mentioned so many men of
law, I shall have nothing to do with them pro-
fessedly— the Faculty are beyond my presc-rip-
tion. As to their clienti, that is another thing ;
God knows they have much to digest !
The di'rgy I p iss by; their profundity of
erudition, and their lilierahty of sentiment ;
their total want of pride, and their detestation
of hypociisy, are so proverbially notorious as to
place them far, far aliove either my praise or
censure.
I was going to mention a man of worth,
whiim I have the honour to call friend, the
Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have spiiken to
the landlord of the King's arms inn here, to
have, at the next county-meeting, a large ewe-
iiillk cheese on the table, for the benefit of the
Dunifriesshire whigs, to enable them to digest
the Duke of Queeusberry's late political con-
duct.
I have just this moment an o|ipi)rtunity of a
private hand to Ed.nburgh, as perhaps )ou would
out digest double postage.
No. LXXXVI.
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.
Eltisliind, June I i. ITH8.
This is now the third day, my dearest Sir,
that 1 have sojourned in these regioiiH ; and (lu-
ring these three days you have occiipi'-d inoie
ef iiiv thoughts than in ihree weeks preceding :
• A club o. choice si'irlts.
In Ayrshire I have several V'trinltans of friend-
ship's compass, here it points invari.ibly to the
pole My firm gives n:e a good many uncouth
cares and anxieties, but I hate the language o.
complaint. Jub, or sduie one of bis Iriends,
says well — " Why should a living man cma-
jdain ?"
I have l.itely been njuch mortified with ("on-
temjdating an urducky impel fectiou in the very
framing and coiistructitm of my sdiil ; namely,
a blundering iiiaeciiraey of her olfactory lugana
in hitting the scent <d" cralt or design in my
fullow creatures. I do not mean any C(mi|ili-
inent to my ingenuousness, or to liint that the
defect is in consequence of the unsuspicious sim-
plicity of conscious truth and honour : I take it
to be, in some way or other, an inip'Tf.'Ction in
the mentd sight ; or, metaphor apait, some
mo(lific«ri(in of dulness. In two or three sinal
instances iatcly, I have been most shamefully
out.
I have all a'ong, hitherto, in the waifare of
life, been bred to arms among the light-horse —
the piquet-guards of fancy ; a kind of hussars
and higlilandcrs td" the biniii ; but I am firmly
resolved to .v<// out of these gidily battalions, who
have no ideas of a battle but fighting the foe, oi
of a siege but stoiniiiig the town. Cost wli.it it
will, I uin determined to buy in among the grave
sijuadrims of heavy-armed thought, or the artil-
lery corps of plodding coiiti ivance.
What books are you reading, or what is tha
subject of your thoughts, bes;iles the great stu-
dies of vour [iro!e>sio:i ? Yon said something
1 bout religion in your last. 1 don't exi.ctly le-
ti. ember what it was, as the letter is in Ayr-
shire ; but I thought it not only prettily said,
but nobly tbouiiht. You will make a noble fel-
low if once you were married. 1 make no re-
seivation iif your being (/■e//-marrieil : You have
so much se se, and knowledge of human nature,
that though you mviy not lealize |ierhaps the
ideas of ruuiaiice, yet you will never be ill-mar-
ned.
Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish si-
tuation resjiecting provisinn for a family ot chil-
dren, I am decidedly of opiiiion that the step I
have taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is,
I look to the excise scheme as a certainty ol
maintenance ; a maintenance, luxury tu what
either Airs. Iturus or I were born tu.
Adieu.
No. LXXXVII.
TO xMR. MORISON,' Wriaht,
Maui.'iii.ine.
EMslund, June 22. 17S8.
MV DKAR SIR,
NtcESMtv obliges wi to go into my new
• This Idler refers to ff.dirj aiitl other articles oi
furaiiuie wlueli llie i'uel ti.iil< rUeied.
SIO
BURNS' WORKS.
hnu^e, even before it \k plistarpd. I will inha-
bit the one end until the oti:er is finished. About
three weeks more, I think, will at farthest, be
my time, beyond which I cannot stay in this
present bouse. If ever you wished to deserve
the blessing of him that was rcaily to perish ; if
ever you were in a situation that a little kind-
ness wnulil have rescued you from many evils ;
if ever you hope to find lest in future states of
jntried being ; — get these matters of mine rea-
. dv. My servant will be out in the beginning of
uext week for the clock. RIy compliments to
Mrs. Morison.
I am, after all my tribulation,
Dear Sir, yours.
No. LXXXVIII.
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.
Ellhland, Jane 30, 1788.
Mr DEAR SIR,
I JUST now received your brief epistle ; and
to take vengeance on your laziness, 1 have, you
see, taken a long sheet of writing-paper, and
have bi'gim at the top of the page, intending to
Bcrilihle on to the very la'^t corner.
I am vext at that affair of the . . ., but
dare not enlarge on the subject until you send •
me your direction, as I sup|xi-ie tiiat will he al-
tered on your late master and friend's death. I
am concerned for the old fellow's exit, only as I
fear it may be to your disadvantage in any re-
gjM^i-t — for an old man's dying, except be have
been a very benevolent character, or in some
particular situation of life, that the welfare of
t!ie poor t.T the helpless depeniled on him, I ""S''" • , ,, , r , , , .. . ,
think it an eve.,t of ti.e most trithng moment to , ^^'^'■^^ '■ ""'' a" ^l^)' ^^"1^=* ^ l''^'^ thee entuely
the worl.l. JIan is naturally a kitid benevolent "''''^^ ""
animal, but he is dropt into such a needy situa- , , ^ c ■ \
U.n here in this vexatious world, and has such ; ^^'i^ " prostituted business, that none,t fnend
a whoreson, lumgry. growling, multiplying pack ! ^'"l". >« l>^:r sincere way._ must have recourse to
(if nece^s.t es, ap, elites, passions, and desires
aoo^v nim, rea ly to devour him for want of
other food ; that in fact he must lay aside his
cares for others, that be may loi k properly to
himself. You have been imposeil upiui in pay-
iiij; Mr. M for the profile of a Mr. H. I
uid not mention it in my letter to you, nor did
I ever t:ive .Mr. M any such order. I have
hours, who has made himself absoluteTy cor
temptible in my eyes, by his silly, garrulous
pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my
own too ; but from this moment I abjure it as 1
would the service of hell ! Your poets, spend-
thrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pietend,
forsooth, to crack their jokes on prudence, but
'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags.
Still, iniprudence respecting money matters, is
much moie pardonable than imprudence respect-
ing character. 1 have no objection to prefer
prodigality to avarice, in some few instances ;
but 1 appeal to your observation, if you have
not met, and often met, with the same littk dis-
ingenuousness, the same hcdlow-heai ted insin-
cerity, and disintegritive ilepravity of principle,
in the hackney'd victims of profusion, as in the
unfeeling children of parsimony. I have every
possible reverence for the much-talked-of woild
beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety
believes and virtue deserves, may be all matter
cf fact — But in things belonging to and teinii-
nating in this present scene of existence, man
has serious and interesting business on hind.
Whether a man shall shake hands with wel
come in the distinguished elevation of respect,
or shrink from contempt in the abject corner of
insignificance ; whether he shall wantim under
the tro|iic of plenty, at least enjoy himself in the
comfortable latitudes of easy convenience, or
starve in the arctic circle of dreary poveity;
whether he shall rise in the manly consciousness
of a self-a|)proving mind, or sink beneath a gall-
ing load of regret and remorse — these are alter-
natives of the last moment.
You sec how 1 preach. You u<ed occasion-
ally to sermonize too ; I wish you would in
charity, favour me with a sheet f^ll in your own
wav. 1 admire the close of a letter L rd Bo-
loke writes to Dean Swift, " Adieu, dear
ffoit to love me with all iiiuiel'
Humble seivaiit, and all that trumpery, is now
her primitive, simple, — farewell !
No. LXXXIX.
TO MR. GEORGE LOCKIIART,
Merchant, Glasgow.
no objictinii to lose the iiioricy, but I will nut
have any such profile in my possession.
1 desired the carrier to piy you, but an I
mentioned only 15s. to him, I will latlier in-
close you a guinea note. I have it not indeed
to »|iare here, us lain only a ..ojcuirner in a thing's lor you.
itrange land in this place ; liut in a day or two in Ediiiburgb. " Fair and Kively are thy woi ks,
1 leturn to Mauchiine, and there 1 have the Lord God Almighty! Who would not piaisa
bank notes through the house, like silt permits. , Thee for these Thy gifts in Thy goodness to the
There is a i;ieit d.'uiee of folly in ta king un- sons of men !" It neerhd not your fine taste to
neceftsanly of one's p; iv.ite atfa'rs. 1 have just ' ailiuirc 'l-cm. I declare, one day 1 bad the
uow been inlerrupteil by one ol my new neigh- j honour of dining at Mi. lUilie's, I was ahnosi
MY DTAR SIR, MaucliUne, July 18, I7n8.
I AM just going "or Nithsdale, else I would
certainly h ive transcribed some of my rhyminr
The Miss Bailies 1 have seen
CORRESPONDEXCE.
3l:
in the jircdicmncnt of the cliildicn (if Israel,
when fliey could not look on Moses's fice for
the gloiy that shone iu it when he descended
from Mount Sinai.
I did once write a poetic address from the
falls (if Hmar to his (irace of Athole, when I
Was in the Hiijhlands. When ymi return to
Seotl.ind let me know, and I will send such of
my pieces as please myself hesf.
I return to Maucliline in ahout ten davs.
My compliments to Mr. Purdea. I am in
truth, but at present in haste,
Yours sincerely.
No. XC.
TO MRS. DUXLOP.
MauchUiie, 2d Aug. 17S8.
lIONOUREn MADAM,
Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight,
to Ayishire, I am indeed seriously angiy with
you at the rjunntum of your luckpenny ,- liut
vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laugh-
ing very heartily at the noble lord's apology for
the missed napkin.
I would write you from Nithsda'e, and give
you my direction there, but I luive scarce an
opportunity of calling at a po»t-offi'.'e once in
a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries,
am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have
little ac(|U.i;ntance in the neighlxmi hood. Be-
sides, I am now very busy uii my farm, build-
ing a dwelling-house ; as at piesent I am al-
most an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for 1 have
scarce " where to lay my head."
There aie some passages in your last that
brought tears in my eyes. " The heart know-
eth its own sorrows, and a stranger inferined-
dleth not ".herewith." The repository of these
" sorrows of the heart," is a kind of suiictnm
sanctorum ; and 'tis only a chosen friend, and
that too at j)articuiar, sacred times, who dares
enter into them.
" Heaven oft tears the h(i«om chords
That nature finest strung."
You will excuse this quotation for the sake
of tile author. Instead of enteiing on this sub-
ject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I
wrote in a hermitage belonging to a gentleman
in my Nithsilale neighbourlioo(L They aie al-
most the only favours the muse has conferred
Da me in that country.
( T7ie lines on Friar Carse hermitage, he-
ginging
Thou whim chance may hither lead.)
Since 1 am in the waj of truiscribing, the
following were the production of yester(J ly as
I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum-
nock. I intended inserting tliein, or something
like them, in an epistie I am going to write to
the gentleman on whose frieiuKliip my excise
hopes depend, Mr. (jrahain of I'iiitry ; one 0/
the worthiest and most accomplished gentle-
men, iiot only of this country, but I will dare
to say it, of this age. The following are just
the first crude thoughts " unliousel'd, uiiaQ-
oiuted, uuaneird."
Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ;
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main :
The woild were blest, did bless on them de-
pend ;
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a
friend !"
The little fate bestows they share as soon ;
Unhke sage, proverb d, wisdom's hard-wrunsr
boon.
Let jn-udence number o'er each sturdy son
Who life and wisdom at one race begun ;
Who feel by reason and who give by rule ;
Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a tool 1
Who make poor wil! ilo wait upon / slioiila ,
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're
good ?
Ye wise one's, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ;
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy 1
But come
Here the muse left me. I am astonished at
what you tell me of Anthony's writing nie. I
never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex i;ie
much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I
shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date.
1 have just room fur an old Roman farewell I
No. XCI.
TO THE SAME.
Matic/iline, \Ot/i August, 1788
MY MUCH HONOURED KRIKND,
Yours of the i4th June is before me. I
found it, as well as another valued friend — iP7
wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : 1
met both with the sinecrest jileasure.
When I write you. Madam, I do not sit down
to answer every [laragrajih of youis, by lehuing
every s.'iitiment, like the fairhful commons ol
Great Biitain in parliament assembled, answer-
ing a speech from the best of kings ! I express
myself in the fulness of my heart, and may per-
haps be guilty of neglecting some of your kind
inquiries ; but not fidin your very odd reaMm
that I do not read your letters. Aii your epistle*
for several monllu have cost me nutbiuj^, er
BURNS' WORKS.
wpt a HTcl'Irij; tlirob of pratitude, or a dccp-
fclt wiitiiiii'iit lit VHiicratidn.
Airs. Burus, .Madam, is the identical womaa
Wlien she fir«t found herself " as women wish
to l;e wliii love their lords ;" as I loved lier
ue:irly to distraction, we took steps for a pri-
vate marriafje. Her parents got the hint ; and
not only forhade ine her company and their
house, but on my rumo\ired Wfst Indian voy-
age, got a warrant to ])ut me in jail, till I should
fiud security in my al)out-to-l>e paternal rela-
tion. You know my lucky reve-'se of fortune.
On my eclatint return to M.nichline, I was
made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual
consequences began to bettay her ; and as 1 was
at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh,
slie w.is turned, literally turied out of doiirs,
and I wrote to a friend to shelter her. till my
return, when our marriage was declared. Her
ha])])iness or misery was in my ii inds, and who
could trillc with such a deposit ?
I can e.-LsIly fancy a more agreeable compa-
jiion for my journey of life, i)ut, upon uiy ho-
nour, I Lave never seen the individual instance.
Circumstanced as I am, I could never have
got a female partner for life, who could have
eiitered into my favourite studies, relished my
favourite authors, &c. without probably entail-
ing on me, at the same time, expensive living,
fantastic caprice, perliapa apish alTeetation, with
all the other blessed boarding-school anpiire-
iiients, which (jiartlonnez mni, Mailame) are
sometimes to be found among females of the up-
j)er ranks, but almost universally pervade the
uiLsses ol the would-be-gentry.
I like your way in your cliurch-yanl iiicii-
brationx. Tliii\ii;lit8 that are the spontaneous
result of accidental situations, cither respecting
health, place, or com])any, have often a strength,
and always an oi igmalrly, that would in vain
be looked for in fancied circnuistances and stu-
died paragraphs. For me, 1 have often thought
of keeping a letter, in prorjressian, by me, to
»pnil you when tlie sheet w.-is written out. Now
I la'.k of Bl.ects, i must tell you, my reason for
writing to you on p.i]ierof tins kind, is my pru-
rieni-v of writing to you at large. A page of
post is on Riirh a dissiical, narrow-minded scale,
tl.at I cannot abide it ; and doulilc lelleiM, at
least ill my iniwellaneous revene manner, are a
Cioiiitious Cut in a cIom: curreiipoDdeuce.
No. xrri.
TO THE S.^.VE.
Ellhliw!, \<ith A'wiist, 17SH.
I AM in a fine disjiosition, my honoured friend,
so send you an e!egi;'.c epistle ; and want only
geuius to make it quite Sheiistonian.
" Why droops my heart with fancied woes for.
lorn ?
Wliy sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky ?"
INIy increasing nres in this, as yet, stiatige
country — gloomy conjectures in the dark vista
of futurity — consciousness of my own inability
for the struggle of the world — my broadened
mark to misfortune in a v/lie and chililrcn : —
I could indulge tln'se reflections, till my liuuiour
shoulil ferment into the most acrid clugiin, that
would corrode the very thiead of life.
To counterwork these b.ineful feelings, I have
sat down to write to you ; as I declare u)ion
my soul I always find that the must sovereign
balin for my wounded spirit.
I was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner, for
the first time. .My reception was quite to try
mind ; from the l.idy of the house quite flatter-
ing. She sometimes hits on a couplet oi two,
iinprcnnptu. 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, ve, my adoreii household gods, Imle-
pendenee of Spirit, and Integrity of Soul ! In
the course of conversation, Johnson's Musical
Museum, a collection of Scottish songs with the
music, was talked of. We got a song on the
harpsichord, beginning,
" Ravinir winds around her blowing."
The air was much admired : the lady of the
bou^e asked me whose were the words—" Mine,
.Mad.un — they are indeed my very best verses :"
she took not the sm illest notice of tlieiii ! Ths
old Scottish pioveib says, well, " king's call is
better than ither folks' corn." I was going to
make a New Testament quotation about " ca>-t-
ing peails ;" but that would be too virulent,
for tlu; iady is actually a wom.iu of sense and
taste.
After all that has been said on the other side
of the question, man is by no means a bapwy
creature. I ilo not speik of the selci ted few,
fivoiued by partial be.iven, whose scuils are tun-
ed to gladness amid riches and luinonrs, .ii.d piu-
dence and wisdom — I S|ieak ot the ncglccteij
many, whose nerves, wliose sinews, whose day*
are sold to the minions of fortune.
If 1 thought, you had uevci' seen it 1 would
CORRESPONDENCE.
313
tTiii«(TilM» f()"vo>i n stinza of an oM Scoti'sli]
b«llai|, c'lllril The L,>j'e and Aje of jMuit, hv-
g;i\i]ing tliuii,
" 'T«-:i« in the sixtornth luindcT yeiir
Of r,n,\ anil fifty three,
FiJt Cliii^t u-;w l)nrn, that bought us dear,
As wiiting't testifie."
1 li:iil nn olil sjnind-uncle, with whom niv
tniitlier lived a while in her !^irli>h years ; the
pond old man, for such lie was, w.is lung Mind
erf he dii'd, during which time, his highest en-
joyment was to sit down and ciy, while iiiv mo-
ther won.n} sini; the simple old song of T/ie life
unil A(/e of Alan.
It is this way of tl-.inking — it is those mel in-
choly truths, that make religion so pieeions to
the poor, n\iser,il)te children of men — If it is a
ni'Te phaiit.'in, existing ou!y iu the heated iiiiu-
giiiitioii of enthusiasm,
" What truth on earth so precious as tiie lie'"
I\Iv idle reasonings sometimes make me a lit-
tle sceptic il, hut the necessities of my heart al-
ways give tlie cohl Jihilosophizings tlie lie.
U'lio looks for the heart weaned from earth ;
the soul affianced to lier God ; the conespon-
eiii-e fixed with heaven; the pious supplica-
tion and devout thanksgiving, constant as the
vicissitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to
meet with these in the couit, the p ilace, in the
glare o*' puhlic life? No: to find tliein in their
precious in^portaiice and divine efficacy, we inu-t
jcarch among the obscure recesses of disajij)oint-
UK'nt, alfliction, poverty, and distress.
I am sure, ilcir .Madam, you are now more
than plea«ed with the htit/tli of my letters. I
Jlfurn to .Ayrshire, middle of next week : and
it quickens mv pice to think that there will Ik;
a letter t"ii)iii you waiting me tlicie. I must he
here aguiu very soou for my harvest.
No. XCIII.
rO R, GRAHAM, OF FIMRY, Esu.
WnES I hail the honour of being introduced
hn yon at Athole-house, 1 did not think so soon
of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in
Sli ikspeare, asks old Kent, why he wished to
!);• in his service, he answers, " Uecause yon
have tiiat in your face which I could like to
call master." For some such reason. Sir, do I
now solicit your patronage. You know, I daie
MV, of an application I lately made to your
Hoaril to he admitted an officer of excise. i
Uive, accordini; to form, been examined by a
"Upervisor, and to-day I gave in Ins ceitificute,
u-iih a reuuest for an order for iniiUuctioiui In
this afl'ilr, if I snccrpr], I nm afr/iid I sb.ill biri
too much need a pationi/inn friend. Proprroty
of coniliict as a man, and fidelity and attmtlon
as an officer, 1 ilare engage for : Init with any
thin:;; like businc-s, except manual lahuur, 1 aui
totally unacquainted.
I bad intended to have closed my late ap-
pearance on the staiTc of life, in the character
of a coumtry farmer ; but after disch irging
some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could
only fiijlit for existence in that miserable man-
ner, which I have lived to see throw a venera-
ble parent into the jaws of a j lil ; whence death,
the jioor man's last and often best fiiend, rescu-
ed him.
I know. Sir, that to need your goodness is to
have a claim on it ; may I therefore beg your
patronage to forward me in this affiir, till I be
appointed to a division, where, by the help ol
rigid economy, I will try to su.'poit that inde-
pendence so dear to my soul, but winch has
been too oftua so distant from my situation.
When nature her great master- piece ilesigncd,
And fram'd her last, best work, t!ie human iniud;
Her eye intent on all the mazy jilan,
She forra'd of various parts the various man.
Then first she calls the useful many forth ;
Plain plodding industry, and ^obcr woitli ;
Thence ])casants, firmers, native sons of eaith,
.And merdiandise' whole genus take their birth;
Each prudent cit a warm ex steiice fimls,
.And all unchanics' many apioiied k.nds.
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet,
riie leid and bimv are neelful to the net:
The cojini iiii>rt'iiiiii of gro^s desires
iVIal es a materi.il, for mere kiiii,dits and scpiires .
The martial ])lins])liiu us is tiiii;lit to Ihiw,
She kneads the lump:s!i phil()>o))hic dough,
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave de*
signs,
Law, ph\sics, politics, and deep divines:
Last, slie sublimes th* Aurora of the poles, .
The flashing elements of female souls.
The orilei'd system fair before her stood.
Nature well pleased pronounced it very good ;
Hut ere she gave croatin:^ labour nVr,
Half jest, she tried one curious labour iDore.
Some spumy, fieiy, i^/tus fntuus matter;
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter J
With arch alacrity anil conscious glee
( Nature mav have her whim as will as we,
Iler Hogarth-art perhaps slie meant to show it)
.Slie forms the thing, ami christens it — a poet.
Creature, tho* oft the prey of care and sorrow.
When hless'd to-day urimindlu! r.f to-morrow.
.A JK-ing lorm'd t,imu>e his giaver friends,
.Adii'.ired and praiseil — and tht-re the huniij^
ends : -^
314
BURNS' WORKS.
A morfal quite unfit for fortune's strife,
Yet oft the sport (.f all tlie ills of life ;
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give,
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live :
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan,
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own.
But honest Nature is not quite a Turk,
She Liugh'd at first, then felt for lier [loor work.
Pitying the propless climber of mankind,
She cast about a standard tree to find ;
And to support his helpless woodbine state,
Attach'd him to the generous truly great.
A title, and the only one T claim.
To lay stiong hold for help on bounteous Gra-
ham.
Pity the tuneful muses* hapless train,
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main !
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff,
That never gives — tho' humbly, takes enou"U ;
The little fate allows, they share as soon.
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung
boon.
The u-oild were bless'd, did bless on them de-
jiend.
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a
friend!"
Let prudence nundier o'er each sturdy son,
Wlio life and wisdom at one race begun,
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule,
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !)
Who make poor will dn wait ujjon I slioull —
VVe own they're prudent, but who feels their
good ?
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye !
God's image rudely etcli'd on base alloy !
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know,
H.'a/en's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow !
Whi.se irmsof love would graspthe human race:
Come tlwu who giv'st with all a courtier's grace;
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes !
Piop of my dearest hopes for future times.
Why shrinks my soul lialf blushing, half afraid.
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid?
I know my need, I know thy giving hand,
I Clave thy friendship at thy kind command ;
But there are such who court the tuneful nine
Heavens, should the branded character be mine !
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows,
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose.
M:irk, how their lofty independent spirit,
Soais on the s])urning wing of mjured merit !
Sick nut tlie proofs in private life to find ;
Pity, the best of words, should be but wind !
So, to heaven's gates the laik-shrill song ascends,
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends.
In all the cl.im'rous cry of starving want.
They dun benevolence with shameless front ;
Oblige them, pationite tlieir tinsel lays,
Tliiy persecute you all your future d.iys !
F.ie my ])oor poiil such deej) damnation stain,
My homy fist a.ssiime ihe plough again ;
The jiie-b.iH'd jacket let nie pitch once more ;
Ou eighteen pence a-weck I've lived before.
Though, thanks to heaven, I dare even tliat Ian
shift,
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift:
That placed by thee, upon the wish'd-for htight,
V\'here, man and nature furer in her siu'ht.
My muse in iv imp her wing for some sublimes
flight.*
No. XCIV.
TO MR. BEUGO, Engraver, Edinburgh.
MY DEAR SIR, EUisliind, Sept. 9, 17S8.
There is not in Edinburgh above the num-
ber of the graces whose letters would have given
me so much pleasure as yours of the 3d instant,
which only reached me yesternight^.
I am here on my farm, busy with my har-
vest ; but for all that most pleasurable p.irt ol
life called social com5iunication, I am here
at the very elbow of existence. The only things
that are to be found in this country in any da-
gree of perfection, are stupidity and canting.
Pro~e, they only know in graces, jirayers. &c.
and the value of these they estimate as they do
their pl.iiding webs — by the ell ! As for the
muses, they have as much an id^'a of a rhino-
ceros as of a poet. For my old capriciou
good-natured hussy of a muse —
By banks of Nith I sat and wept
When C'oila I thought on.
In midst thereof I hung mv harp
The willow trees upon.
I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire
with my '• darling Jean," and then I, at lucid
iutervals, throw my horny fist across my be-
cobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner as
an old wife throws her hand across the spokes
of her spinning wheel.
I well send you " The Fortunate Shepherd
ess" as soon as I return to Ayrshire, for tlieifi
I keep it with other precious treasure. I snnn
send it by a careful hand, as I would not for
any thing it should be mislaid or lost. I do
not wioh to serve you from any benevolence, or
other grave Christian virtue ; 'tis purely a sel-
fi>h gratification of my owa feelings whenever
I think of you.
If your better functions would give you lei-
sure to write me I should be extremely happy;
that is to say, if you neither keep nor look for a
• Tliis is our poet's first epistle to GralmiTi of Fin.
try. ll is not eiioal to ilie steoiid, but it loiilains too
iiiucti of rtie cliara'Meiisiic vi(;oiir of n,s;iiitlior .o b«
fcopinesseit. A lillle more luiowlidj^c ■■( 'n.itui;il lii.>'.(>
ry or if ctiemistry wst w.-.n.i.d lo <pat''c 'mn to »> a
cul« the oritjinaJ loneepuoii torrccLlv
CORRESPONDENCE.
315
re!»jlir correspondence. I hate the iih-a of being
ohliycd to write a litter. I sonietiines write a
fric'iil twice a week, at other times ouce a
luaiter.
1 am exceeilinc;!)- pleased with your fancy in
nnkin;; the author you mention phice a map of
Iceland instead of his portrait before his works :
Twas a glorious idea.
Ciuild you conveniently do me one tliinc;; —
Whenever you tiniNh any head I could like to
have a proof copy of it. I mi^ht tell you a
long story about your fine genius ; but as what
every body knows cannot have escaped you, I
shall not say one syllable about it.
No. XCV.
TO MISS CHALMERS, Edinburgh.
EUislnnd, near Dumfries, Sept. 16, 17S8.
Where are you ? and how are you ? and is
Lady M'Kenzie recovering her health? for I
have had but one solitary letter from you. I
will not think you have forgot me, Madam ;
aud for my part — .
" When thee Jerusalem I forget.
Skill part from my right hand !"
^ Jly heart is not of that rock, nor my soul
careless as that sea " I do not make my pro-
gress anu)n« mankind as a bowl does among its
fellows — rolling through the crowd without
bearing awav any mark or impression, except
where they hit in hostile collision.
I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks
by bad weather ; and as ycu aud your sister
onte did me the honour of interesting yourselves
much a rei/urd tie moi, 1 sit down to beg the
continuation of your goo<lness, — I can truly say
that, all the exterior of life apart, I never saw-
two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feelings
of uiv soul — I will not say, more, but, so much
as Lady M'Kenzie and Mi^s Chalmers. When I
think ofyiiii — hearts the best, niiuds the noblest,
of human kind — un ortunate, even in the shades
of life — when I think I have met with you, and
have lived more of real life with \oii iu eight
days, than I can ilo with almost any body I meet
with in eight years — when I think on the Im-
pidbability of meeting you in this world again
— I coulcl sit down and cry like a child ! — If
ever you h(moiire<i me with a place in youri
esteem, I trust I can low plead mure des rt. —
1 am secure agiin-t ihat ciu-hng grip of iron
poverty, whico. alas ! is le~s or more fatal to the
native worth and puiity of, I (cdi; the i, oldest
souls ; and a hite. important stej) in my life has
kindly taken nie out of the way of those un- |
grafeful iniipities. which, however ovei looked
in losha'iuab.e lic/;u.-e, or varnished in fdsliiun- j
able phrase, are indeed but lighter and deejioi
shades of vii.i.Ai <y.
Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I
married " my Jean." This was not in con-se-
quence of the attachment of romance peihaps ;
but I had a long and much-loved fellow-crea-
ture's ha]ipiness (u- misery iu my def<'i mination,
and I durst not tiifle with so important a ile|)o-
sit. Nor have I any cause to repent it II I
have not got polite tattle, modish manners, atul
fashionable ihess, I am not sickened and d sgu-t-
ed with the multiform curse of boaiding-sehool
affectation ; and I have got the handsomest fi-
gure, the sweetest temper, the soundest cmisti-
tiition, and the kindest heart in the county.
Mrs. Hums believes, as firmly as her creed, that
I am le jiltis bel esprit, it It jiliis lionnitt hor,une
in the univeise ; although she scarcely ever in
her life, except the Scriptures of the Old and
New Testament, and the Psilms of David in
metre, sjicnt five minutes together on either
prose or verso. I imi^t except also from this
last, a certain late publication of Scots poems,
which she has perused very devoutly ; and ad
the ballads in the country, as she has (() the
partial lover ! you will cry) the finest " wood-
note wild" I ever heard. — I lui the more parti-
cular in this lady's character, as I know she
will henceforth have the honour of a share in
y(uir best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as
I am building my house ; for this hovel thit I
shelter in, while occasionally here, is pervious to
every bl 1st that blows, and eveiy sh.ower that
falls ; aud I am only preserved from being chill-
ed to death, by being suffocated with suuike. ]
do not find my firm that pennyworth I was
taught to expect, but I l.'elieve, in time, it may
be a saving bargain. You will be jde.ised to
hear that I have laid aside idle ectut, and bind
every day after my reapers.
To save me from that horrid situat'on of at
any time going down, in a losing bargain of a
faim, to misery, I have taken my excise iiisti iic-
tiiins, and have my commission in my pocket
for any imergency of fortune. If I cmild set iil\
before your view, whatever disrespect you in
couimon with the world, have for this business,
1 know you would approve of my i ea.
I will in.ike no apdlogy, dear Madam, for this
egoti>tic detail : I know you and your sister
will be iiiteiested in every cireuintance of it.
What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wea'th,
or the ideal trumpery of greatness. \Vi,eii S 1-
low pait.ikeis of the s.ime nature fear the sami!
God, have the same benevolence of heart, the
same o.ihleness of soul, the same detestation at
every thing dishonest, and the same skum -
eve y thing unworthy — if they are not in tne
dependance of absolute beggary, io the niii e of
cuiiimon sense are they niit eijuals? Ai.d U
the bi IS, rhe instinctive l)ias of their smiN run
the same wiy, why may they not be khikniis?
Wlien I may have .lu opportunity of seinlmg
yiui ihis. Heaven only kiiows Slniistone sivs,
" U'Leu one is coiitii.ed idle witliiu duurs by ba<J
316
BURNS' WORKS.
weaflier, the liest antidote aa;ainst ennui is, to
rea<l the letters of, or write to one's frienils ;"
in that case then, if the weather continues thus,
I may scr-nvl you half a quire.
I very lately, to wit, since harvest he<;an.
wiote a poem, not in imitation, but in tlie man-
ner of Po]>e'.s Moral Ep sties. It is only a >hort
essay, just to try the stren:;th of my Muse's |)i-
nion in tint way. I will send you a copy of it,
v/nen once I have heard from you. I. have like-
wise been layin;^ the fuimdation of some pretty
laroe poetic works : how the supeistructure
will come on I leave to that great maker and
marier of projects — time. Johnson's, collection
of Scots s<mgs is going on in the third volume ;
and of conse<|uence finds me a consumpt for a
gre.it deal of iille metre. — One of the m ist to-
lerable tilings I have done in that way, is, two
stanzas that I made to an air, a musical gentle
man ' of my acquaintance composed for the ai-
niversary of his we<^ldiiig-day, which happens on
the seventh of November. Take it as follows :
The dav returns — my linsom bmns.
The blissful day we twa did meet, &c. — P. 90.
I shall give over tliis letter for shame. If I
should be seized with a scribbling fit, before this
goes away, I shall make it another letter ; anc'
then you may allow your |iatience a week's re-
spite between the two. I have not looni for
mure than the old, kind, hearty, farewell !
To make some amends, mes cheres Mesdnmes,
tor <lragging you on to this second sheet ; and to
relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstudied
arid unciMiectible prose, I shall transcribe you
some of my late poetic bagatelles ; though I have,
chese eight w ten months, done very little that
way. Oi:e i! ly, in an heimitage on the banks
of Nilh, behing.ng to a gentleman in niy ne'tgh-
bo'irl lod, who is .so gixid as give me a key at
pleasure, I wrote as fullnws ; supposing myself
the sequestered, venerable inhabitant of the
lonely mansiun.
^ Liines Kr'Uten in Friar s Carse Hermitage.^ )
than once ; hut scarcely ever with more ^jlea-
sure than when I received yours of the 12th in-
stant. To make myself understood ; I had
wrote to Mr. Graham, enclosing my poem ad-
dressed to him, and the same post which fa-
voured me with yours, brought me an answei
from him. It was d ited the very d iv he had
received mine ; and I a;n quite at a loss to s,)>
whether it was most polite or kind.
Your criticisms, my honoured benefactiess,
are truly the work of a friend. They are not
the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed,
caterpillar critic ; nor are they the fair state-
ment of cold impartiility, balancing with un-
feeling exactitude, the pro and con of an au-
thor's merits; the.v aie the judicious observa-
tions of animated friendship, selecting the beau-
ties 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 firm is ju>t forty-
six mi'es. As I jogged on in the daik, I was
taken with a poetic fit, as follows :
"Mrs. F ofC 's lamentation for the
d-iath of her son ; an uncommonly promising
ycuth of eighteen or nineteen years of age."
( Here follow the verses, entitled, " A Mo-
'iter's lvalue lit for the Loss (f her Son.")
You will not send me your poetic rambles,
b H, you see, I am no niggard of mine. 1 am
sure your impromptu's give me double ))lei-
sur> ; what falls from your pen, can neither bt
un.-n'ertaining in itself, nor indifferent to me.
'ihe one fault you found, is just ; but I can-
not please myself in an emendation.
AV ha"; a life of solicitude is the life of a pa-
re.it ! Vou interested me much in your young
coujilc.
I womd ntt take my fidio pa])er for this
ejiistle, L^il Eov I repent it. I am so j uled
with my dirty Innj^ jaurncy that I was afraid to
drawl into tiie essence of dulness with any thing
larger than a quaito, I'ld so ! riust leave out
another rhyme of ihir nooning's ''ifncfartare.
I will i>ay t'.ie siMiiei-'icofn*^ Ge-^rge nios>«
cheerfully, to hear fruiu jou tre 1 l«aTe A^J
shire.
No. XCVI,
TO MRS, DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP.
MonchUne, 2"lh Si-pt. 1 7RR.
I HAVE rcceiveil twins, dear Madam, nunc
No. XCVII.
TO MR. P. HILL.
• Captain Riililcl of nienriddc.
t Tile |iiieiie leiiipcr.iineiit Is "'ver prpdifiposcd to
iros;i(ioiis i>f the " liorrihle ;iii(l Mwful." IJuins, in
tciiiriiii E frniii lii» \iMts at (ilciiiiddel tot., .arm at
Ellisliiiid, ha I ic p.iss Uiriiii;;h .i little wil.l wood in <1
wliieli stiicd ilie Miriiiila.e- WlitMi tlie niglii w.is i,^.'.„ jjjg >> Address
(lark iiiiil drrary it nas m- eustoin peiierallv to sdin-it i i- -
»ti a.l.liiioi.al |iiriinn (-'I 'ss to fortify hi- Kpirils and "''''i' "" obliging as to seni
keep ii|i In- OMiir.ice. I hi- ums rel.iteil 1)\ a ladv, a p;iniielled one of the author's jury, to determin
rie.ir ul Ikmi nf Caiitaui Ridilel'.ii, who liad fridiiiit i r. . .i ' ■ r
Oi.,.ortuuiUu. o( Juiethi..alu.«ry practice kelopli- l"s crim.uality resp. Cing the s,n of poesy, ni;
flcJ . verdict Khoulu l)e " iruilty A poet ot Nature
ManchUnc, \st Oc*oJ>->r 17SS.
I HAVE been here in this cotintiy about three
ys, and uli that time my chief reiding has
to Loch Lomond," you
were so ohlimm; as to send to me. Were I ini-
e
y
guilty ' A poet of Nature'*
CORRESPOXDENCE.
317
inakinrr!"Tt is nn exrcllcnt nu-tlunl for im-
puiviiULTit, and what 1 l)L'lieve every |)i)et does,
to place sdiiie favourite classic autlior, in his
own wii'ks of stiiily ami composition, l)efore him,
as a model. Thonnjh yi'i" author had not men-
tinned the name, I could have, at half a glance,
guessed his model to he Thomson. W ill my
hrotlier poet Ibigive me, if I venture to hint,
that his imitation of that immortal hard, is in
two or three places rather more servile than
ueh a genius as his required. — e. g.
To soothe the madding passions all to peace,
ADUKKSS.
To soothe the throbbing passions into peace,
THOMSON.
I think the Address is, in simplicity, har-
mony, and elegance of versification, fully equal
to the SeiiSDns. Like Thomson, too, he has
looked into nature for himself: you meet with
no C(jpied descri|>tiun. One particular criti-
cism I made at first reading ; in no one instance
has he said too much. lie never flags in his
progress, hut like a true poet of Nature's mak
ing, kindles in his cour.-e. His begiiming is
sinijde, and nuidest, as if distrustful of the
stieiiiith of his piuion ; only, I do not altoge-
ther like
" Truth,
The soul of every song that's nobly great."
Fiction is the soul of many a song that is no-
bly great. Pirhaps I am wiong : this may be
but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, in li)ie
7, }"i(/ir 6, " Great lake," too much vulganzrd
by every-day language, for so sublime a jioem ?
"Great mass of waters, theme fur nobler song,"
is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of
a cimiparison with other lake*, is at once har-
monious and poetic. Every reader's ideas must
sweep the
" Winding margin of an hundred miles."
The perspective that follows mountains blue — ■
the imprisoned billows beating in vain — the
wooded isles — the digres>ion on the yew-tree — -
*' Ben Lomond's lolty cloud-enveloped hejd,"
&c. are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a subject
which has been often tried, yet our poet, in his
gi-and picture, has nteijtcted a circumstance, so
far as I know, entirely original :
" The gloom
Deep scam'd witU frequent streaks of moving
file."
In his preface to the storm, " the glens how-
dark between," is noble liighland landscape !
The *' lain plowing the red mould," too, is
beautifully fancied. Ben Lomond's " kjfty.
pathless top," is a good expression ; anil tlit
surrounding view fraui it is tiuly great j the
" Silver mist,
Beneath the beaming sun,'
is well described ; and here, lie has contrived to
eiillvfti his j)oem with a little of that [)assion
which bids f.iir, I think, to usurj) the modiin
muses altogether. I know not how far this epi-
sode is a beauty upon the wh(de, Imt the swaiii's
wish to carry " some faint ide* of the vision
bright," to entertain her "pirtial listening ear,"
is a pretty thought. But, in my o|iinion, the
mo^t beautiful passages in the wlnde poem, are
the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Loch
Lomond's " hospitable flood ;" their wheeling
round, their lighting, mixing, diving, &c. and
the glorious des( ription of the s])ortsmaii. Thia
last is equal to any thing in the Seusiins. The
idea of " the floating tribes distant seem, far
glistering to the moon," provoking his eye as he
is obliged to leave them, is a noble ray of poetic
genius. " The howling winds," the " hideoui
roar" of " the white cascades," are all in the
same style.
I forget that while I am thus bidding forth,
with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I
am ])eiha| s tiring you with nonsense. I must,
however, mention, that the last verse of the six-
teePvh ^age is one of the most elegant cumph-
nients i have ever seen. 1 must likewise notice
that beautiful paragraph, l.'cginning, " Tlie
gleaming lake," &c. 1 dare not go into the
particular beauties of the two last paragraphs,
but they are admirably fine, and tiu'v (>>sianic.
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 ; hut,
whoever he be, please present him with my
ijratefid thanks for the entertainnient he has af-
forded me. *
A frienii of mine desired me to commission
for him two hooks, Lttttrs on tlie lielii/io/i. <s-
seyitiiil to ?tlan, a book you sfnt me be!o;e;
and. The World Untiim-heil, or llie Pliilosiphcr
ilie (/reiitest C/ieid. Send me them by the first
ojipoitunify. The Bible vou sect me is truly
elegant ; 1 only wish it had been in two volumes.
No. XCVIil.
TO -MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOltiillAM
MALN'S.
.MADAM, Mauildiite, ]3lh Xov. ]788.
I iiAn the very preat pleasure of (lining at
Dunlop yesterday. JMen are said to Hatter wo-
♦ The pncm entitled An Adrlress to I.och I, mnnd,
U sanl to be written h\ a per.l!ein;in, now mie nf ilie
maslersof the Ili'^ti Seliool M Kclinburijli, and U'esam*
who tianslatdl llie be->utirulstorv of the Puria, as ))ub
hslieil lu ihe Bee of Dr. Aiiilcrson.
318
BURNS' WORKS.
men because tliey aip weak; if it 's so, poets the ruling features of wTiose adtnioistritinn h»vt
must he weaker still; for Misses R. and K. ever been, mildness to the suoiect, ana tifldtrntst
and Miss G. 1M"K, with their flattering atten- of his rights.
tions, and artful compliments, absolutely turned Bred and educated id revolution pr'nciplea,
my head. I oivn they did not lard me over as the principles of leason and common sense, it
many a poet does his patron , pou'd noc be any silly political prtjudice which
but they so intoxicated me with j made my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive man-
their sly insinuations and delicate inuendos of ner, in which the reverend gentleman mention-
compliment, that if it had not been for a lv«ckv
recolliction, how much additional weight and
lustre your good opinion and friendship must
give me in that circle, 1 had certainly looked
upon myself as a person of no small consequence.
I ilare not say one word how much I was charm-
ed with the major's friendly welcome, elegant
manner, and acute remark, lest I shoulil be
thought to balance my orientalisms of applause
over against the finest quey * in Ayrshire, which
he made a present of to help and adorn my farm,
stock. As it was on hallow-day, I am deter-
mined annually as that day returns, to decorate
her horns with an ode of gratitude to tha family
of Duulop.
So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop,
I will take the first conveniency to dedicate a
day, or perhaps two, to you and friendship, un-
der the guarantee of the major's hospltalitv.
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 (d' my enjoy-
ment of life, I must indulge myself in a liap|)y
day of " the feast of reason and the flow of soul."
No. XCIX.
TO
SIR, November 8, 1 783.
NoTWiTHSTANniNG the opprobrious ejiithets
with which some of our philosophers and gloomv
sectaries have branded our nature — the princi-
ple of universal selfishness, the proneness to all
evil, they have given us ; still, the detestation
in which inhumanity to the distiessed, or inso-
lence to the fallen, are held by all mankind,
shows that they are not natives of the human
lieait. — Even the unhappy ])artner of our kind,
who is undone — the bitter consequence of liis
follies or his crimes — who but sympathises with
the miseries of this rvined profligate bnitber ?
we forget the '"' .nes, and feel for the man.
I went last Wednesday to my parish church,
most cordially to join in grateful acknowledge-
ments to the AuTiioii OF ALL Goon, for the
ronsequent blessings of the glorious revolution.
To that auspicious event we owe no less than
our liberties civil anil religious ; to it we are
sikewise indebted for the presecj Royal I'amily.
1 Heifer.
«d the House of Stuart, and which I am afraid,
was too much the language of the day. We
may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance from
past evils, without cruelly raking up the a.sbe3
of those, whose misfortune it was, perhaps as
much as their crime, to be the authors of those
evils ; and we may bliss God for all his good-
ness to us as a nation, without, at the same time,
cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who only
harboured ideas, and made attempts, that most
of us would have done, had we been in their si-
tuation.
" The bloody and tyrannical House of Stuart,"
may be said with propriety and justice when
compared with the jiresent Royal Family, and
the sentiments of our days ; but is there no al-
lowance to be made for the manners of the
times i Were the royal contemporaries of the
Stuarts more attentive to their subjects' rights?
Might not the epithets of " bloody and tyranni-
cal" be, with at least equal justice, applied to
the House of Tudor, of York, or any other oi
their predecessors ?
The simple state of the case, Sir, seems tc oe
this — .\t that peiiod, the science of govei mneiit,
the knowledge 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.
The Stuarts only contended fur prerogatives
which they knew their pndecessois eniuved, and
which they saw their contempoiaries enjoying ;
but: these premgatives were inimical to tiie li.ip-
piness of a nation, and the rights of subjects.
In this contest between prince and people,
the consequence of that light of science, which
had lately da'wned over Europe, the monaich
of France, for example, was victorious over the
struu'gbng liberties of his people : with us, luc kily
the nioiiarch failed, and his unwai raiitabie pre-
tensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and lirjipi-
ness. Whether it was owing to the wisdmn
of le.iding individuals, or to the jiistling of par-
ties, I cannot pretend to determine; but like-
wise, happily for us, the kingly power was shift-
ed into another branch of the family, who, as
they owed the throne solely to the call of a frer
people, could claim nothing inconsistent « ith
the covenanted terms which placed them there.
The Stuarts have been condemned and laugh-
ed at for the lolly and impracticability of tlitir
attempts in 1713 and 1743. Tli.it tbey failed,
I bless Gon ; but cannot join in the ridicule a-
gain>t them. Who does not know that tlie abi-
lities or defects of leaders and con mamlers art
oft«ii hidden until ]uit to the touchstone of v\'\-
gency ; and that there is a capiicecd' Iv.rtuns.
CORRESPONDENCE.
319
tn oiriiipiifrncc In particular act-idents and ron-
functurcs al circuuistancfts, which exalt us as lie-
roes, or brand us as madmen, just as they arc
for or :ip;.iitist us ?
Jlan, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, in-
sonsistent being. Who would believe, Sir, tiiat.
in this our Augustan age of liberality and re-
InuMnent, while we seem so justly sensible and
jealous of our rights and liberties, atid animated
with such indignation against the very memory
of those who would have subverted them — that
a certain people, under our national protection,
should coiiiplairi not against our monarch and
a i<;\v favourite advisers, but against our whole
LEGISLATIVE iiODY, for similar oppression, and
almost in the very same terms, as our forefathers
did of the House of Stuart ! I will not, 1 can-
not enter into the merits of the cause, but I dare
say the American Congress, in 177ti, will be al-
lowed to be as able and as enlightened as the
English convention v/as in iGSS ; and that their
pos'^'rity '.'ill ce'ebrate the cf ntena' y of tl eir de-
liverance Inmi us, as duly and sincerelv as we
do ours from the oppressive measures of the
wroiig-headed House of Stuart.
To conclude, Sir ; let every man who has a
tear for the many miseries incident to huniaui-
ty, feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe,
and unfoitunate beyond historic precedent ; and
let every Briton (and particularly every Scots-
aian), who ever looked with reverential pity on
the «iota;;e of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal
oiistakes of the kinss of his forefathers. •
No. C.
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, Engraver,
EniNIiUKGH.
Mauchllne, Kuv. 13, 17S8.
>!Y TtF.AV. SI'S.,
1 have sent you two more songs. — If you
have got any tunes, or any thing to correct,
l)li'ase send tliem by return of the carrier.
I can easily see, my dear friend, that you will
very prol^ibly have four vohiiiies. Perhajjs you
may not tind y(iur account Incrutively, in this
bw-iiie-s ; but you are a patriot for the music of
your ciiuiitiy ; and 1 am certain, posterity will
look on themselves as highly imlebted to your
public spirit. Be not in a hurry ; let us go on
correctly ; and your name shall be immortal.
I am I'leparing a fluniiig prefice for your
third vohinie. I see every d.iy, new musical
publications advertised ; but what are they ?
Gaudy, hunted butterflies of a day, and theu va-
nish forever: but your work will outli\e the
monieiitarv neglects of idle fashion, and defy the
teeth of time.
n.ive you nc\ci i fair goihloss that leads you
a wild-goose chase of amorous devotion ? Let
nie know a few of her qualities, such as, whe-
ther she be either black, oi fair ; plump, or
thin ; short, or tall, &c. ; and choo>e your air,
and I shall task tny Muse to celebrate her.
No. CI.
TO DR. BLACKLOCK.
Mauchline, Nov. 15, 1788.
REV. AND DTAR SIR,
As I hear nothing of your motions but thi
you are, or were, out of town, 1 do not know
where this may find you, or whether it will find
you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated
from the land of matrimony, in June ; but
either it had not found you, or, what I dread
more, it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too
precarious a state of health and spirits, to take
notice of an idle packet.
I hive done many little things fur Jolmson,
since I had the pleasure of seeing you ; and I
have finished one piece, in the way of P<ipe's
Moral Epistles ; but from your silence, I have
every thing to fear, so I have only sinit you two
melancholy things, which I tremble lest they
should too well suit the tone of your prtseut
feelings.
In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to
Nithsdale ; till then, my direction is at this
place ; after that period, it will be at Ellisland,
near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige nie
were it but half a line, to let me know how you
are, and where you are. — Can I be indifferent
to the fate of a man, to whom I owe so much?
A man whom I not only esteem but venerate.
My warmest good wishes aiid most respectful
comjjiiments to JMrs. Blacklock, and iNJiss John-
ston, if she is with you.
I cannot conclude without telling you that I
am more and more pleased with the step I took
respecting " my Jean." — Two things, troiii my
happy exjieiience, I set down as a])othegi)is in
life. A wife's head is inimuteiial, com|)aied
wiih her heart — and — " Virtue's (for wi-dom
I what ])oet pretends to it) — ways are ways of
pleusautuess, and all her paths are peace."
Adieu !
(Here follow " The mother s Inmeyit for the
] OSS if her son" p. 200, and the fong bcgin-
I ning, " The lazr/ mist hiinc/s from the brow oj
' the hill, ' 1. 1>3-i.)
• Th-s letter was ?ent tr the publisher of the EJin-
biirg/i Eviming 0ourant.\
32C
J URNS'
WORKS.
No. CII.
TO AfRS. DUNLOP.
Ellismnd. ITlh Dicemhcr, 17S8.
MY DEAR HONOUKEn FRIEND,
Yours, (iateci Edinhuigh, which I have just
read, makes me very unh,i|ipy. Ahiiost " lilinil
ami wholly deaf." ;ire nieliiuholy news of hu-
man n.iture; but when told of a much loved
and honoured friend, they c.iiry misery in the
sound. Goodness on your pirt, and gr.ititude
on mine, besr^in a tie, wliich hns gradually and
strongly ciitwisted itself among the dcare<>t
chords of my bosom ; and I tremble at the
omens of yout late and present ailing habits
and shattered health. You miscalculate mat-
ters widely, when you forbid my waiting on
you, lest it .should hurt my worMly concerns.
My small scale of farming is exceeiiingly more
simj)!e and easy than what you have lately
seen at RIoreham i\Iains. But be that as it
may, the heart of the man, and the fancy of
the ])oet, are the two grand considerations for
which I live: if miry ridges, and dirty dung-
hills are to engross the best part of the func-
tions of my soul immortal, I had better been a
rook or a mag|)ie at once, and then I should
not have been pliigued with any ideas superior
to breaking of clods, and picking up grubs ;
not to mention bira-door cocks or mallards,
creatures with which I could almost exchange
lives at any time If you continue so de;Lf, I
»m afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to
either of us ; but if I hear you are got so well
again as to he able to reli>h coiiversatiiin, look
y<iu to it, Midam, for I will make my tlireaten-
iiixs good ; 1 am to be at the new-year-day filr
of Ayr, and by all that is sacred in the world,
fri'diid, I will come aud see you.
Your meeting, which you so well describe,
with y<nir old sclioolf( How and frieml, was tru-
ly llltere^tin:;. ()utu|i()n the ways of the world !
— Tliey spoil these " social offsprings of the
heart." Two veter.ms of the " men of the
word" would have met, with little more heart-
woikings than two old hacks W(uii out on the
road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phiase,
" Auld lai'g syne," exceedingly expressive.
There is an old song and tu-ie whicli has often
thiilled through my sold. You know I am im
enthusiast in uh! Scutch songs. I shall give you
the verses on the other shi'ct, as I ■uj)pose fiJr.
Ker will save you the postage. •
Light be the turf on the breast of the Hea-
ven-inspired poet who com|)osed this glorious
fragment ! There is more of tin.- fire of native
penius in it, than in half a dozen of nunlern
English liucchanaliaus. Now I am on mv
hobby horse, I cinnot help inserting tw) >th»>
old stanzas, which please me nngLtdy.
Go fetch to me a pint o wine.
An' fill It in a silver tassie.
• Here foUaws llie song of 4uid lang 3!/%e.
No. cm.
TO A YOUNG LADY,
WHO HAD HEARD HE HAD BEEN MAKINB*
BALLAD ON HER, ENCLOSING THAT BALLAEt
MADAM, December, 1783.
I UNDERSTAND my Very worthy neighbour
Air. Riddel, has informed you that 1 have made
you the subject of some verses. Thci e is some-
thing so provoking in the idea of being the bur-
den of a ballad, that I do not tliink Job or
Moses, though such patterns of jjatlence and
meekness, couid have resisted the curiosity ta
know what that ballad was: so my worthy
friend has done me a mischief, which I dare say
he never intended ; and reduceii me to the un-
fortunate alternative of leaving your curiosity
ungratified, or else disgusting you with foolisu
veises, the unfinished production of a r.iuduni
moment, and never meant to have met your ear
I have heaid or read somewhere of a gentleman,
who had some genius, niueh eccentricity, ant!
very considerable dexterity with his pencil. In
the accidental groups of life into which one i»
thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a
character in a more than (.rdiiiary degree con-
genial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch ot
the face, meiely. he said, as a 7iOta bene to ])(uiit
out the agreeable recollection to his meniorv.
What this gentleman's pencil was to him, is my
muse to me ; and the veises I do myself the
honour to send you are a meincrtto exactly of the
same kind that he indulged in.
It may he more owing to the fistiillotisness
of my caprice, than the delicacy of my t.iste,
that I am so often tired, di-gnsted, and luirt
with the iii'-i]iidity, affectation, and pride of
mankiiid, that when I meet with a person
" after my own heart," I positively feel wliat
an orthodox protestant v.ould call a S])ecies of
idolatry which acts on my fancy like insjiira-
tion, and I can no more desist rhyming on tlie
impulse, than an iEcdian harj) can refuse its
tones to the streaming air. A distich or two
would he the consec|uence, though the ol.iect
which hit my fancy were g.-ey-l;o irded a.^e ;
but «herc my theme is youth and beauty, a
young lady whose personal charms, wit, and
nentiment, are equally striking and unaffected,
by heavens ! though 1 hail lived threescore year"
a mairiei man, and threescore years helore I
was a married man, my imagui.itiou would ha),
low the very idea ; and I am ti nly sorry that
the enclosed stanz,is have doiio such jioor iastic«
to such a subject.
CORRESPONDENCE.
32]
No. CIV.
TO SIR JOHN WIIITEFOORD.
flK, Deremher, I7^fi.
Mr. M'Kfnzie, ill M.iuelilinc, my very warm
and wortliv IVicnd, lias iiiforiiiuil tiie Imw niiirli
Vdii are plea^iMl to iiitiTost ymirsell' in my fate
as a man, and, (wlia-t to me it incumjiaralily
dourer ) niy fame as a [icot. I iiave, Sir, in out
or two instances, been patronized by tliose of
your eliaracttT in life, when I was introdured
to tlieir notiee by friends to tliem,
and luinoiiiod acqiiainta'nci'S to me: but you
are the fir.-t pentliMuaii in the country whose
benevolence and <joodne^s of heart has interest-
ed Iiim for me, unsolicited and unknown. I
am not master enough of the etiquette of these
matters to know, nor did I stay to inquire,
whether firmal duty bade, or cold j)ro])riety
disallowed, my thati'ting you in this ni.'r.ner, a>
1 am convinced, from the li^ht in which you
kindly view nie, that you wdl do me the justict
to !)elieve this lettet' is not the inanopuvra of 8
needy, sharping author, fasteninv; on those in
upper life, \yho honour hun with a little nuticf
of him or his wo.ks. Indeed the situation ot
poets is t;enerally such, to a (irov'erb, as may,
in some nieisure, jialliate tint [)rostifution of
heart and talents they have at times been guilty
of. I do not think prodigality is, by an means,
a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but
believe a careless, indolent inattention to econo-
my, is almost in»epara!)le from it ; then there
must be in the heart of every I'ard of Nature's
making, a certain modest sensiliiiity, mixed
with a kind of jiride, that wdl ever keep him
out of the way of those wiii'ltalls of fortune,
xt'liich fiequeiitly light oa hardy impudence
and foot- licking servility. It is not easy to
imagine a moie helpless state than his, whose
poetic fancy unfits him f.r the world, and whose
character as a scholar, gives him some l)ruten-
»iou8 to the palittsae of life — yet is as poor as I
am.
For my part, I thank Heaven, my star has
been kinder ; learning never elevated my ideas
above the peasant's shed, and I have an iude-
perwlent fortune at the plough-tail.
I was surprised to hear tint any one, who
pretended in the least to the mtin?icrs of the
gtnlh iiKin, should he so fo(disli, or worse, as to
Stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I
am, and so mhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle
with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part
of my story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank
you. Sir, for the warmth with which you inter-
po>e(l in behalf of my coiuhict. I am, I ac-
knowledge, too frequently the sport of whim,
caprice, and passion — but reverence to God,
and integrity to my fellow-creatures, 1 liope I
shall ever preserve. I have no return. Sir, to
make you fur your goodness but one — a return
which, I ftrn persuaded, will not be unaccept-
»ijl«:— ^Ue honest, warm wisiiea of a grateful
heart for your happiness, and I'very one of tli.it
lovL-ly flock, who stand to vou in a filial rela-
ti<in. If ever calumny aim the poisoned Nliaft
at thei^i, may friendship be by to ward th«
blow !
LETTERS, 1789.
No. CV.
FROM MR. G. BURNS.
DF.Aa BROTHER, Mnsscjicl, \st Jan. 17Sf>.
I HAVE just finished my new-year's-day
breakfast in the usual for.n, which naturally
makes me call to mind the days of former years,
and the society in which we used to begin
them ; and when I look at our family vicissi-
tudes, " through the dark |iostern of time long
elapsed," 1 cannot help remarking to yoi", my
dear brother, how good the God of Skasons
is to us ; and that however some clouds may
seem to lower over the portion of time before
lis, we have great reason to Lope that all v/iU
turn out well.
Your mother and sisters, with Robert the
second, join nie in the complimeiits of the sea-
son to you and Mrs. Hums, and beg you wil'
remember us in the same manner to William,
the fiist time you see him.
I am, dear brotlier, yours,
GILBERT BURNS,
No. CVI.
TO I\IRS. DUNLOP.
EllhlattJ, A'nc-Yeur.Dnj/ iMirrJnfj, 1789.
Tills, dear Jladam, is a moinjug of wishes,
and would to Gon that I came under the apos-
tle James's description! — the jirai/tr of a riijh-
teous man aviiileth mvch. In that case, ^"Ma-
dam, you should welcome in a year full of bles-
sings ; every thing that obstructs or disturbs
traiKjuillity and self-eniojuient, should be re-
moved, and every jjleasure tliat frail humanity
can taste, should be yoars. I ovvn myself so
little a Presbyterian, that I approve of set times
and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devo-
tion, for breaking in on that habituated routine
of life and thought, which is so apt to reiluce
our existence to a kind of instinct, or even
sometimes, aiii! with sonic minds, to a state very
little sujieiior to mere machinery.
This (iay ; the first Sunday ol May ; a breezy,
blue-skyed noon some time about th*" b.-ginning,
and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about
the end, of autumn ; these, time out of aut<<^
have been with mc a kind of holiday.
822
BURNS' WORKS.
1 believe T owe this to that glorious paper in
the SjJO'^tatnr, " The Vision of Mirz.i ;" a
piece that struck my ynung fancy before I was
capable of fixin[( an idea to a word of three syl-
]ai)les : " On the 5th day of the moon, which,
gccording to the custom of my forefathers, I al-
ways keep holy, after having washed myself,
and offered up my morning devotions, I ascend-
ed the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the
rest of the day in meditation and prayei."
We know nothing, or nt'Xt to nothing, of
the substance or structure of our souls, so can-
not 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 im-
pression. I have some favourite flowers in
spring, among which are the mountain daisy,
tlie hare-bell, the fox- glove, the wild-brier rose,
the budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn,
that I view and hang over with particular de-
light. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle
of the curlew, in a summer noon, or the wild
mixing cadence of a troop of grey plover, in an
autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation
of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poe-
tr)-. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this
be owing ? Are we a piece of machinery, which,
like the jEolian harp, passive, takes the impres-
sion of the passing accident ? Or do these work-
ings argue something within us above the trod-
den clod ? 1 own myself partial 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 be-
yond death and the grave.
No. CVII.
FROM THE REV. P. CARFR.\E.
SIR, 2d January, 1783.
Ir you have lately seen Jlrs. Diinlup, of
Diitilop, you have certainly heard of the author
of the verses which accompany this letter. lie
was a man highly respectable for every accom-
plishment and virtue which adorns the charac-
ter of a man or a Christian. To a great de-
gree of literature, of taste, and poetic genius,
was added an invincible modesty of temjier,
■which j)revetittd, in a great degree, his figuring
in life, and confined the perfect knowledge of
his charactt-r ms\i\ talents to tlie small circle of
his chosen friends. He was untimely taken
from us, a few xveeks ago, by an iiifiammatory
fever, in the prime of life — beloved by all, who
enjoyed his ac(|uaintance, and lamented by all,
who have any regard for virtue or genius. Tliere
iii a woe pronounced in Scripture against the
person whom k\\ men speak well of ; if ever
that woe fell upon the head of mortal ;Tian, *
fell upon him. He has left behind liim a con-
siderable number of compositions, chitfly poeti-
cal ; sufficient, I imagine, to make a large oc-
tavo volume. In particuhfr, two complete and
regular tragedies, a farce of three acts, and some
smaller poems on different subjects. It falls to
my share, who have lived in the most intimate
and uninterrupted friendship with him from my
youth upwards, to tiansmit to you the verses he
wrote on the publication of your incomparable
poems. It is probable they were his last, as
they were found in his scrutoire, folded up witL
the form of a letter addressed to you, and I im-
agine, were only prevented from being sent hy
himself, by that melancholy dispensation which
we still bemoan. The verses themselves I will
not pretend to criticise when writing to a gen-
tleman whom I consider as entirely qualified to
judge of their merit. They are the oidy verses
he seems to have attempted in the Scottish
style ; and I hesitate not to say, in general, that
they will bring no dishonour on the Scottish
muse ; — and allow me to add, that if it is your
opinion they are not unwoithy of the author,
and will be no discredit to you, it is the incli-
nation of Mr. Mylne's friends that they should
be immediately published in soine periodica!
work, to give the world a specimen of what
may be expected from his performances in the
poetic line, which, perhaps, will be afterv/arda
published for the advantage of Lis family.
I must beg the favour of a letter from yon,
acknowledging the receipt of this, and to be
allowed to subscribe myself with great regard,
Sir, your most obedient servant,
P. C
No. cvni.
TO DR. MOORE.
EUidand, near Dumfries, 4th Jan. 1789.
SIR,
As often as I think of writing to you, whicc
has been three or four times every week these
six months, it gives me something so like the
idea of an oidinaiy-sized statue ottering at a con-
versation with the Rhodian Colossus, that my
mind misgives me, and the afiair always miscar-
ries somewhere between puipose and lesiilve. )
have, at last, got some business with you, and
business-letters are written by the style-book. —
I say my business is with you. Sir, for you never
had any with me, except the business that bene-
volence has in the mansion of poverty.
The character and om])loyinent of a poet
were fcrmerly my ]ileasure, but are now my
pride. know that a very great d(dl of ui)
CORRESPONDENCE.
32S
fate eclat was owing; to tlie singularity of my
nitiKition, and the honest prejudict' of Sei)t»inen ;
but still, as I said in the |)i'ef,ii'e to my first edi-
tion, I do look upon myself as h.ivinj; some pre-
tensions from Nature to the poetic character. I
nave not a douht but the knack, the aptitude, to
.earn the Pluses' trade, is a gift bestowed by
Him " who forms the secret bias of the sou! ;"
• — but as I fii mly believe, that excellence in the
prjfession is the fruit of industry, labour, atten-
tion, and pains. At least I am resolved to try
my doctrine by the test of experience. Another
appearance from the press I put off to a very
di-tant day, a day that may never arrive — but
poe:«y I am determined to prosecute with all my
vigour. Nature has givt-n very few, if any, of
the professi.in, the talents of shining in every
species of composition, I shall try (for until
trial it is impossible to know), whether she has
qualified me to shine in any one. The worst of
it is, by the time one has finished a piece, it has
been so often viewed and reviewed befoie the
mental eye, that one loses, in a good measure,
the powers of critical discrimination. Here the
be;st ciiterion I know is a friend — not only of
abilities to judge, but witii 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 animal fall into that most
deplorable of all poetic diseases — heai t-breaking
despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already
imnietisely indebted to your goodness, ask the
additional obligation of your being that friend to
me ? I enclose you an essay of mine, ia a walk
of ])oesy to nie entirely new ; I mean the epistle
adilressed to R. G., Esq., or Robert Graham, of
Fintry, 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 with my own story, and to give you
the one, I must give you something of the other.
I cannot boast of
of so much. I give myself no airs on this, for
it was mere selfishness on my ])art ; ( was con-
scious that the wrong scale of the balance was
pretty heavily charged, atul I thought that
throwing a little filial piety, and fraternal affec-
tion, into the scide in my favour, might help to
smooth matters at the (jriuid reckoninrj. There
is still one thing would make mv ciicumstances
quite easy ; I have an excise officer's commis-
sion, and I live in the midst ot a country divi-
sion. My request to Mr. Grahim, who is ont
of the coumiissioners of eycise, was, if in his
power, to procure me that (division. If I were
very sanguine, I might hope that some of my
gieat patrons might procure me a treasury war-
rant for supervisor, surveyor-general, &c.
Thus secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sweel
poetry, delightful maid," I would uonsecr<ue my
future days.
No. CIX.
I believe I shall, in whole, L.lOO copy-right
included, dear about L.-iOO some little odds ;
and even part of this depends upon what the
geiitlema.n has yet to settle with me. I give
you this information, because you did me the
honour to interest yourself much in my welfare.
To give the rest of my story in brief, I have
married " my Jean," and taken a farm ; with
the first step I hav^ every day more and more
reason to be satisfied ; with the last, it is rather
tl'.e reverse. I have a younger brother, who
fupports my aged mother ; another still younger
brother, and three sisters, in a farm. On my
last return from Edinburgh, it cost me about
L.180 to save them from ruin. Not that I
nave lost so much — I only interposed between
mv biothei and his impending fate by the loan
TO JIR. ROBERT AINSLIE.
Ellhlund, Jan. 6, 1789.
Many happy returns of the season to you,
my dear Sir . I\Iay you be comparatively happy
up to your comparative worth among the sons
of men ; which wish would, I am sure, make
you one of the most blest o-f the human race.
I do not know if passing a " Writer to the
Signet" be a trial of scientific merit, or a mere
business of friends and interest. However it be,
let me quotu you my two favourite passages,
which though I hive repeated them ten thou-
sand times, still tliey rouse my manhood and
steel my resolution like inspiration.
On Reason build resolve.
Th.it column of true majesty ia man.
YOUNQ.
Hear, Alfied, hero of the state.
Thy genius heaven's high will declare;
The triumph of the truly great
Is never, never to despair !
s never to despair !
Masque of Alfred.
» grant you enter the HnIs of life, to struggle
for bread, busintss, notice, and distinction, in
common with hundreds But who are they .'
i\Ien, like yourself, and of that aggregate body,
your compeers, seven-tenths of them come short
of your advantages natural and accidental ; while
two of those that remain either neglect their
parts, as floweis blooming in a desert, or mis-
sjiend their strength, like a bull goring a branv
ble bush.
324.
BURNS* WORKS.
But to cTiange the thetne : Tain still catering
for Jolinson's piiMication ; and among others,
I have l)ru>la'(l i:p the fdllowing old favourite
song a little, with a view to your worship. I
have only altered a word .•.ere and there ; hut if
vou like the humour of i :, we shall think of a
stanza or two to add to it.
No. ex.
TO BISHOP GEDDES.
EWslnnd, near Dumfries, 3d Feb. 1789.
VENEKABLE FATHER,
As I am conscious ;hat wherever I am you do
me the honour to interest yoiirxflf in my wel-
fare, it gives me pleasuie to mforin you, that I
am here at last, stationaiy in the serious busi-
ness of life, and have now not only the retired
leisure, hut the hearty inclination, to attend to
those great and important questions — what I
am? where I am? and for what I am destined ?
In that first concern, the conduct of the man,
there was ever hut one side on which I was
haliitiuilly hlameahle, and there I have secured
myself in the way ))oiiited out liy Nature and
Nature's Go<l. 1 was sensible that, to so help-
less a creature as a pcor poet, a wife and family
were incumbrances, which a species of prudence
would bid him shun ; but when the alternative
was, being at eternal warfare with myself, on
account of habitual fi:Uies, to give them no worse
name, whiih no general e.\am])le, no licentious
wit, no sophistical infidelity would, to me, ever
justify, I must have been a fool to have hesitat-
ed, and a madman to have made another choice.
In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself
tolerably secure : I have good hopes of my
farm ; init should they fail, I have iin escise
commission, which on my simple jietitioii, will,
at any time, procure nie bread. There is a cer-
tain stigma affixed to the irharacter of an excise
officer, but I do not inteml to Dorrow nonour
from any jirofession ; and though the salary be
comparatively .iniall, it is great to any thing
that the first twenty-five years of my life taught
me to exjiect.
Thus, with a rational aim and method in life,
yo\i may easily guess, my reverend and much-
lionoured frie«d, that my cliaracteristical trade
is not forgotten. I am, if jinssible, more than
Bver nti enth isiast to tlie muses. I am doter-
mined to study man ami nature, and in that
view incessantly ; and to try if the ripening and
corrections of years c/in enable me to produce
something worth preserving.
You will see in your hook, which I beg yout
pardon for detaining so long, that I have l)een
tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some
larger poetic plans that are floating in my ima-
gination, or partly put in execution, I shall im-
part to you when I have the pleasure of meet-
ing with you, which, if you are then in Edin-
burg, , I shall have ihout the beginning of
March.
That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which
you were pleased to honour me, you must still
allow me to challenge ; for with whatever un-
concern I give up my transient connection with
the merely great, I cannot lose the patronizing
notice of the learned and the good, without the
bitterest regret.
No. CXI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
Ellhland, Ath March, 1789.
Here am T, my honouied friend, returned safe
from the capital. To a man, who has a home,
however humble or remote — if that home is like
mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the bustle
of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sicken-
ing disgust.
" Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you !"
AVhen I must skulk into a corner, lest the
rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead
should mangle me in the mire, I am temjitcd
to exclaim — " what merits has he had. or what
demerit have I had, in some state of pre-exlstcnce,
that he is ushered into this state of being with
the sceptre of rule, and the key of riches, in his
]n;ny fist, and 1 am kicked into the world, the
-pint 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
Ptuleinean system of astronomy, that be said,
had he been of the Creatok's council, he could
have saved him a great deal of labour and ab-
surdity, I will not defend this blaspiteinous
speech ; but often, as I iiave glided with humble
stealth through the pomp of Prince's Street, it
has siiggesteil itself to me, as an inij?rovemtiit
on the present human figure, that a man, in
proportion to his own conceit of his consequence
ill the wiprld, could have pushed out the longi-
tude of liis common size, as a snail pushes out
his horns, nr as we draw out a jierspective.
This trifling alteration, : ot to mention tlie pro-
digious saving it would be in the tear and wear
of the nerk and limb-sinews of many of his !\Ia-
ji'sty's liege subjects in the way of tossing the
head and tiptoe strutting, would evidently tura
out a vast adfautage, in enabling us at once U
CORRESPONDl'^NCE.
ldjii«t the ceremonials in iTiakin<5 a Imw, or
niiikiii'^ way to a great man, and that too within
a seeonii of tlie precise sjilierical an<5le of reve-
renee, or an ineh of the pirtienlar point of rc-
spectfiil distance, whicli the important creatnre
it-.elf rc(piires ; as a nKMsnrini;-^! mce at its
towerin;; altitude would determine the affair hke
Jiscinct.
Yon are rif;ht, I\I,id,ini, in your idea of poor
Mylne's poem, wliich lie has addressed to me.
The piece has a good deal of merit, hut it has
Dne great fault — it is, iiy far, too Ion;;. He-
«ldt>s, my suf.eess has encouraged such a slioal
of ill-spawneil monsters to crawl into puUlic
notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, th.it
the very term of Scottish Poetry horders on
the liurlesque. When I write to IVIr. C ,
I shall advise bim rather to try one of his de-
ceased friend's English pieces. I am prodigi-
. ..ily honied with my own matteri, else I
would have requested a perusal of a.\\ Mylne's
poetic performances ; and would have offered
his friends my assistance in either selecting or
correcting what wmdd he proper for the press.
What it is that occupies me so much, anil per-
haps a little oppresses my present sjiitits, shall
fill up a paragraph in some tutiire letter. In
the iiiemtime allow me to dose this epistle with
a few lines dune l»v a friend of mine
I give you them, that as you have seen
the original, you may guess whether one or two
alterations I have ventured to make in them, be
any real improvement.
L'ke the fair plant that from our touch with-
draws,
Shrink mildly fearful even from applause,
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream.
And aTi you are, my charming , seem.
Straight as the fox-glove, ere her hells disclose.
Mild as the maiden-ldushing hawthorn hlows.
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind,
Your form shall he the image of your mind:
Your manners shall so true your soul expresti,
That all shall long to know the woitli they
guess ;
Gnigenial hearts sliall greet with kindre<l love,
Aud even sick'niug envy must approve.*
No. CXII.
.ETTER FROM WILLIAM BURNS, THE
PC-iTS BROTHER.
Til IS and thr»e letters which follow hereafter, are
the genulue and artle-s productiiuis of the poet's
yoiiiigei I5rotlier, Wii.i.iam Burns, a yniw^
ni.in, who after having served an apprenti<-e
siiip to the trade rif a Saddler, took his lo.id
• hese l)eautn'ol linet, we have rp.\«in to believe,
»re the iiriiUieliuii v( ibe laAy Ui wlioin this letter u
tdre^ d
towards tl;e South, anc? having resided a
short time at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, arrived
in London, where he died of a putrid fevef
in the year 170(1.]
DEAlisiR, Lnnr/lnirn, Feb. L5, 17S9.
As I am now in a manner only eiitcriiig into
the world, I hegin this our correspondence, with
a view ol being a gainer liy your ailvice, more
than ever you can be by any thing I can write
you of what I see, or what I hear, in the course
of my wanderings. I know not how it hi|>-
peiied, but yon were more shy of your counsel
thin I could have wished the time I staid with
you : whether it was because you thought it
would disgust me to have my faults freely told
me while I was dependant on you ; or whether
it was because you saw that by my indolent dis-
position, your instructions would hive no effect,
I cannot determine ; but if it inoceeded from
any of tile above causes, the reaxin of u'ithholdiiig'
your admonition is now done awiy, tor t now
stand on mv (wn bottom, and that indolence,
which I am very conscious of, is something
rubbed off, by being called to act in life whether
I will or not ; and my inexperience, whiih 1
daily feel, makes me wish fur that advice which
yon are so able to give, and which I can only
expect Umw you or GIbert since the loss of the
kindest and ablest of fathers.
The morning after I went from tl-.e Isle, I
left Dumfries about five o'clock and came to
Ann in to breakfist, and staid about an hour ;
and I reached this place about two o'clock. I
h.ive got work here, aud ! intend to stay a month
or six weeks, and then go fmwird, as I \\\>\\ to
be at Yolk about the latter end of summer,
where I propose to spend next winter, and go
on fur London in the spring.
I have the piomise of seven shillings a week
fiiMii .Mr. i'roctor while I stay here, and six-
pence more if he succeeds himself, for he luia
only new begun trade here. I am to pay four
shillings |ier week of board wages, so that my
neat income here will be much the same as ia
Dumfries.
The enclosed you will send to Gilbert with
the first opjioi tiinity. Please semi me the tii>t
Wednesday after you receive this, by the Car-
lisle waggon, two of my coaise shirts, one of
my best linen ones, my velveteen vest; anil a
neckcloth ; write to me along with them, and
iliirct to me. Saddler, in Longtown, and they
will not miscarry, for 1 aoi boarded in the
w.iggoner's lioii-e. You may either let them
be given in to the w.igion, or send them to
{-onlth.ird and (ii llebourn's shop and they will
fiirward thr ni Priy write me oltc>n while I
i.tay lu-ie. — 1 wish yuu would send me a letter,
though never so small, every week, for they
will be no exjiense to me. ami but little trouble
to you. I'le.ise to give my best wishes to my sis-
ter-in-law, and believe me to be your affectionate
And obligid Brother,
WILLIA.M BURNS
32G
BURNS' WORKS.
P. S. The great coat y u gave me at parting
dill me singular service tlu d.iy 1 came here, and
merits my hearty thanks. From what has been
«ai(l the conclusion is this; that my hearty
thanks and my best wishes are all that you and
my eister must exjiect from
W. B.
No. CXIII.
TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE.
REVEREND SIR, 1789.
I iio not recollect that I have ever felt a se-
veier pang of shame, than on looking at the
d.ite of your obliging letter, which accompanied
Mr. Wyhie's poem.
1 am much to blame : the honour Mr. IMylne
has done me, greatly enhanced in its value by
the endearing, though melancholy circumstance,
of its being the la^t production of his muse, de-
served a better return.
I have, as you hint, thought cf sending a
copv of the poem to some periodical publica-
tiiin ; but, on second thoughts, I am airaid
that, in the present case, it would be an im-
proper step. My success, perhaps as much ac-
cidental as meiited, has brought an inundation
of nonsense under the name of Scottish poetry.
Siibscriptioti-biils for Scottish poems have so
dunned, and dailv do dun the public, that the
very name is in danger of conti'ni|)t. For these
reasons, if publishing any of Mr. M.'s poems in
a maguzine, &c. be at all prudent, in my opinion
it certainly should not lie ,i Scottish poem. The
protits of the labnurs of a man of genius, aie, [
hope, as honiuiral)le as any protits whatever ;
and Mr. Mvlne's relations are most justly en-
titled to that honest hai vest, which fite has ile-
aird himself to reip. Hut let tiie friends of Mr.
Mylue's fame (among whivm I crave the honour
of ranking myself), always ko'cp in eye bi< re-
fpectaliilitv as a man and as a poet, and take no
measure that, before the world knows any thing
•nbout him, would ri>k his name and ciiaiacter
being claH^ed with tlie fouls of the times.
I h ive. Sir. sonie experience of publishing;
anil the way in uhich I would proceed with
Air. Myine's poems, is this: — I woulil puhii-h,
in two or three ICnglish anil Scotti>h public
papers, any one of his Eoitlish ])oeuis which
ishuulil, by private jiiilges. be thought the most
exielleiit, arrd mention it at the same time, as
one of the |.roducti(Uis of a Luthiiiri farmer, of
r■:^pl■ctallle character, lately dece.ised, whose
I'lerris bis frieird> had it in idea to publish soon,
^/ / sirb-cri|ition, for the s.ike of hi-< nurirerous
A. nrly : — not in pity to that family, but in jirs-
ta.'e tu what his friends think the poetic merits
of the deceased ; and to secure, in the most if
fectual manner-, to those tender connections
whose right it is, the pecuniary reward of thos«
merits.
No. CXIV.
TO DR. JIOORE.
SIR, Ellhland, 23d March, 1 '8J .
The gentleman who will deliver you this is a
Sir. Nielson, a worthy clergyman in my neigh-
bourhood, and a very particular acquaintance o.
mine. As I have troubled him with this packet,
I must turn him over to your goodness, to re-
compense him for it in a way in which he much
needs your assistance, and where you can effec-
tually serve him : — IMr. Nielson is on his way
for France, to wait on his Grace of Queensbeiiy,
(m some little business of a good deal of impor-
tance to him, and he wishes for your instruc-
tions respecting the most eligible mode of tra-
velling, &c. for him, when he has crossed the
(!^hannel. I should not have dared to take this
liberty with you, but that I am told, by those
who hive the honour of your personal acquaint-
ance, that to be a poor honest Scotchman is a
letter of recommendation to you, and that to
have it in your power to serve such a character,
gives you much pleasure.
The enclosed ode is a compliment to the me-
mory of the late i\Irs. , of . You
l)riibably knew her personally, an hnnour ol
which I cannot boast ; but I spent my eaiiy
year's in her neighbourhood, and among her
servants and tenants. 1 know that she was de-
tested with the most heartfelt cordiality. How-
ever-, in the particular part of her- conduct which
rou'-ed mv poetic wrath, she was ir.oih less
blameable. In January last, im my nud to
Ayrshire, I had put up at Uiilie Wigham's in
Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place.
The frost was keen, and the grim evening and
howling wind were ushering in a night ot snow
and drift. My horse and I were both much
fatigued with the labours of the day, and jusi a.<
rrry friend the Isailie and I weie bidding drtiance
to the storm, over a sriiokrng bowl, in wheels
the fuiieial pageantry of the late great Mis
, anil poor I am forced to brave all the
horrors of the tempestuous night, and j ule my
horse, niy young fivourite horse, whom I had
just christened Pe;;asus, twelve miles fartlier
on, through the wilde-t muiis and hills of Ayr
shire, to New Cumnock, the next inii. The
powers of jMiesy and pro-e sink under me, when
I would describe what 1 felt. Suffice it to s.iy,
\hat when a good fne, at New Cumnock, had
M> fir recover-ed nry frozen sinews, i sat dowj
and wrote the enclosed ode.
CORRESPONDENCE.
327
1 was at Eilinhi-fgh lafely, and settled finally
Kith Mr. Crt'jcli ; and I iii'j'<t own, that, at
'■^t. he has bctu amicable uud fair with me.
No. CXV.
TO MR. PETER HILL.
Ellisland, Id April, 1789.
I WILL make no excuses, my dear Bil)liopo-
us, ( Ciod foi'give me for niunlering language !)
that 1 have sat down to wiite you on this vile
paper.
It is economy, Sir ; it is that cardinal virtue,
prndence ; so I beg you will sit down, and
either conijjose or borrow a panegyric. If you
are going to borrow, apply to
the glorious cause of LufRE, I will do any thing,
be any thing — but the horseleech of privuta
ojjpression, or the vulture of public robbery !
Bat to descend from heroics.
to compose, or rather to compound, something
very clever on my remaikable tVugalify ; that I
write to one of my llio>t e.^teemed friends cm
tla» wretched paper, which was originally in-
tended tor the venal list of some drunken ex-
ci^etiian, to take dirty notes in a miserable vault
of un ale-Crllir.
O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand
ble-sini;s — thou cook of fat lieef and dainty
greens ! — thou niannficturer of warm Shetland
hose, aiul comfortable surtouts ! — thou old
hmisewife, darning thy decayed stockings with
thy ancient spectacles ( n thy aged nose ; — lead
me, hanri me in thy clutching |)alsied fist, u])
tho>e heights, and through those thicket*, hi-
therto inaccessii)!e, and impervious to my anxi-
ous weary feet : — not tho>e rarnas^ian craggs,
bleak and barren, where the hungry wnrsbii)-
pers of fime are, breathless, clambering, hang-
ing between heaven and hell ; but those ghtter-
ing clitfs of Pot. si, where the all sufiicient, all-
powerful deity. Wealth, hidds his immediate
couit of joys and plcasuies; where the sunny
exposure of plentv, and the hot walls of profu-
sion, produce those blis-fnl fruits of luxury,
exotics in this woi Id, and n,iti\ es of |)aradise ! —
Thou uitheied sybil, my sage conductiess, usher
me into the refulgent, adored jiresence ! — The
I)ower, splen(li<i and |)otent ,is he now is, was
once the puling nursling of thy fiithful care,
aTid fender arms ! Cail me thy sun, thy cousin,
thy kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the god,
by the scenes ol his infant vear<, no longer to
lejiulse me as a sti.ingei, or an alien, but to fa-
vour me wiih his peculiar countenance and pro-
tection ! He daily liestows his greatest kindness
on the undeserving and the wottiiless — assure
'iim, that 1 bring ample documents of meritcri-
jus demerits Pledge yourself for me, that, for ,
I want a Shakspoare ; I want likewise an Eng
lish dictionary— Johnson's, I suppose, is best
In these and all my prose conmiissions, the
cheapest is always the best for me. T here is
a small debt of honour thit I owe Mr. Robert
Cleghorn, in Sau^hton .Mills, my worthy friend,
and your well-wisher. Plea-e give him, and
urge him to take it, the fir>t time you see him,
ten shillings worth of any thing jou have to
sell, and place it to my account.
The liluary schetne *!iat I mentioned to you
is already begun, under the direction of Captain
Riddel. Theie is another in emulilion of it yo-
ing on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr,
Monteith, of Closeburn, which will be on a
greater scale than ours. Captain R give his
infant sticiety a great many of his old books,
elsn I had written you on that subject ; but,
one of these days, I shall trouble you with a
commission for " The Monkl.md Friendly So-
ciety"— a copy of Tilt Spictutur, Mirror, and
Liiiintitr i M'Ui of Fvilitiij, :i.'nn oj't/ic Wi.rld,
(jiit/iiits Geoyraplmal (iTUiiiiimr, with some
religious pieces, will likely be our first order.
When I grow licher, 1 will write to you on
gilt post, to make amends f )r this sheet, .^t
present, every guinei has a five-guinea errand
with
My dear Sir,
Your faithful, jjoor, but honest friend,
li. B.
No. CXV I.
TO JIRS. DUNLOP.
Ellhland, 2d April, ]78».
I NO sooner hit on any poetic jilan or faac/
but I wi>h to send it to you ; and if kno.viii;»
and reading these give hall tlie pleasure to vou,
that conimuuicating tiiem to you gives to u>c,
I am satisfied.
I have a poetic whim in my head, wliich ]
at present dedicate, or rather inscrilie, to the
Right H(m. C. J. I'' X ; but how long that
fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the
fiist lines I Lave just rough-sketched, us fol
lows : —
328
BURNS' WORKS.
iSKETCn (}? C. J. FOX.
How w:s('i)ni aiii! folly meet, mix, am! unite ;
How virt/ie aiid vico bli-ad their black and their
wiiite ;
How {reirus, th* illustrious fatlier of fiction,
Cotifounds rule and law, recuuciies contradic-
tiiiM —
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should
hustle,
I care not not I. let the critics go whistle.
3ut now for a patron, whose name and whose
gloiy, _
At once may illustrate and honour my story.
Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ;
Yet whose jiarts and ac(j\iirunients seem mere
iui-ky hits ;
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so
strong'.
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far
wrong ;
With passidiis so potent, and fancies so bright,
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right ;
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses.
For using thy name offers fifty excuses.
Good I d, what is man ! for as simple he
looks,
Do but ti y to develope liishiinks anil his crooks ;
Vv'ith hi"* di-ptlis and his shallows, his good and
his tfvil,
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil.
On his one ruling passion Sir Pope luigelv
labiiiirs.
That like tl;e old Ili'brew walking-switch, cats
up its iii'it;hboiirs :
M.itikiiid lire his '•how-box — a friend, wimld you
know bin; ?
Piill the string, ruling passion, the picture v.'ill
slio\v biin.
Vhnt pity, in rearing so beauteous a system.
One tnlbiii; paiticidar, truth, should have uiiss'd
liim ;
Fur, spite iif his fine theoretic positions,
Mankind is a science defies definitions.
.'soiriD sort all our qualities ea<'h to its tribe.
Ami lliink huiii.in nature liny truly ile>cribe ;
li.ive )iiu fniind ibis, or t'other ? tbeie's more
in tlie wiiiii.
As by one ilrunkeu I'ellow his comrades you'll
fiiiil.
Dot sorb Is the fiaw, or che ilepth of tiie plan.
In ih: make of that wondeiful creature tall'd
Rliu.
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim,
^•llr even two ditb'rent hliades iil the same,
1 l.oii.'b like as was ever twin brother tobiother,
I'ussesbing the one shall imply yuu've the ulhei .
No. CXVII,
TO .MR. CUN.M.NGn.\M.
.MT TEAR siK, EUhland, Mh ^tiy, I7S9.
Your ilnty free favour of the 2(ith A(iril I
received two days a^o : I will not say I peru-
sed it with pleasure ; that is the cold compli-
ment of ceremony ; 1 jierused it. Sir, with deli-
cious satisfaction In short, it is such a letter,
that not you, nor your friend, but the lei,'i>!a-
ture, by express proviso in their pust.ige laws
should frank. A letter informed with the soul
of frienil>hii>, is such an honour to human na-
ture, that they should order it free ingre.'s and
egress to and from their bags, and malls, as ao
eiicourafiemeut and mark of distinction to su-
per-eminent virtue.
1 have just |uit the last hand to a little poem
which 1 think will be something to your taste.
One morning lately as ] was out pretty early
in the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard
the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plan-
tation, and presently a poor little woumled hare
came crippling by me. You will guess my in-
dignation at the inhuman fellow who could
shoot a hare at this seasim, wlu'n they all ol
thein have youns; ones, Iiuleed there is some-
thing in that business of destroying, for our
sport, individuals in the animal creation that
do not injure us materially, which I could never
reconcile to my ideas ol viitue.
( See Poetry. )
Let me know how you like my poem. I am
doubtful wliether it would not be an impmve-
ment to keep out the last slauiia but one alto-
gether.
C is a ghulons prnducticm of the author
of man. You, he, and the noble Colonel ol the
C F are, to me,
" Dear as the ruddy drojis which warm niy
bieast."
I have a good mind to make verses on you all,
to the tune of " l/iree yood J'dtous uyuHt tlu
ylen."
O.T '.he 20th rurrent I hope to liave the ho-
nour (.'f ussuiing you, iu person, how siuceiely
1 •III,
No. CXVHI.
TiJE poem, in ths preceding letter, had alM>
been sent by on- bard to Dr. (iregorv for hit
ctilicisui. '1 he following is thai geulleuiiia'*
re;ily.
FRO.M DR. GREGORY,
I'KAS SIR, ICiliiihur</h, 2tl June, 178P.
I" AKK the first leisure hour 1 ei uld conimanfl,
to thank y>>u tor jitiui letter, and the cnjiy of
Vi'ru.'S cnciuiuil IL' It. As there is leal pui:tic
329
merit, f i.ipnn luitli fmcy, and tenderness, and
Kcime hiiipy I'xpressidns, in them, I think tliey
Well ilesi'ive that you shoiihl revise them care-
fully iiiiil polish rheni to tlie utmost. This I am
sure you can do if yoii please, for you li ive i^re.it
coiniiMtid hoth of expression and of rliviiies: ami
you may judije from tiie two last pieees of Mrs.
Hunter's poetry, that I gave you, how nuieli
correctness anil liiijh polish enhance the value of
such couiposit'ons. As you desire it, 1 ishall,
with gieat freedom, give you my most riynrons
ciitieisms on your verses. I wish you would
give me another edition of tlieni, much amend-
ed, and I will send it to Mis. Hunter, who, I
am sure, will have much pleasure in reading it.
Pray, give me likewise for myself, and her too,
a copy (as much amended as you please) of tlie
Witter Fiiwl on Lncli Turit.
The WointiLd Hare is a pretty good suhject ;
but the measure, or stanza, you have chosen for
it, is not a good one ; it does not Jlow will ;
and the rhyme (d' the fourth line is almost lost
h\ its distance from the titNt ; ami the two in-
terposed, close rhymes. If I were you, I would
put it iiito a dillerent stanza yet.
Stanza I. — The execrations in the first two
lines are strong or coarse ; but they may piss.
" .Murder-aiming" is a bad compound epltliot,
and not very inteihgihie. " IJlooil-stained," in
stanza ill. line \, has the same fault: Ji/ifiliiirj
bosom is infinitely better. You have accustom-
ed yoursrif to such epithets, and have nii notioTi
how sritf aad quaint they appear to others, aufl
how incongruous with ]ioetic fancy, and tender
Kiiti^iciits. Suppose Pope had written, "Why
that blood-stained bosimi gored," how would vou
have liked it .' Form is neither a poetic, nor a
dli'iiilied, nor a plain, common word : it is a
mere spoilsman's word; unsuitable tu pathetic
or serious poetry.
" M.mgied" is a coarse word. " Innocent,"
in this sense, is a nursery word ; but both may
pass.
Stanza 4. — " Who will now provide that life
a mother only can bestow," will not do at all :
it is not gianimar — it is not intelligible. Do
y>u mean " provide for that life which the mo-
ther had bestoweil and used to provide for?"
There was a ridiculous slip of the pen,
" Feeling" (I suppose) for " Fellow," in the
title of your copy of veises ; but even fellow
would be wrong : it is but a collocpiial and vul-
gar woid, un-uitd)ie to your sentiments. " .shot"
is imprnpcr too. — On seeing a person (or a
Kportsman ) wound a !iure ; it is tieedless to add
with what weajion ; but if you think otherwise,
you should Siy, with a faulinti-jjitce.
Let me see you when you come to town, and
I will show you some more of i\Irs. Hunter's
pocais. •
No. CXIX.
TO JIR. JAML.S HAMILTON,
CKOCEH, GLASGOW.
deah sir, j;il!s/anfl, Maij, 26, 1799.
I SFNi) you by John (;iover, carrier, the
above account for Mr. Turnbull, as I supjxme
you know his address.
I would fain olfer, my dear Sir, a word of
sympa;hy with your misfortunes ; hut it is a
tender strinsj, and I know not how to touch it.
It is easy to flourish a set td'high-flowa senfini'-nts
on the subject that would give ■;reat satisfa.f ion
to — a breast (pilte at ea-e ; but as onk obsiives,
who was very seldom mistaken in the theory of
life, " The hint knowctli its own sorrows, and
a stranger internuwidleth not tln'iewlth."
Among some di-tri-ssful emergencies that I
have ex|)erienced in life. I liave ever laid this
down as my foundation of comtort — That he
he who has livnl t.'ie life nf an hiutst man, has
by no means licvil in rain !
With every wish for )our welfare and futur*
success,
I am, my dear Sir,
Siueerely yours.
• It must be ailnijtte<l, that this criticism is not
more ilisLMinuishe.l liy lis good sense, lliaii liy itsfrce-
Jimi from ceriin iiy. It is im|iossible ii.il to sinilc at
Ihe maniiei in winch thepoei may tie su|>|hisisI to have
<u.v.vcd It In laet il appears, a^ liie toilurt uy. \o
No. CXX.
. TO WM. CREECH, Esq.
SIR, Ellishnid, May 30, )79»>.
I HAD intended to have troidiled vou with a
long letter, but at piescnt the .lehglitful sensa-
tions of an omnipotent tooihach so engross all
my inner man, as to put it out of my power
even to write nonsense. — However, as in duty
bound, I approach my bookseller with an offer-
ing in my hand — i feiv poetic clinches and a
song : — To e.\pect any other kind of offering
from the riivming TiaiiK, would be to know
them much less than you do. 1 do not [iretend
that there is much merit in these morceaux, but
I have two reasons for send ng them ; f;riino,
they are mostly ill-natured, so are in unison wiih
my present feelings, whde lilfy tioops of infer-
nal spirits are driving post IVoin ear to ear along
my jaw-bones ; and sicnna'/y, the> are so short,
th.it you cannot leave off in the v.\ ddle. and -^
hurt my pride in the ide.i th.it you found any
work of mine too heavy to get through.
I have a request to lieg of jou, and I not oa-
ly beg of you, but conj ue you — by all your
w.shes and by all your ho)ies, that the muse
have thrown hhn ^»/7^ rt-ioci'. In a letter which he
wrotcsoon after, hesays, " Pr. G is .igoi.d man,
but he crucifies me." — .Anil aeiiii, "I lx>lie\e in iha
iron jii.stiee of Rr. ( '■ - ■ ; hut hke the ilevsLs, I lx>
Ijeve anil tremble." However, he profiu-d by these
criticisms, as Ihe reailcr will liu.l, by coiiipanng ihii
first eililioi) uf the poeiu, wiih ihat ]ii.bli:Jied alUt
warat.
330
BURNS' WORKS.
will sp.ire tlie satiric wink in the moment of
your f(iil)les ; tli.it she will warble the song of
rapture round your hymeneil cnuch ; and that
she will shed on your turf the honest tear of
elegiac gratitude ! grant my request as speedily
as possilile. — Send ne by the very first fly or
coach for this place, three copies of the last edi-
lion of my poems ; which place to my account.
Now, niay the good things of prose, and the
good things of verse, come among thy hands
until thev be filled with the good things of this
tile ! prayeth
ROBt. BURNsS
No. CXXI.
TO MR. M'AULEY,
OF DUMBAUTO.V.
DKAR sm, ith Jtnie, 17S9.
TiiouoH I am not without my fears respect-
ing my f.ite at that grand, universal inquest of
right and wrong, commonly called The Lust
Dill/, yet I trust there is one sin, which that
arch-vairabond, Satan, who, I understand, is to
be king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth
— I nieim ingratitude. There is 3 certain pret-
ty large quantum of kindness for which I re-
main, and from inab lity, I f,^ar, must remain
your debtor ; but though unable to repay the
debt, 1 assure yon. Sir, I shall ever warmly re-
member the obligation. It gives me the sin-
cerest jdeasure to hear by my old ac(|uaintance,
Mr. Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's
language, " Hale ami weel, ami living ;" and
that your charming fimily are well, and promis-
ing to be an amiable and respectable ailditiim to
the company of performers, whom the Great
Manager of the Drama of Man is bringing intn
acti<in for the succeeding age
With respect to my welfire, a subject in
which you once warndy and effectively inteiest-
ed yourself, I am here in my old way, holding
my plough, marking the growth of my corn, or
the healih of my dairy; and at times saunter-
ing by the delightful windings of the Nith, on
the maigin of which I have built my humble
domicile, praying for seasonable weather, or
holding an intrigue with the Muses ; the only
gA'pseys with whom I li.ive now any intercourse.
As I am entered into the li<dy state of m.itrimo-
3y, I trust my face is turned tom])!eftly Zion-
Ward ; and as it is a rule with all honest fel-
.<)W«, to repeat no grievances, I hope that the
.ittle poetic licences of former days, will of
course fall under the oblivious influence of some
pood-natureil statute tjf celestial prosci iption.
In my family divotioii, which, like a good pres-
byterlan, 1 occasionally give to my lionsehold
folkv. 1 am exneme!\ fund of the ptalm, " Let
fcot li.e errors of my youth," &c. and that other,
" Lo, children are God's neritage," kz. $5
which last Mrs. Burns, who, by the bye, has 1
glorious " wood-note wild" at either old song
or psalmody, joins me with the pathos of Han-
del's Messiah.
No. CXXII.
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.
ElUsland, June 8, 1 789.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
1 AM perfectly ashamed of myself when ]
lopk at the date of your la-t. It is not that I
fiuget the friend of my heart and the companion
of my peregrinations ; but I have been con-
demned to drudgery beyonil sufferance, though
not, thank God, beyond redemption. I have
had a collection of poems by a lady put into my
hands to prejjare them for the press ; which
horrid task, with sowing my corn with my own
hand, a parcel of masons, wrights, plaisterers,
&c. to attenil to, roaming on business tlircmgh
Ayrshire — all this was against me, and the very
first dreadful article was of itself too much for
me.
13th. I have not had a moment to spare from
incessant toil since the 8th. Life, my dear Sir,
is a serious matter. You know by experience
that a man's individual self is a good deal, but
believe me, a wife and family of children, when-
ever you have the honour to be a husband and
a father, will shew you that yonr piesint \m>t\
anxious hours of solicitude are suent en trides.
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 im-
portant object of care thin any concerns what-
ever which centre merely \n the individual. On
the other hand, let no yi.. ng, unmarried, rake-
helly dog auu)ng you, make a song of his pre-
tended liberty and freedom from care. It the
relations we stand in to king, country, kinilied,
and friends, be any thing but the visionary fan-
cies of di'eaming metaphysici ins ; if religion,
virtue, magnanimity, generosity, humanity and
justice be aught but empty sour.ds ; then the
man who may be s.iid to live only for i.thers,
ior the beloved, honourable female whose teiiihT
I lithful embrace endi-ars life, and for tlie help-
Kss little innocents who are to be the men and
women, the worshippers of his God, the sub-
jects of his king, and the support, nay the very
vital existence of his Countky, in the ensuir.<»
ige ; — compile such a man with any fellow
wliatever, who, whether he bu'-tle and pii>li in
l/usiiicss among labourers, cli'iks. slafesmeii ; or
iiliether he roar and rant, and drink anil s:ng
in f.iverns — a fellow over whose grave no one
will breathe a sinjrie heigh-ho, except froia tin
CORRESPCNDENCE.
331
:ol)web-tie of what is called gooil ft-nowship —
wild has no view nor aim but wluit teiii.Iii.iti's
in himself — it" there be any grovelling earthbcirn
wretch nf out speeies, a renegado to cimmxin
sense, who would fain believe that the noble
creature, man, is no better thaa a so:t of fun-
gus, gcneiated out of nothing, nobiidy knows
how, and soon dis-ipating in nothing, nobody
knows where ; such a stupid beast, sueh a
crawling reptile might halanee the foregoing
unexaggerated comparison, but no one else
would have the patience.
Forgive me, my dear Sir, fi-r this long silence.
To miike you amends, I shall send you soon,
and more encouraging still, withe Jt any postage,
one or two rhymeB of my later r.anufacture.
No. CXXIIL
FROM DR. MOORE.
DEAR SIR, Cliff >rJ Stiett, lOth Jiine,l7S<J.
I THA.NK you for the different communica-
tions jcu have made me of your occasional jiro-
iluctions in manuscript, all of which have merit,
and some of them merit of a different kind from
what a|>|iears in tlie poems joii have published.
You ought carefully to preserve all your occa-
sional jiioductioiis, to correct and improve them
at voar leisure : and when you can select as
many of these as will make a vulume, publish
it cither at Edinburgh or London, by subscrip-
tion : On such an occasion, it may be in my
power, as it is very umch in my ini.lination, to
be of service to you.
If I were to olfer an opinion, it would lie, that
in vour future |)ioduetiiiiis yuu slmulil abandon
the Scottish staiza and dialect, and adojit the
measure and language of modern English poetry.
The stanza wli ch you use in iuiitation ol
Christ Kirk on tlit GVcew, with the tiresome
repitition of " that day," is fatiguing to English
ears, and I should think not very uJiceaLile to
Scottish.
All the fine satire and humour of your // hj
Fair is lost on the English ; yet, witiiout more I
trouble to yourself, yuu cou'd have conveyed the |
whole to them. The same istiueof some of ^
your other poems. \n\\^wr Ejiihtle to J. S ,
the Stan/as from that beginning with this iine, ,
" This life, so f.i'b ] understand," to that which
cuds with, " Short while it grieves," are ea-y, '
flowing, gaily philosuphicil, and of lloratiaii ele-
gan ". — the laiigua-e is En.;li>li, witha_/eR- Scot- j
tish vords, and koine of tho>e so lianno lious, |
•:> to add to ihe beauty : lor what poet would
nut prefer ylijniiiin(j to twili_^/it.
I imagine, that by carefuhy keeping, and oc-
casionally poh-hing and c Meeting t.'ii)>e veiscs,
which the iiiu-e dictates, y lU will witliin a year i
or two, have aii'iiUer voluui!- as large as the fii.-t, i
ceady for the ;> ; ami this, without diveitiug |
)oi. from every proper attention 'o the stud)
i.nd jiri-*'!-'" of husl drv, in which I iinder-
;-tand you are very learned, and which I fincy
you will choise to adhere to as a vife, whiK
poetry amuses you troni time to tune as a mis-
tress. The former, like a prudent wife, mu>t
not show ill humour, although you retain a
sneaking kindness to this ugiee;U>le gipsy, and
pay her occasional visits, ivhich in no manner
alienates your lieai t from your lawful lijiouse, bat
tends on the contrary to promote her interest.
I de.-ired 3Ir. Cadell to write to Mr. Creech
to send you a copy of iiiliiro. T!iis perform-
ance has had great success here, but 1 sli.ill l.€
glad to have your opinion of it, bec.iuse I know
you are above saying what you do not think.
1 beg you will offer my best wishes to my
very good friend Mis. Hamilton, who I vimler-
Ptund is your ne.giibour. If she is as happy aa
I wish her, she is ha]ipy enough. Make m)
compliments also to Mrs. Bums, and believe uia
to be, with sincere esteem.
Dear Sir, yours, &c.
No. CXXIV.
TO JIRS. DUNLOP.
Ellidand, 2\st June, 1789,
DEAR MAnAM,
Will you take the effusions, the miserable
effusions of low sp rits, just as they tlow fioin
their bitter spring. I know not of any particu-
lar cause for this worst of all my foes besittiiig
me, but for some tone my soul has been be-
clouded with a thickening atmo»phere of evil
imaginations and gloomy presages.
Monday Evening.
I have just heard .... give a seimon.
He is a man famous for his berievolence, and I
revere him ; but fioiii >ui-li ideas of my Cieator,
good Lord deliver iiie ! Rel gioii my honoured
friend, is surely a siinjile Iui>i!iess, as it cipjaily
concerns the ignorant and the learned, the poor
and the rich. That them is an incomprehensi-
bly great Beipg. to whom I o« e my existence,
am! that he must be intimately accpiainted with
the operations and progress of the inteiiial ma-
chinery, and coiiseijueiit outward dejau tnieiit o(
this creature whicii he has made; these are, I
think, sell -e^ ident propositions. That there is
a I'HuI and eternal distinction between virtue and
vice, and consequently that I ant an aiciiiiiitable
creature ; that from tiie seeming nature ot th"
hiiinan mind, as well as from the evident iiu
perfection, nay, positive injustice, in tiie adnii-
nistration of atliirs, both in the iia'iiral and
movil wollds, there n iR>t be a retn'mrive seeraf
uf eci^tence beyond the grave; u.ast, I thiLlt
32
BURNS* WORKS.
be a!I( wfd by pvrry one who will ^ive himself a
mniuent's n-flei'tinn. I will go faitlier, aiid af-
£iin, that fnmi the siihlimity, excellence. iTi.d
purity of his iliictrine and precepts, unparalleled
by all the a^'^reg.ited wisdom and leurniiig of
many preceding ages, though, to appeurfincc, he
hiiusflf u'as the oliscurest and most illiterate of
our species J therefore, Jesus Christ was from
God.
Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases
the happiness of others, this is my criterion of
goodness ; and whatever itijures society at large,
or any individual in it, this is my measure of
iniipiity.
What think you. Madam, of my creed ? I
tru^t that I have said nothing that will lessen
me in the eye of one, whose good opinion I va-
lue almost next to thi? approbation of my owu
iDiad.
No. CXXV.
FROM MISS J. L-
«R, Lomlim-Ilmse, \2th July, 1 789.
Tuoitr.H I have not the happinesj of being
personally acquainted with you, yet ainonsrst the
nuodHT i>f those who have read and admired
your p'dilications, may I be permitted to trouble
you with this. You nin-t know. Sir, I am
eoniewhat in love with the Muses, though 1
cannot lina-t of any favours they have deigned
to coiifir upo:) me as yet ; my situation in lite
has been v^.y much against me as to that, i
have spent m.i.ic years in and about Ecdefechan
(wl'fe my parents reside), in tlie staticm of a
seivant, anil am now come to Loudon-House,
at present possessed by Mrs. II : she is
daughter to Mis. Dunlup, of Dunlop, whom I
under>taiid you are particularly aeipiainted with.
As I had th'' pleasure of perusing your poems,
I felt a |iaitiality for the author, which I should
not have experienced had you been in moredig-
nilied station. I wrote a lew verses of address
to you, which I di<i not then think of ever pre-
senting : but as fortune seems to have favoured
nie in this, by bringing me into a family by
wloun VDii are well known and much esteemed,
ttiul where pel haps I may have an opportunity
lif seeing you ; I .-h dl, in hopes of your future
frieidHhip, take the hberty to transcribe thuiii.
Fair fa' the honest rustic swain,
The prile o* a' our Scottish plain :
TIiou gi'es us joy to hear thy strd u.
And note sae swett :
Uld RitiHiay's shade revived agaiu
In thee we [f.ect.
Loved Thalia, that delightf i' rau«e,
SeeniM lang shut up as a lecliise;
To all she did hc-r zr.A refuse.
Since Allan's day :
'Till Burns arose, then did she chuse
To grace his lay.
To hear thy sang all ranks desire.
Sac weel you strike the dormant lyre }
Apollo with poetic fire
Thy breast does wai m •
And critics silently ailmire
Thy art to charm.
Csesar and Luath weel can speak,
'Tis pity e'er their gabs should steek,
but into human nature keek.
And knots unravel :
To Lear their lectures once a-week,
Nine miles I'd travel.
Thy dedication to G. H.
An unco bonnie liamespun speech,
Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach
A better lesson.
Than servile bards, who fawn and fieech
Like beggar's messon.
When slighted love becomes your themei
And women'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 whisky gill}
In vain I blunt my feckless quill,
Your fame to raise ;
While echo sounds from ilka hill,
To Burns's praise.
Did Addison or Pope but hear.
Or Sam, that critic most severe,
A ploughhoy sing with throat sae cleaTi
They in a rage,
Their works would a' in pieces inir,
And curse your page.
Sure Milton's eloquence were faint.
The beauties of your veise to paint,
My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint
Their brilhancy ;
Th' attempt would doubtless vex a saint
And weel may me.
The task I'll drop with heart sincere,
To heaven present my humble pray r
That all the blessings ninrtals share,
Mav be by turns,
Di'IxiDtuid by ii indulgent caie
To Hubert Burn*.
CORRESPONDENCE,.
333
Sir, I hrpc yfu will p.iidon my ImUncss iti
this; my liaiul trfiiihlt-s .vliile 1 write to yoii,
conscious of my iiruvorthiness of what I woulil
most tMrnestly solicit, viz. your favour and
fricuilship ; yet ho|iing you will show rourscif
posscsseii of as much generosity and goo<l-nature
as will prevent your expo-ing what may justly
be fouiiil lialile to censure in this measuie, I
•Uiill take the liberty to subscr'be myself,
Sir,
Your most obedient hun Me servant,
J
P. S. — If you would condescend to honour
me with a few lines from your hand, I would
take it as a particular favour, and direct to me
at Loudon-IIouse, near Galsloch.
No. CXXVI
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAJI,
MY DF-ATv SIR, London, blh Avg. 17S9.
Excuse me when I say, that the uncommon
abilities which ynu possess, must render your
correspiinilence very acceptable to any one. I
can assure you. I am particularly proud of your
partialitv, and shall endeavour, by every method
in my power, to merit a coQtiouance of your
politeness.
When you can spare a few moments I should
be i)r()ud of a letter from you, directed for me,
Gerrard Street, Soho.
I cannot express my happiness sufficiently
at the instance of your attachment to my late
incstini.ihle friend. Bob Fergus.son, who was
partlcuhiily intimate with niystif anil R'latiims.*
While I rcollect with pleasure his extraordiii.iry
talents, and nianv amiable qualities, it atlonls
me the greatest consolation, that I am hoiuiured
with the correspondence of his successor in na-
tional simplicity and genius. That Mr. IJurns
has refined in the art of poetry, must readily be
admitted ; but notwithstanding many favouiablc
representations, I am yet to leain that he in-
herits his convivial powers.
There was such a richness of conversation,
such a p'enitude of tancy and attraction in him,
that when I call the happy period of our inter-
c«)Uise tc my memory, 1 feel myself in a state of
deliiium. I was tben younger than him by
eight or fen years ; but his manner was so fcli-
eitiius, that he enraptured every person around
him, and infused into the hearts of the youug
and old, the spirit and animation which operated
•n his own mind.
I am, dear Sir, yours, &c.
• '1 he erection of a monument to Ivim. \
No, CXXVII.
TO MR. cunmngha:\i,
IN ANSWER TO TME FOREGOINa
MV DEAR SIR,
The hurry of a farmer in this pirticular sea-
son, and the indolence of ft po^-t at all times and
seasons, will, I hope, phad my excuse for ne
glecting so long to answer your obliging leltet
of the 5th of August.
That you have done well in quittirig your la-
borious concern in . . . .1 di) n it doubt ;
the weighty reasons you mention were, I hope,
very, arid ileservedly indeed, weighty ones, and
your health is a matter of the last imjiortance ,
but whether the remaining projjrietors of the
pajier have also done well, is whit I much
doubt. The , so fir as I was a
reader, exhibited such a brilli mcy of point, such
an elegance of paragra|)h, and such a variety of
intelligence, that I can hardly conceive it possi-
ble to continue a daily paper in the same degree
of excellence ; but if there was a mm who had
abilities equal to the t isk, that man's assistance
the proprietors have lust.
When I received your letter I was transcri-
bing fur my letter to the magistrates
of the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their per-
•i.ission to place a tomb-stone over poor Fergus-
son, and their edict in consequence of my peti-
tion ; but now I shall send them ti) . . . .
Poor Fergusson ! If there be a life be-
yond the grave, which I trust there is ; and ii
there be a good God presiding over all nature,
which I am sure there is ; thou art now eiijuy-
ing existence in a glorious world, where worth
of the heart alone is distinction in the man ;
where riches, deprived of all their p'casure-pur-
chasiiig powers, return to their native sordid
niatfui : where titles and honours are the disre-
giriL'd reveries of an idle dream; and where
that heavy virtue, which is the negative conse-
quence of steady dulneSs, and those thoughtless,
thoiigti often destructive f<illies. which are the
unavoidable aberrations of frail hum iii nature,
will be thrown into equal oblivion as if they had
never been !
Adieu, my dear Sir ! so soon as your pre!>ert
views and schemes are concentred in an aim, 1
shall be glad to hear from you : as your wel
fire and happiness is by no means a subject ia
dilTereut to
Yours, &C.
334
BURNS' WORKS.
Vo. CX XVIII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
ElUsland, Gth September, 1789.
DEAR MADAM,
1 HAVE mentioned in my last, my appoint-
ment to the excise, and the l)iith of little P'lank ;
who, by the bye, I trust will be no discredit to
t! e honouralile name of Wallace, as he has a
fine manly countenance, and a figure that might
do credit to a little fellov/ 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 signal to take out the pia of Stirling
bridge.
1 had some time ago an epistle, part poetic,
and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J,
L ; a very ingenious, but modest compo-
sitifm. I should have written her as she re-
:^ufsted, but fin- the hurry of this new business.
1 have heard of her and her compositions in this
country : and I am happy to add, always to the
honour of her character. The fact is, I know
not well how to write to her ; I should sit
down to a sheet of paper that I knew not how
to stain. I am no daub at fine drawn letter-
wi iting ; .nnd except when prompted by friend-
ship or gratitudi', or which hap])en< extremely
rartly, inspired by the I\Iuse(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 melancholy concern for the state
of your mind at present.
AVould I could write you a letter of comfort ! I
would sit down to it with as much pleasure, as
I would to write an epic poem of my own com-
position, that should equal the Iliud, Religion,
my dear fiiend, is the true comfort ! A strong
];eisuasion in a future state of existence ; a pro-
position so obviously probable, that, setting re-
velation aside, every nation and people, so far as
investigation has reached, for at least near four
thousand years, have, in some mode or other,
tiniily believed it. In vain would we reascm and
pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a
very daring pitch ; but when I reflected, that 1
was ojiposing the most ardent wishes, and the
most darling hopes of good men, and (lying in
the face of all human belief, in all ages, 1 was
thiK keil at :<iy own conduct.
I know not whether I have ever sent you the
foIloM ing lines, or if you have ever seen them ;
But it is one of my favourite quotations, which
I keep constantly by me in my j)rogresg through
lilie, in the language of the 'look of Job,
" Against the day of battle and of war," —
tjioken of religion.
" 'Tis this, my friend, ttat streaks ourmoining
bright,
'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night.
When wealth forsakes us, and when friendi
are few ;
When friends are faithless, or when foes pur
sue ;
'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the
smart.
Disarms affliction or repels his dart :
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise,
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless
skies.'
I have been very busy with Zehico. The
Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion
of it; and I have been revolvmg in my mind
some kind of critiiisms on novel writing, but
it is a depth beyond my research. I shall how-
ever digest my thoughts on the subject as well
as I can. Zehico is a most sterling perfor-
mance.
Farewell ! A. Dieu, le hon Dieu, je tout
commende /
No. CXXIX.
FROM DR. BLACKLOCK.
Edinhurc/h, 2\th Atigvst, 1789.
Dear Burns, thcu brother of my heart,
Both for thy virtues and thy art :
If art it may be call'd in thee,
Which nature's bounty, large and free,
With pleasure on thy breast diifuses.
And warms thy soul with all the IMusea.
Whether to laugh with easy grace,
Tl;y numbers move the sage's face,
Or bid the softer passions rise,
And ruthless souls with grief surprise,
'Tis nature's voice distinctly felt,
Through thee her organ, thus to melt.
Most anxiously I wish to know,
With thee of late how matters go ;
IIciw keeps thy much-loved Jean lier health?
What promises thy farm of wealth ?
Whether the Muse persists to smile,
And all thy anxious cares beguile?
Whether bright fancy keeps alive?
And how thy darling infants thrive ?
For me, with grief and sickness speat>
Since I my j(Miiney homeward bent,
.Spirits depiess'd no more I mourn.
Hut vigour, life, and health return
No mine to gloomy thoughts a prey,
I sleep all night, and live all day ;
By turns my book and friend enjoy,
.\w\ thus my circling hours employ;
Happy while yet these hours remain.
If Burns could juiu the cheerful train*
CORRESPONDENCE.
335
With wo iteil zeal, sincere and fervent,
Ba!ut« once mure his humble servant,
TIIO. BLACKLOCK.
No. CXXX.
TO DR. BLACKLOCK
Enhland2\st October, 1789.
VVoh", but your letter inaile ine vauntie !
Anrl are yc hale, and wccl, and cantie ?
I keu'd it still your wee bit jauntie,
Wad hrina: ve to ■.
Lord send you aye as \veel's I want ye,
And then ye'll do.
The ill-thief blaw the Heron south !
And never drink be near liis drouth !
He tauld mysel by word o' mouth,
He'd tak in« letter ;
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth,
And bade nae better
But aiblins honest Master Heron,
H,id at the time some dainty fair onei
To w<ire his theologic care on,
And holy study ;
And tired o' sauls to waste his lear on,
E'ea tried the body. •
Bnt what d'ye tjink, my trusty fier,
I'm turn'd a ganger — Pea'-e be here !
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear,
Ye'll now disdain me,
And then my fifty pounds a-year
Will little gain me.
Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damics,
V\ iia by Castalia's winiplin streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty linibies,
Ye ken, ye ken,
That Strang necessity supn-me is
'iMang sons o' men.
I hae a wife and twa wee laddies,
They maun bae brose and brats o' dnddies :
Ye kea yoursel my heart right proud is,
1 needna vacnt.
But I'll sned besoms — thtaw saugh woodies,
Before they want.
Lord he!]) me through this warld o' care !
I'm w.-ary Mck o't late and air 1
Not but I hae a richer shaie
Than mony ithers ;
But why SQOuia ae man better fare.
And a' men brilhers !
• Mr. Heron, author of the History of Scotland ;
and among various other works, of a respectable l.fe
of our poet hnnselt
Come Firm Resolve take thou toe vaa
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man !
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er waa
A laily fiir :
^^^la does the utmost that lie can.
Will whyles do mair*
But to conclude my silly rhyme,
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time),
To make a happy fire-side clime
To weans and wife.
That's the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.
My compliments to sister Beckie ;
And eke the same to honest Lucky ;
I wat she is a dainty chuckle.
As u'er tread clay i
And gratefully my gude auld cnckie,
I'm your's for aye.
ROBERT BURNS.
No. CXXXL
TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, Cause.
sm, ElUsland, Oct. 16, 1789.
Big with the idea of this important day • at
Friars Carse, I have watehed the elements and
skies in the full persuasion that they would an-
nounce it to the astoni>.hed world by some pheno-
mena of terrific portent. — Ye>ten.ight until a
very late hour did I wait with anxious horror,
for the appearance of some Comet firing half the
sky ; or aerial armies of sanguinary Scandina-
vians, darting athwart the startled heavens ra-
pid as the ragged lightning, and hor.id as those
convulsions of nature that bury nations.
The elements, however, seem to take the mat-
ter very quietly : they did not even usher in
this morning with triple suns and a shower o
blood, symbolical of the three potent heroes, and
the mighty claret-shed of the day. — For me, as
Thomson in his Winter says of the storm — I
shall " Hear astonished, and astonished sing,"
The whistle and the man ; I sing
The man that won the whistle, &e.
No. cxxxn.
TO THE SAME.
SIR,
I WISH from my inmost soul it were in mj
power to give you a more substantial gratifica-
• The day on which " the Whistle" was contended
<or.
330
BURNS WORKS.
tion and return for all your <roodness to the poet,
than tianscriliin^ a fi-w of Iiis idle rhymt'S. —
Hoivever, " an uld soti'^," though to a provfrh
an instance of in-iirnificance, is generally the
only coin a poet h.i« to pay with.
If my poems which I have tianscrihetl, and
mean still to traiiscrihe into your hook, were
equal to the fjrateful respect and high esteem I
bear for the gentleman to whom I present them,
they would he the tinest poems in the language.
—As they are, tiipy will at least he a testimony
with what aiueerity I have the honour to be.
Sir,
Your devoted humble servant.
No. cxxxiri.
TO MR. ROBERT ALN'SLIE.
Ellisland, Nov. I, 1789.
MY tiFAR FRIFyn,
I HAD written yon long ere now, could I have
gue.ssed where to find you, for I am sure you
have more good sense than to waste the precious
days of vacation time in the dirt of business and
Edinburgh. — Wherever you are, God bless you,
ami lead you not into temjitation, but deliver
vou from evil !
I do not know if I have informed you that I
am now appointed to an excise division, in the
middle of v.hich my house and farm lie. In this
I was extrer:iely lucky. Without ever having
been an cx|)cctant, a» they call their journeymen
excisemen, I was directly planted down to all in-
tents and purjioses an officer of excise ; theie to
flourish and bring furth fruits — worthy of re-
pentance.
I know not how the word exciseman, or still
more opjirobricins, ganger, will sound in your
ears. I too have seen the day when my audi-
tory nerves would have fdt very delicately on
this subject; but a wife and children are things
which have a wonderful power in blunting these
kind of seiisations. Filty poutids a year for
life, and a provislim fur wid.nvs and orphans,
you will allow is no had settlement for a paet.
^or the iguiiminy of the profession, I have the
encouragement which I once heard a recruiting
sergeant give to a numerous, if not a resjicc-
tahle audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock.
— " Gentiemcn, for your further ami better en- |
couragenu'iit, I can assure you that our regiment
is the nu)st blackguard c(Hps under the crown,
Ind consecpu'utly with us an honest fellow has
■Jie surest chance for preferment."
You ui'ed not doubt that I find several very
unpleasant ami disagreeable circumstances in my
Ijusiness ; but I am tired with and disgusted
at the language of complaint against the evils of.
life. Hum in existence in the most favourable
situations does not abound with pleasures, and
Qas its inconveniences aud ills ; capricious foul- j
ish man mistakes .hese inconveniences atr. il'it
as if they were the peculiar pro])eity oi'his par
ticular situation ; and hence th.it eternal fickle-
ness, that love of change, which has ruinerl, and
daily does ruin many a fine fellow, as well as
many a blockhead ; and is alnmst, without ex-
ception, a constant source of disappointment aud
misery.
I long to bear from you how you go on — not
so much in business as in life. Are you j)retty
well satisfied with your own exertions, anil to-
lerably at ease in your internal reflections?
'Tis much to be a great character as a lawyer,
but beyond cimiparison more to he a great cha-
racter 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.
No. CXXXIV.
TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY.
SIR, 9//j Decenihrr, 1789.
I HAVE a good while had a wish to troulile
you with a letter, and harl certainly done it lung
eie now — hut for a luimiliating soMiethiog that
throws cold water on the resolution, as if one
should say, " You have found Mr. Giaham a
veiy powerful and kind friei;d indeed, and tliat
nteiest he is so kindly taking in your conceins,
you ought by e\'ery thing in your power to keep
alive and cherish." Now though, since Odd
has thought projier to make one powerful and
another helpless, the connexion of ohliger ai.d
obliged is all fair ; and though my being niuier
your patronage is to me higliK- hipuuiiral) e, vet,
Sir, allow me to Hatter ni\self, that, as a poet
and an htmest man, you first interesterl vourself
in my welfare, and principally as such sldl, you
permit me to ap]U()ach you.
I have found the excise business go on a great
deal smoother with me than I expected ; owing
a good (leal to the generous fiienilship of i\Ir.
.Mitchell, my collector, and the kind ass stance
of Mr. Find later, my supervisor. I dare to be
honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find
my hurried life greatly inimical to my corres-
pondence with the JNluses. Their visits to me,
indeed, and I believe to most of their ac(|uaint-
ance, like the visits of good angels, are short and
far between ; but I meet them now and then ai
I jog through the hills of iS'ithsdale, just as 1
used to do on the banks of Ayr. 1 take the li-.
herty to enclose you a few bagatelles, all of tliem
the juoductions of my leisure thoughts in nijt
excise rides.
If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose,
the antif|uarian, you will enter into any huUKUir
that is in the verses on him. I'erhaps you h.ive
seen them before, ns I sent them to a London
paper. Though I dare say jrou have nooc
COHKF.S^PONDMNCr:.
of tb.c Rolemn-lciic;uc-and-covemnt fire, wliidi
«h(>(ie so c()tis|iiiui)iis in L<iril Gi'orgf Gdrdon,
Wiii the KiliiKiinock \ve;ivtTs, yet I think you
must hiive hoard nl Dr IM'Gill, one of the cler-
gymen of Ayr, and his heretical book. God
htl() liiin, poor man ! Though he is one of tlie
worthitst, as well as one of the ahlcst of the
whole pr'cstliood of the Kirk of Scotland, in
every sense of that amhigumis term, yet the poor
Doi'tor and his nunieious family are in immi-
tient danger of being tliniwn out to the mercy
iif the winter-winds. The enclosed ballad on
that business is, I confess, too local, but I
laughed myself at some conceits in it, though
I am convinced in my conscience, that there are
a good many he.ivy stanzas in it too.
The election ballad, as you will see, alludes
to the present canvass in our string of boroughs.
I do i;ot believe there will be such a hard run
match in the whole general election.*
I am too little a man to have any political
attachments ; I am deeply indebted to, and
have the warmest veneration for, individuals
of both parties ; but a man who h is it in his
power to be the father of a country, and who
is a character that one cannot
fjieak of with patience.
Sir J. J. does " what man can do,'
I doubt bis fate.
but yet
No. CXXXV.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
ElUsland, \Sth December, 1789.
Manv thanks, dear Madam, for your shcet-
ful of Rhymes. Though at jirescnt I am below
the veriest prose, yet from you every thing
pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of
a diseased nervous system ; a system, the state
of which is most conducive to our happiness —
or the most productive of our misery. For
now near three weeks I have been so ill with
a nervous head-ache, that I have been obliged
to give up, for a time, my excise hooks, being
scarce able to lift my head, nmch less to rvJc
once a-week over ten muir parishes. What is
Man ! To-day, in the luxuriance of health, ex-
ulting in the enjoyment of existence ; in a few
diys, pernaps in a few hours, loaded with con-
scious painful being, counting the tardy pace of
the lingering moments by tlie repercussions of
anguish, and refusing or denied a comforter.
Day follows night, and night comes after day,
• This alludps to the contest for the borough cA
Diimfnes, beiwcen the Puke of (Jueciuitjcrry's iiitereit
»iid that of Sir James Johnstons.
only to curse him willi life whi.-h gives hitn lu
plei-ure ; and yet the awful, <lark teriiiii\,iti«a
of that life, is a sontething at which he rccoilo.
" Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity
Di-close the secret
Wlidt 'tis you art, ami we must shnrtli/ he !
'tis no matter :
A little time will make us learn'd as you are."
Can it be possible, that when I resign this
frail, feverish being, I shall still fitid myself ia
conscious existence ! When the last g,a>]) of
agony has announcetJ, that I am no mere to
those that knew me, und the few who loved
me : when the cold, slitTeiied, unconscious,
ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to be
the prey of unsightly re])tiles, and to become in
time a trcxlden clod, shall I yet he warm in life,
seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed ? Ye ve-
nerable sages, and holy flamens, is there proba-
bility in your conjectuiKs, trnlh in your storiei
of another world beyond death ; or are they all
alike, baseless visions, and f.ibricated fihles ? If
there is another life, it must be only for the just,
the benevolent, the amiable, and the hum i;ie ;
what a flattering idea, then, is the world to
come? Would to God 1 as firmly believed it,
as I ardently wish it! There I should meet an
aged parent, now at rest from the many bnlTet-
ings of an evil world, against whicii lie so lung
and so bravely struggled. There should I meet
the friend, the disinterested friend of my early
life ; the man who rejoiced to see me, becaus*
he loved me and could serve me. .Muir ! thy
weaknesses were the aberrations of human na-
ture, but thy heart glowed with every thing ge-
nerous, manly, and nobie ; and if ever emana-
tion from the All-gooil Heing animated a humaa
form, it was thine ! — There should I with
speechless agony of rapture, again lecognlze my
lost, my ever dear Alaiy! whose bosom was
fraught with truth, lionour, constancy, aud love.
My Mary, dear departed shade !
Where is thy place of heavenly rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laiil ?
Hear'st thou the groans that ;ond his breast .'
Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of character* I
I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy re-
velation of blissful scenes of existence bejoud
lieath and the grave, is not one of the many
impositions which time alter time have been
palmed on crediilovis maidxind. I trust that in
thee, " shall all the families of the earth be
blessed," by In-ing yet counecteil togetiiei in
better world, \ehere every tie that bounil iieart
to heart, in this state of existence, shall be, far
Iwyond our present conceptions, moie enilearing
I am a good deal inclined to tliink with thiiwi
who maintain, that what are calleil nervous aC
fections are in fact diseases ot tlie mind. I cikF.-
not reason, I cannot think ; and but to you I
would nut vcntute to write any thiug above an
V
33S
BURNS' WORKS.
onlcr to a cobbler. You have felt too much of
the ills of !ife not to sympathize with a dir^eased
wretch, who has impaired more than half of any
faculties he posse>ised. Your goodness will ex-
cuse this distracted scrawl, which the writer
dare scarcely read, and which he would throw
mto tlie fire, were he able to write any thing
better, or indeed any thing at all.
Ilumour told nie something of a son of yinirs
who was returned fjom the East or West In-
dies, If you have gotten news of James or An-
thony, it was cruel in you not to let me know ;
as J 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
niucli pleasure as to hear of any good thing be-
falling my honoured friend.
If you have a minute's leisure, take up vour
pen in pity to la pauvre miserable. R. li.
No. CXXXVI.
TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR.
SIR,
The following circumstance has, I believe,
been omitted in the statistical account, trans-
mitted to you, of the parish of Duuscore, in
Nithsdale. I hcg leave to send it to you, be-
cause it is new and may be useful. How far it
is deseiving of a place in your patriotic publica-
tion, you are the hest judge.
To store the minds of the lower classes with
useful knowledge, is certainly of verv great im-
portance, both to them as individuals, and to
society at large. Giving them a turn for read-
ing aiul reflection, is giving them a source of
innocent and laudable amusement ; and besides
raises them to a more dignified degree in the
scale of rationality. Impressed with this idea,
a gentleman in tliis parish, Robert Riddel, Esq.
of Glciiriddel, set oa foot a species of circulat-
ing liberary, on a plan so simple as to be prac-
ticable in any corner of the country ; and so
useful, as to deserve the notice of every country
geiitlenian. who thinks the improvement of that
part of his own species, whom chance has
thrown into the humble jvalks of the peasant
and the aitizan, a matter worthy of his atten-
tion.
Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants,
and fuming neighbours, to form themselves
into a society f<ir the purpose of having a library
among iheniselvcs. They cnteied into a legal
engagen:ent to abide by it for three years ; with
a saving clause or two, in case of rijnoval to a
dis';;i!ce, or cf death. Each member, at his
entry, paid five thiilings, and at each of their
meetings, which weie (leld every fourth Satur-
day, sixpence more. With their cntry-nu)ney,
and the credit which they took on the faith of
their future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock
of books at the commencement. What authon
they were to purchase, was a4ways decided by
the majority. At every meeting, all the books,
tender certain fines and forfeitures, by way oi .
penalty, were to be produced ; and the mem-
bers had their choice of the volumes in rotation.
He whose name stood, fur that ni^ht, first on
the list, had his choice of what volume he pleas-
ed in tlie 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 preceding meet
ing, was last at this ; he who had been sca.nd
was 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 : and 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 patron-
age, what with benefactions 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 li-brary, were
Ulair's Sermons, liuhertson s Hist ry of Scot-
liind, Hume's History of the i>tuurts, the Sj>tc-
tiito-, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, Lmuiyer,
Observer, Man of Feelinff, Man iftlte World,
Chrtjsal, Don Quixotte, Joseph Andrtics, ^x,
A peasant who can read, and enjoy such hooks,
is certainly a much superior being to his neigh-
bour, who perhaps stalks beside his team, very
little removed, except in shape, from the brute
he drives.
NVisLing your patriotic exertions t'neir so
much merited success, I am,
Sir,
Your humble scrvarit,
A PEASANT.*
• Tlie above is extracted from the tliird volume of
Sir John Sinclair's Statistics, p. .•)9H. — It was eiidoseU
to Sir John by Mr. Riddel himself m the following
letter, also printed there; —
" Sin John,
" I enclose you a letter, written by Mr. Burns as an
addition to ihe account of Dunsoore parisli. It con-
tains an account of a small library which he was so
pood (at my desire), as to oet on foot, in the barony of
Monklaiul, or Friar's Car^e, /ii this parish. As its
utihty has been felt, particularly among the younger
class of people, I think, that if a similar plan were ,.«-
tablishcd, ill the dillerent Ilari^hcs of s-cotlaml, it
woiilil tend greatly to the sjcedy impiovrmcnt of the
tenantry, trades people, and work people. Mr. thinis
was so (jood as to take llic whole ihaige of this small
coiicciii. He was treasurer, librari.m, ami censor to
this little society, who will lon^' have a grateful sen*
of Ills )iublie spirit and exertions for their improvj-
nieiit and information.
" 1 have the honour to be, Sir Jo'm,
" Yours most sineirelv,
" HOUliUT niDDKL.
To Sir Jith-f, Sinclair,
of Uibiirr, hurt.
CORRESPONDENCE.
339
LETTERS, 1790.
No. CXXXVII.
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS.
Ellibland, 1 U/i January/, 1790.
DTAR BKOTHER,
I MEAN to take advantn^e of tlie frank, though
I have not in my present frame of mind much
appetite for exertion in writing. i\Iy nerves
are in a . . . . state. I feel that horrid
hypochondria pervading every atom of both
body and soul. This farm has undone my en-
joyment of myself. It is a ruinous affiir on all
hands. But let it go to . . . ! I'll fight it
out and be off with it.
\\'e have gotten a set of very decent players
here just now. I have seen them an evening
or two. David Campbell, in Ayr. wrote to me
by the manager of the company, a Mr. Suther-
land, who is a man of apparent worth. On
New-year-day evening I gave him the following
prologue, which he sj)outed to his audience with
Bi)plause.
PROLOGUE.
No song nor dance I bring from yon great
city.
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the
pity :
Tliough, by the bye, abroad why will you roam ?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home ;
But not for panegyric I appear,
I come to wish you all a good new year !
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story:
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bide me
say,
" You're one year older this important day,"
It u-i.\er ton — he hinted some suggestion,
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the ques-
tion ;
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink,
lie bade me on you press this one word —
" THINK !"
Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hojie
and spirit,
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit.
To you the dotard has a deal to say,
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way !
lie bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle.
That the first blow is eve ■ half the battle ;
1 hat though some by the sxirt may try to snatch
him,
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him,
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.
Last, though not least in love, ye youthful fair,
.\ngelic forms, hi-jh Heaven's peculiar care !
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled
brow,
Aud humlily begs you'll mind the important —
NOW 1 I
To crown you? hapiiiness, he n^tcs v /ur eave,
And offers, bliss to give and to iLy.-ei>e.
For our sincere, though haply weak endcru
vours,
With grateful pride we own your many favours:
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it,
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.
I can no more — If once I was clear of this
. . . farm, I should respire more at case.
No. CXXXVIIL
FROM WILLIAM BURNS, THE POETS
BROTHER.
DEAR BROTHER, Neiocastlc, 2i^th Jan. 1790.
I WROTE you about six weeks ago, and I have
expected to hear from you every post since, but
I suppose your excise business which you hinted
at in your last, has jirevented you from writing.
By the bye, when and how have you got into
the excise ; and what division have you got
about Dumfries? These questions please an-
swer in your next, if more itnjjortant matter do
not occur. But in the mean time let me have
the letter to John Murdoch, which Gilbert wrote
me you meant to send ; enclose it in your's to
me, and let me have them as soon as possible,
for I intend to sail for London, in a fortnight,
or three weeks at farthest.
You promised n)e when I was intending to
go to Ediidjurgh, to write mc some instructions
about iiehaviour in companies rather above my
station, to which I might bo eventually intro-
duced. As I may be introduced into such com-
panies at Murdoch's, or ou his account, when I
go to London, I wish you would write me some
such instructions now : I never had more need
of them, for having spent little of mv time in
company of any sort since I came to Newcastle,
I have almost forgot the common civilities of
life. To these instructions pray add some of a
moral kind, for though (either through the
strength of early imjjressions, or the frigidity of
my constitution), 1 have hitherto withstood the
temptation to those vices, to which voung iff
lows of my station and time of liie are so mucn
,1(1(1 icted, yet, I do not know if my virtue will
be able to withstand the more powerful tem|)ta-
tlcns of the metro|)olis : yet, through God's as-
sistance and your instructions, I hope to wea-
ther the storm.
Give tlie compliments of the season and my
love to my sisters, and all the rest of your fa-
mily. Tell Gilbert, the first time you writd
him, that I am well, and that I will write hii»
either when I sail or when I arrive at London.
I am, &c
V/ B.
S40
TURNS' WORKS.
No. CXXXIX.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
EUhland, 25lh January, 170a
Ir has been owing to uuiemittiiig hurry of
business that I have not written to you, Ma-
diini, long ere now. My health is greatly but-
ter, anil I now begin once more to share in sa-
tisfaction and enjoynient with the rest of my
felliiw-creatures.
I\Iany thanks, my much esteemed friend, for
your kind letters ; but wl y will you make nie
run the risk of being contemptible and merce-
nary in my own eyes I When I pique myself
in rfry independent spirit, I hope it is neither
poetic license^ nor poetic rant ; and I am so
flattered with the honour you have done me,
in making me your compeer in friendship and
friendly correspondence, that I cannot without
pain, and a degree of mortification, be reminded
of the real inequality between our situations.
Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear
Madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not
only your anxiety about his fate, but my own
esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly
young fellow, in the little I had of his acquiint-
anie, has interested me deeply in his fditiiiie*.
Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Ship-
wreck, which you so much admire, is no more.
After weathering the dreadful catastrophe he so
feelingly describes in his poem, and after wea-
thering many hard gales of fortune, he went to
the bottom with the Aurora frigate ! I forget
what part of Scotland had the honour of giving
him birth, but he was the son of obscurity and
misfortune.* He was one of those daring ad-
venturous spirits, which Scotland beyimd any
other country is remarkable for producing.
LiMie does the fond mother think, as she hangs
delighted over the sweet little leech at her bo-
som, where the poor fellow may hereafter wan-
der, and what may be his fate. 1 remember a
stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which, not-
withstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly
to the heart . —
» Falcnncr was in earlv life a seaboy, to use a worti
of Shakspeare, on board a man-of-war, in whiih cap,v
city he iittracfed the notice of ('aMi])bpll, the author of
tlie satire nn Dr. Jrhnson, entitled LfxiphntKS, then
purser nf the sliip. r,;mpl)cll took him as his servant,
and deli'^lited Ml civini; hirn instnietion ; and when
Kalconcr aftiTV/ards aeipiired relel)rity, boasted of him
as his scholar. 'I'lie editor had this inf.'inialif.n from
a surgeon of a man-of-war. in 1777, who knew l)olh
Campbell and l/il>i)iier,an.l who himself perished soon
after hv shipwieck, on Ihi' coast of America.
Thont'h the death of Fileoner hap\ieiied so lately a»
17:0 or 1771, vet in the l)iot;raphv jinfixed by Dr. An-
derson to his works, in the eonili'.etc edition of the
P-icts iifC.ruit Ilrihiin, it is said, " Of the fi.mdy,
birtli-ii'laef, and idiieation of Wiliiam l-'aleoner, there
are no memorials.'' On the aiiihority alrcadv Riven,
it may be mentioned, that he wiis a native of one of
the to\Tnson the eoiist of I'ife, and that his parents,
who had siilVered some mi fortunes, reo oveil to one
•)( the sea-i)orls of Kn^lanil. where thev both diid,
toon ifler, of an ei<idc-mic fever, leaving poor Fal-
roner, then a boy, forlorn and destitute. In nmsc-
giieneeof whiih he entered on board a man-of-war.
These la»t circumstances arc liowev ;r less cerUiiii. —
Chomi'.k.
" Little did my tnotTier think,
That day she cradled me,
What land 1 was to travel in,
Or what death I should die."
Old Scottis.li sonea are, V9U know, a favour,
ite study and pursuit 01 mine ; and now I an"
on that subject, allow me to give you two
stanzas of another old simple ballad, which 1
am sure will please you. The catastrophe o\
the piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting
her fate. She concludes with this pathetic
wish :
*' O that my father had ne'er on me smiled ;
O that my mother had ne'er to me sung !
O that my cradle had never been rock'd ;
But that I had died when I was young !
0 that the grave it were my bed ;
My blankets were my winding sheet ;
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a' ;
And O sae sound as 1 should sleep !"
1 do not remember in all my reading to have
met with any thing more truly the language of
misery, than the exclamation in the last lir.«.
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 god-son* the small-pox. They ar«
rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate.
By the way, I cannot help congratulating you
on his looks and spirit. Every person who
sees him, acknowledges hiin to be the tinest,
handsomest child he has ever seen. I am my-
self delighted with the manly swell of his little
ciiest, and a certain miniature dignity in the
carriage of his head, and glance of his fine black
eye. which promise the undaunted gallantry of
an independent mind.
I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but
time forbids. I promise you poetry until you
are tired of it, next time I have the honour of
assuring you how truly I am, &c.
No. CXL.
FROM INIR. CUNNINGIL\1SI.
2Sth Jamiary, 1790.
In some instances it is reckoned unpardonable
to quote any one's own n-oi ds ; but the value 1
have for your friendship, nothing can more truly
or more elegantly express, than
" Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear."
Having written to you twiw without hayiaf
The br rJ'» second son, Krancia
CORRESPONDENCE.
34.
aeard from you, 1 am apt to think my letters
liiive miscairifil. My conjecture is only framed
upon the chapter of accidents turnini; up against
nic, as it too often does, in the trivi;-.!, and I
(Kiv U'illi truth add, the more important aflairs
cf life : but I sliali continue occa>ional!y to in-
form you what is goinsif on among the circle of
your fiiends in these parts. In these davs of
merriment, I have frequently heard your name
vrocliiimcil at the jovial hoard — under the roof
of our hospitable friend at Stenhouse Mills, there
were no
" Lingering moments numberM with care."
I saw your Address to the New-year in the
Dumfiies Journal. Of your productions I shall
gay nothing, but my acquaintance allege that
when your name is mentioned, which eveiy man
of celebrity must know often happens, I am the
champion, the Mendoza, against all snarling cri-
tics, and narrow-minded reptiles, of whom a Jem
on this planet do crawl.
With best compliments to your wife, and her
black -eyed sister, I remain, yours, &c.
does me the honour to mention me so kinrlly ii
his works, please f;ive him my best thanks fol
the copy of his book — 1 shall write him, my first
leisure hour. I like his poetry much, but 1
think his style in pruse quite astouisliing.
No. CXLI.
TO MR. PETER HILL.
EWsland, Feb. 2. 1790.
No ! I will not say one word about apolo-
gies or excuses for not writing — I am a jionr,
rascally ganger, condemned to gallop at least
200 miles every week to inspect dirty ponds
jnd yeasty barrels, and where can I find time
to wiite to, or importance to interest any body?
The uphraidings of my conscience, nay the up-
braidings of my wife, have persecuted me on
your account these two or three months past. —
I wish to Goil I was a great man, that my cor-
respondence might throw light upon you, to
let the world see what you really are ; and then
I would make vour fortune, witiiout putting my
hand in my pocket for you, which, like all other
great men, I suppose I would avoid as much as
possible. What are you doing, and how are >'i>u i
doing ? Have you lately seen any of my few
fiiends? What is become of the BOiioroH
REFuiiM, or how is the fate of my poor name*
sake M.idemoiselle Burns decided ? O tnan !
but for thee and thy selfish appetites, and dis-
honest artifices, that beaiiteous f(Min, and thiit
once innocent and still ingenuous mind might
have shone conspicuous and lovely in the faith-
ful wife, and the affectionate mother , and shall
the unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have
no claim on thy hum iiiity !
1 saw huely in a Review, some extracts from
1 new |)oem, called The Village Curate ; send
t me. I wa t likewise a cheap copy of The
World. Mr. VriHstrong, the young poet, who
Your book came safe, and I am going to trou-
ble vou with farther commissions. I call it
troubling you — because I want only, books ;
the cheapest way, the best ; so you may have
to huut for them in tiie evening auctions. I
want Smollett's Works, for the sake of his in-
comparable humour. I have already Roderick
Random, and Humphrey Clinker Peregrine
Pickle, Launeelot Greaves, and Frederick, Count
Fathom, I still want ; but as I said, the veriest
ordinary copies will serve me. I am nice -only
in the ajjpearance of my poets. I forget the
price Oi' Cowjier's Poems, but, I believe, I umst
have them. I saw the other day, proposals for
a publication, entitled, " Banks's new and corn-
plet Christian's Family Bible," printed for C.
Cooke, Paternoster-row, London. — He promises
at least, to give in the work, I think it is three
hundred and odd engravings, to which he has
put the names of the first artists in London.* —
You will know the character of the performance,
as some numbers of it are 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 leisure mi-
nute, and trust me, you shall in future have no
reason to complain of my silence. The dazzling
perplexity of novelty v/ill dissipate and leave me
to pursue my course in the quiet path of me-
thodical routine.
No. CXLIL
TO MR. W. N I COLL.
MV DEAR SIR, EllisUind, Feb, 9, 1790.
That d-mned mare of yours is dead. I
would freely have given her price to have saved
» Perhaps no set of men more efrcctually avail them,
selves of the easy creclu'ity of the public, tii m 3 cer.
talnilcseriptiou ori'aterncster-rowbooksi-ller*. Three
hundred and odd cngra^ inps ! — and hy t\\ejir.st a Hit,
in London, too! No wonder that Burns was dazzk-.l
hy the splendour of the promise. It i- no umusimI
ihinR for this class of impostors to itluftraie ;lie UJij
Scr'tptwes by plates originally er-Kraved lor the Hit-
lorii (if Knslanil, ami I have aetually seen siibjeels ile-
siijr.cd hy oui celebrated artisl Sto'haid, from CfarLt.ta
IJii r/im^e iin(\ Ibe Xiwelixt's .1/«^rt;i«f, c inverted, with
inereibble dexterity by the-r Do >ksellint;-l!rcslaw»,
into Si'rifttur.il einbttlisliinfnts ! One of tlie-e vendeii
of ' t'aniilv Ibbles' lately ralle I on nie, to consult me
professiiinally, about a folio engraving he brought
with him.— It repiesented MoNs. Bukkov, sealed,
eoiiioDiplalinij various groups of animals that siir.
niiindol bl'ii : He merely »'-bcd, he said, to be in
formed, whether by uncloutUine the NaluraLst, ana
342
BURNS WORKS.
her : she has vexed me beyond description. In-
d'.bted as 1 was to your fjoodness beyond what
I can ever repay, I eagerly grasped at your of-
fer to have the mare with me. That I might
at lea^t shew my readiness in wishing to be
grateful, I took every care of her in my power.
She was never crossed for riding above half a
score of times by me or in my keeping. I drew
her in the plough, one of three, for one poor
week. I refused fifty-five shillings for her, which
was the highest bode I could squeeze for her.
I ferl her up and had her in fine order for Dum-
''ies fair ; when four or five days before the fair,
•no was seized with an unaccountable disorder
in the sinews, or somewhere in the bones of the
neck ; with a weakness or total want of power
in her fillets, and in short the whole vertebrae
of her spine seemed to be diseased and unhinged,
and in eight and forty hours, in sjiite of the two
best farriers in the country, she died and be
d-mned to her ! The farriers said that she had
been quite strained in the fillets beyond cure be-
fore \ou had bought her, and that tlie pour de-
yil, though she might keep a little fle-h, had
been jaded and quite worn out with fatigue and
op])ressiun. Wliile she was with me, she was
under my own eye, and I assure you, my much
viducd friend, every thini; was done lor l)er that
could be dune ; and the accident has vexed nie
to the heart. In fact I could nut j)luck up spi-
rits to wiite you, on account of the unfortunate
business.
There is little new in this country. Our the-
atrical conipan)', of which you mu>t have heanl,
leave us in a week. Their merit and character
ate indeed very great, both on the stage and in
private life, nut a wuithless creature anK.n'j;
tlieni ; and their encouragement has been ac-
cordingly. Their usu.d run is from eighteen
to twenty-five pounds a night ; seldom less than
the one, and the house will hold no more than
the otlicr. There have been repeated instances
of sending away six, and eight, and ten p uuds
in a night for want of room. A new theatjo is
to he budt by subsciiption ; the first stone is to
be laid on Fi iday first to come.* Three hun-
dred guineas have been raised by thirty subscri-
bers, and thirty mure migh.t have been got it
wanted. The manager, Mr. Sutherland, was
introduced to mo by a friend from Ayr ; and a
worthier or cleverer fellow I have i arely met
with. Some of our clergy have slipt in by
stealth now and then; but they have got up a
farce of their own. Yini must have heard how
toe Rev. Mr. Lawson <if Kiikmahoe, seconded
by the Rev. Mr. Kirkpatrick of Dunscore,
and the rest of that faction, have accuse<i in fur-
nial process, the unlortuiiate and Rev. Mr He-
ron uf Kirkgunzeun, that in ordaining Mr.
Ne!son tu the cure of suuls in Kirkliean, he,
the said Heron, feloniously and treasonably
bound the said Nelscn to the confession of faitlj,
so far as it was agreeable to reason and the
word of God !
Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most grate-
fully to you. Little Bobby and FranK are
charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to
death with fatigue. For these two or threi
months, on an average, I have not ridden less
than two hundred miles per week. I have
done little in the poetic way. I have given Mr.
Sutherland two Prologues ; one of which was
delivered last week. I have likewise strung
four or five barbarous stanzas, to the tune of
Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor un-
fortunate mare, beginning, —
" Peg Nicholson was a good Bay-mare," —
{see p. 77.)
ISTy best compliments to Jlrs. Nicoll, and lit-
tle Neddy, and all the family. I hope Ned is
a good scholar, and will come oui to gather nut»
and apples with me next harvest.
giving hnn a r.ither more resolute look, the pinte eoultl
not, iit a trilling iX|Hiise, !)»• m.iile tn pass tor " Da.
Kill, IN TIIK t kins' 111 N !" — (IIOMKK.
• On t'ridai/,first to cuine — a Scotticism.
No. CXLIII
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
Ell island, 13th Fcbruari/, 1790.
I BEG your pardon, my dear and much valued
friemi, fur writing to you on this very unfashion-
able, unsightly sheet —
" My poverty but not my will consents."
But to make amends, since of modish post I
have none, except one poor widowed lialf sheet
of gilt, which oes in my drawer among my ple-
bei.iu foolsci]) pages, like the widow of a man
of fasl-.ioii, whom that unpollte scoundrel, Ne-
cessity, has driven from Burgundy and Piue-
ajiple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal-
beiring help-mate of a village jiriest ; or a glass
of whisky-toddy, with the ruby-nosed yoke-
fellow of a fi)ot-|)ad(ling exciseman — I niake a
vow to enclose this sheet-full of epistolary frag-
ments 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 iiill
not write to you ; Miss Burnet is not more dear
to her guardian angel, nor his grace the Uuke
(if to the powers of , than my
friend Cunningham to me. It is not that I
cannot write to you ; should you doubt it, take
the fiillowiiig fragment which was intended fir
yuu some tliiiC ago, anil lie convinced tJiat 1 can
antithesize sentiment, and circnmvniute jieriods,
as well as any coiner o' phrase in the regions u
philology
CORRESPONDENCE.
34a
mrr dear cl'nningha.m, December, 17S9.
Where are you? And what are you iloing ?
Can yon l)e that son of levity, who takes up a
fi ienil>hip as lie takes up a fashion ; or are you,
hke some (?ther of the wortliie^t fellow-i in the
wiiiM, tlie victim of iiiilolente, laJeu with fetters
of ever-increasing weij^ht.
Wli.it straiii;e beings we are ! Since we liave
a portion of conscious existence, equally capahle
oi enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture, or
of fuffcring pain, wretchedness, and misery, it
> surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there
DC not such a tiling as a science of life ; whether
method, economy, and fertility of ex|)edients he
aot applicahle to enjoyment ; and whether there
oe not a want of dexterity in pleasure, which
renders our little scantling of happiness still
less ; and a profuseness, an intoxication in bliss
which leads to satiety, disgust, and self-abhor-
rence. There is not a doubt but that health,
talents, character, decent coinpetency, respecta-
ble friends, are real substantial blessings ; and
yet do we not daily see those who enjoy many
or all of these good things, contrive, notwith-
standing, to be as unhappy as others to whose
lot few of them have fallen. I believe one great
s^Hiice of this mistake or misconduct is owing
to a certain stimulus, with us called ambition,
which goads us up the hill cf life, not as we
ascend other eminences, for the laudable curio-
sity of viewing au extended landscape, but ra-
ther for the dishonest priiie of looking down on
others of our fellow-creatures, seemiugly dlmi-
uutive, in humble stations, &c. &c.
S'tnrla'j, 14</j Fthrunry, 1790.
God help me ! I am now obliged to join
" Night to day, and Sunday to the week.'*
If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of
tl.e'^e churches, I am past redemjitiun,
and what is worse, to all eternity. I
am deeply read in Urislnn's Finirfald Slate.
IflarsliiiU 1)11 Sanctijication, Cint/ieric'a Trial oj'
a Savin(f Interest, SfC. but " There i>^ no balm
in Gilcad, there is no pl>rsician there," ft.r me;
so I shall e' en turn Arminian, and trust to
" Sincere, though impel feet obedience."
Tuetd^nj, 1 Gth,
Luckily for me I was prevented from the
disi'ussion of the knotty point at which I had
iust made a full stop. Ail my fears and cares
are of this world : if there is another, an lione-t
man has nothing to fear from it. I hate ami<;)
that wishes to be a Deist, but I fear, every fais
unprejudiced inquirer must in snme degree be e
sceptic. It is not that there are any Viry stag-
f^iing arguments against tke imuiort&iic^ of
man ; but like electricity, ,ihlogistL..l, &c. the
subject is so involveil in darkness, that we wan«
dat.i to go upon. One tlfing frightens me muc h ;
that we are to live for ever, seems loo <;n,)il news
to he true. That we are to enter into a new
scene of existence, where, exenqit from want
and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our friends
williout satiety or separation — how much should
I be indebted to any one who could fully assuie
me that this was certain !
]My time is once more expired. I will write
to !\Ir. Cleghori. snon. fied bless him and all
his concerns ! Anc. may all ttie poweis that pri^
side over conviviality and friendship, be presetit
with all their kindest influence, when the bearer
of this, I\Ir. Synie, arid yon meet ! I wish I
could also make one. — I think we should be
Finally, brethren, farewell ! AVhatBoevcr
things are lovely, whatsoever thing* are gentle,
whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever
things are kind, think on these thin^;s, anc
think on ROBERT BURNf<.
No. CXLIV
TO MR. PETER HILL.
Elllslaml, '^d March, 1790.
At a late meeting of the Mimkland Friendly
Society, it was resolved to augment their libra-
ry by the following books, which you are to
send us as soon as possible : — The Mirror. The
Lnviiyvr, Man of Teelnig, 3Ian of the W uld,
(these for my own sake 1 wish to have bv th<
first carrier) h'nox^s IL'ilori/ of the liifoniia
lion ; line's Hist ry if the Hthelli n in 171-j
anv good Ilislory if llie IlihtUion in 1715
A Dis/ilinj ifihe Scces.sion yirt and Testimn
11!/, by .Mr. Giua ; Hcrviy's J^h-<Jitations ; ,Vo
verlili/e'a Thoituhts ; and another copy of W.ik
soil's llody of Uiviniti;.
I wrote to Mr. .\. Misterton three r-;- fuen
months ago, to pay some ir.oRey ha cwe'J ns*
ii;to ycur hands, and lat';iy 1 vote t-:, you <^
the same purpose, but I liW/e Leiid fr lUi nei •
ther one nor o(4ier ri vou.
In addition to \}\i b^o's 7. cMPmissioncd in
mv list, I want mr-j i»-..ie'.i, A't Index to Ihe
Excise Laws, or an ah'td^ni'-iit if all the .Sta-
tutes now in f.jr',, '■^lat/vc to the Excise, by
Jellinger Svmons ; I want three copies of this
book ; if it is now to be had, cheap oi dear, get
it for vrs. Aa honest country neighbour of
n\\r^ "/aits, toe, A Eamili; Jidile, the luiger
tlie be'.tv, bat second -handed, for he dues not
e'.KVjse tc give above ten shillnigs f'>r the booK.
I Want likewise for niy-elf, as you can pick
tUen. up, second -handed o« cheap, copie^i oj
BURNS' WORKS.
Otway'i Dramatic IVoris, lien Jonsnn't,
T)ry<iens Conijreve's, \Vi/c/icT!ey\i, Vanhrugh' s,
Cililier's, or any Dranidlic Works of the more
rnoilern — Mack/in. Garrick, Foote, Culman, or
S/icrii/ci)i. A good copy too of 3Iuliere, in
French, I niucli want. Any otlier good dra-
matic authors in tint language I want also ;
but comic authors chiefly, though I should wi^h
t(i have lincine, Cnrneille, and Voltaire too.
I am in no hurry for all, or any of these, but if
you accidentally meet with them very cheap,
get them for nie.
And now, to quit the dry walk of business,
liow do yini do, my dear friend ? and how is
Mrs. Hill? 1 trust if now and then not so ele-
gnutly handsome, at least as amiable, and sings
as ilivineiy as ever. IMy good-wife too lias a
charming " wood-note wild j" now could we
four ■
1 am out of all patience with this vila».world,
for one tiling. Mankind are by nature benevo-
'ent creatures ; except in a few scoundrelly iu-
stances, I do not think that avarice of the giiod
tilings we chance to have, is born with us ; but
we are placed here amid so much nakedness, and
hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are un-
der a cur'^i-d necessity of studying selfishness, in
order that we may exist ! Still there are, in
everv ace, a few souls, that all the wants and
woes of life cannot debase to selfishness, or even
to the iieressaty alloy of ciutlon and prudence.
If ever I am in danger of vanity, it is when I
c.(nitcni|)late myself on this s.de of my dUpo»i-
tiun and chaiacler. (ioii knows 1 am no saint;
I have a whole host of follies and sins to answer
for ; but if I could, and I believe 1 do it as far
as I ran, I would wi|K; away all tears from all
eyes. Adieu !
N). CXLV.
FUO.M UIM.IAM lUTlNS, THE PDHT'S
liUOTIh.H.
Lnu,/oii,'2\st March, \~W.
DFAR HKOtHrn,
I I'AVK liirn here three week* come Tuesday,
er.d wi;i;ld have written you sooner, but was not
lu-ttled in a place of wmk. — We were ten days
on our jiassage fiom Shiihls ; the weather being
raim I was not sick, except one day when ;t
blew j)rettv h.ird. I got into woik the l-'rldiy
ufuT 1 came to towii, I wrought theie only
eight days, their jub luiiig iloue. I gut work
again in a shop in the ."slrmid, the next day af-
ti r I left my former master. It is only a lein-
swartns of fresh liards just come froin the eoMiu
try that the town is quite overstocked, and ex-
cept one is a ])artieularly good workman, ( which
you know 1 am not, nor I am afra-.d ever wilj
be), it is hard to get a place : However, I don't
yet despair to bring up my lee-way, and shal:
endeavour if possible to sail within three or four
points of the wind. The encouragement here is
not what 1 expected, wages being very low in
proportion to the expense of living, but vet, if I
can only lay i)y the money that is spent by
others in my situation in dissipation and riot, I
expect soon to return you the money I borrowed
of you and live comfortably besides.
In the mean time 1 wish you would send up
all my best linen shirts to London, which vou
may easily do by sending them to some of your
Edinburgh friends, to be shipped from Leith.
Some of them are too little ; don't send any but
what are good, and I wish one of my sisters
could find as much time as to trim my shirts at
the breast, for there is no such thing to be seen
here as a plain shirt, even for wearing, which is
what I want these for. I mean to get one or
two new shirts here for Sundays, but I assure
i you that linen here is a very expensive article.
1 am going to write to Gilbert to send me an
•Ayrshire cheese ; if he can spare it he will send
it to you, and you may send it with the shirts,
but I exj)ect to hear from you before that time.
The cheese I could get here ; but I will have a
pride in eating Ayrshire cheese in London, and
the expense of sending it will be little, as you
are sending the shirts any how.
I write this by J. Stevenson, in his lodgings,
while he is wiiting to Gilbert. He is well and
hearty, which is a blessing to me as well as to
him : We were at Covent Garden chapel this
forenoon, to hear the Co//' preach ; he is grown
very fat, and is as boisterous as ever.' There
is a whole colony of Kilmarnock people here, so
we diin't want for acquaintance.
Kemeinher n.e to my sisters and all the f i- ^
iiiily. I shall give you all the observations I
havic ntaile on l.iuidim in my nest, when I shiU
havt se«u more ot it.
I a::i, dear Brother, yours, &c.
W B.
No. CXLVL
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
Ellislaud, \Oth /ipri!, IVnO.
I liAVF. just now, my ever-honoured friend
enjoved a very high luxury, in reading a pipei
of the J^ounijer. You knuw my national pre-
judices. I had often read and admired the Sjiec-
tator, Adventurtr, IlambliT, and World; bul
j.jrary place, but I expect to be settled M)on in's"" w"l» » certain regret, that they were »c
B »h'iji to my mind, alllniugh it will be a hardelC>
U.sk Ih.m 1 at fust imagined, for tliere are kuch ; • fia'; Psctical AdJrcsi to the CaX
CORRlvSPON DENXE.
345
thojt)u«,'li]y and entirely English. Alas ! liiive I
eftcn said to mysolf, whut are all the boastt'd .id-
(ranti'^es which my country reaps from the
Uni;m, that can counterbalance the annihilation
of her inilependeuce, and even her very name !
I often iCjieat that couplet of my favourite poet,
Goldsmith —
States of native liberty possest.
Tiiiiu\;h very poor, may yet be very blest."
Nothino; can reconcile me to the common
icrm-i, " Knj;ligh ambassador, English court,"
&c. And I am out of all patience to see that
equivocal character, Histinjjs, impeached by
*' thj Commons of En.;land." Tell me, my
friend, is this u-eak prejudice? I believe in my
conseieru'e such ideas, as, " my countrv ; her
independence ; her honour ; the illuvtrious
names that mark the history of my native
land," &c. — I believe the~e, anions; your men of
the worlil — nien who in fact guide for the most
part and trovern our world, are looked on as so
ni anv modifications of v.'rongheadedness. They
know the use of bawling out such terms, to
rouve or lead the kaeiiI.k ; but fur their own
private use, with almost all the alilc stattsiiieJi
that ever existed, or now exist, when they talk
of right and wrong, they only mean (iroper and
imjjroper ; and their mea-ure of coniluct is, not
what thev ought, but what they 1)akk. For
the truth of this I shall not ran^^aik the hi>tory
of iiatioiis, but ap eal to one of the ablest judges
of men, and himself one of the ablest men that
ever lived — the celebrateil Earl of Cliesterlield.
In fact, a man who could thoroughly controul
his vices whenever they interfered with his in-
terest, and who could completely put on the ip-
pearatice of every viitue as often as it suited his
pur|)o»es, is, on the .Stanhopiau plan, the pirfict
man ; a man to leail nations. Hut are great
abilities, comjilete without a flaw, and polished
without a blemish, the standard of human ex-
cellence ? This is certainly the staunch opinion
of tnen of the world ; but I call on honour, vir-
tue, and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a
loud ntg.itive ! However, this must be allowed,
that, if you abstract Irom man the idi-a of an
existence beyond the grave, t/ten, the true mea-
sure of human conduct is pro/ttr and i'lipri'jier:
Virtue and vice, as di>po9itions of the heart, are
in that case, of scarcely the import and value to
the woild at large, as harmony and discord in
the mod.ficatiou-, of sound ; and a delicate sense
of homur. like a nice ear for music, though it
may sometimes give the possessor an ecstasy un-
known vo the coarser organs of the herd, yst,
consiilering the Viarsh gratings, and inharmonic
jars, in tills ill-timed state of being, it is odd*
but t!;e individual would be as happy, and cer-
tainly woul<l be as much respected by the true
juiiges of soiiety, as it would then stand, *iili-
out ether a good ear or a good heart.
You must know I have ju>t met with the
Mirror and J ounger f-vc the lirst time, and I
am quite in raptures with them : I slioulil b«
glad to have your opinion of some of the pa|K'rs.
The oue I have just read, Lotimjcr, No. 01,
has cost me more honest tears than any thing
I have read of a long time. .M'Kenzie has beea
calleci the Addison of the Scots, and in n;y
opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the com-
parison. If he has not Addison's exijiiisite hu-
mour, he as certainly outdoes him in the tei.der
and the pathetic. His Mitii nf Feitini/ (but I
am not counsel-learned in the laws of eritiii^m),
I estimate as the first petformance in its kiud I
ever saw. From what books, moral or evei;
|iious, will the susceptible young mind receive
impressions more congenial to humanity and
kindness, generosity and benev.'lence ; in short,
more of all that ennobles tlie soul to herself, or
endears her to otheis — than from the simple af-
fecting tale of poor Hailey.
Still, with all my admiration of M'Kenzie'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 lite.
Do not you think, .Mad.un, that among the few
favoured of Heaven in the structure of their
minds (for such there certainly aie), there may
be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance
of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some de-
gree, absolutety dis(|ualifying for the truly im-
portant business of making a man's way into
hfe. If I am not much mistaken, my gallant
younsr friend, A , is vei'-' much under
these disqualifications ; and lor the young fe-
males of a family 1 could mention, well may
they excite parental solicitude, for I, a common
actpiaintance, or as my vanity will have it, an
humble fiiend, have often trembled foi a turn of
mind which may render them eminently happy
— or peculiarly miserable !
I have been manuficturing some verses late-
ly ; but as I have got the most hurried season
of excise business over, 1 hojie to have more lei-
sure to transcribe any thing that may show how
much I have the honour to be, Aladam, yours,
Sec.
No, CXLVII.
FROM MR. CUNNINGn,\M.
Edinburgh, 2bth May. 1790.
.MY DEAR BCIINS,
I AM much indebted to you for your last
fr'endly. elegant e'istle, and it siiali make a
part of the vanity of my camfxisition, to retain
your coriespondence through life. It was le-
niarkable your introducing the name of Mis«
Hurnet, at a time when she was in such ili
health ; and I am sure it will grieve your gen-
tle heart, to hear of hei being in the la^t stiga
of a consumption. Alas ! that so much beauty,
innocence, and virtue, sLuuld be nipt In lh»
346
BURNS' VyORKS.
fcud. Kers was the smile of cheerfulness — of
eensil.ilitj', not of allurement ; and her elegance
of manners corresponded witk the purity and
elevation of her minJ.
How does your friendly nuise ? I am sure
she still retains lier affection for you, and that
you have many of her favours in your posses-
sion, which I have not seen, I weary much to
bear from you.
I besfech you do not forget nr.e.
I most sincerely hope all your concerns in
life piosper, and that your roof tree enjoys the
^lessin^ of good health. All your friends here
are well, among whom, and not the least, is your
acquaintunte, Cleghorn. As for myself, I am
well, as far as will let a
man be j but with these I am happy.
WHien you meet with my very agreeable friend
J. Synie, give him for me a hearty squeeze, and
b.d, God bless him.
Is there any probability of your being soon in
Edinburgh ?
No. CXLVIII.
TO DR. MOORE.
Dumfries, Excise- Office, Hth July, 1790.
SIR,
Coming into town this morning, to attend
my duty in this office, it being collection-day, I
met with a gentleman who tells me he is on his
way to Londcm ; so I take the opportunity of
writing to you, as franking is at present under
a temporary death. I shall have some snatches
of leisure through the day, amid our horrid bu-
jiness and bustle, and I shall improve them as
ivel! as I can ; but let my letter be as stupid as
, as miscellaneous as a news-
piper, as short as a huiigiy grace-i)el'ore-nu'at,
or as long as a law-paper m the Douglas' cause
as ill-spelt as country John's liillet-doux, or as
unsightly a scrawl as IJetty Byremucker's an-
swer to it ; 1 hope, cousidcrijig circumstances,
you will forgive it ; and as it will put you to no
exjiense of postage, I shall have the less reflec-
tiuu about it.
1 am sadly ungratfful in not returning you
my thanks for your most vaUiabl,.' present, Xe-
liico. In fact, you are in some degree blamealile
for niy neglecl. You were pleased to express a
wi^h for my opinion of the work, which so flat-
tered me, tii.it iiotliiii^ Its* would serve my
ov<ir-wceniDg fancy, than a formal criticism on
the book. In fact, I have gravely planned ^
iiomparative view of you, Fielding, Richardson,
and Smollett, in your different qualities and me-
! rits as novel-writers. This, I own, betrays my
riiliculous vanity, and I may probably never
bring the business to bear ; but I am fond ol
the spirit young Elihu shows in the book ot
.lob — " And 1 said, I will also declare my opi.
ni(m." I have quite disfigured my copy of the
hook with my annotations. I never take it up
without at the same time taking my pencil,
and marking with asterisks, parenthesis, 8te.
wherever I meet with an original thought, a
nervous remark on life and manne's, a reinark-
ably well-turned period, or a character sketched
with uncommon precision.
Though I shall hardly think of fairly writinr
out my " Conipai-ative View," I shall certainly
ti-ouble you with my remarks, such as they are.
I have just received from my gentleman, that
horrid summons in the book of Revelations —
" That time shall be no more !"
The little collection of sonnets liave some
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am in-
debted to the fair author for the book, and cot,
as I rather suspect, to a celebrated aiitiior of
the other sex, I should certainly have written to
the lady, with my grateful acknowledgments,
and my own ideas of the comparative excellence
of her pieces. I would do this last, not from
any vanity of thinking that my remarks could
be of much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but
merely from my own feelings as an author, do-
ing as I would be done by.
\o. CXLIX.
TO MR. MURDOCH,
TEACHER OF FRENCH, LONDON.
MV DEAR SIR, Ellisland, July 16, 1790.
I iiECEivED a letter fiom you a long time
I ago, but unfortunately as it was in the time ol
my peregrinations and journey ings throogh Scot-
land, I mislaid or lost it, aud by consequence
; your direction along with it. Luckily my good
star brought me acquainted with Mr. Kennedy,
who, I understand, is an acquaintance of yours ;
and by his means and med'iation I hope to re-
|)lace that link which my unibitunate negli-
gence Iwd so unluckily broke in the chain of
our correspondence. I was tiie more vexed at
the vile ace dent, as my brother William, a jour-
neyman saddler, ha< beer, for some time in Lnn-
don ; and wished above all things for your di-
rection, that he might have paid his resjiects to
his FArHEll's FKIENI).
His last address he sent me was, " Wm.
Hiiiris, at Mr. Ijarber's. Saddler, No. 181,
.Strand " I write him by Mi. Kennedy, but
uegiected t a>k hun for your adilre^s ; so, if you
Sni] a spare half minute, p1ea«e let my hrotlier
kiiuw 1)V a crnl where and when he will find
you, and th« poor fellow will joyfully « iit on
you, as one of the few suivivins; friends of the
ni:;n whose name, and Christian name too, he
has the hoaJU' to bear.
The neit jtter I write you shall be a long
3iie. 1 have much to ttll you of " hair-breadth
'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach, with
ail the eventful history of a life, the early years
of which owed so much to your kind tutorage ;
but this at an hour of leiNure. My kindest
compliments to Mrs. Murdoch and family.
I am ever, my dear Sir,
Your obliged friend.*
CORRESPONDEXCE.
No. CL.
TO MRS. DUxNLOP.
347
PEAR jiAPAM, Sth August. 1790.
Akter a Ions; day's toil, plague, and care,
sit down to write to you. .'Vsk me not why I
have delayed it so long? It was owing to luirry^
indolence, and fifty other things ; in short, tc
any thing — but forgetfulness of Ai plus ainuible
de son sexe. By the bye, you are indebted your
best courtesy to me for this last compliment ;
as I pay it from sincere conviction of it:< trutb
— a quality rather rare in coiiipliments of these
grinning, bowing, scraping times.
Well, I hope writing to ynii, will ease a little
• Ibis letter was communicated to the Editor by a' '"y '''""''''^^'' *'""'• Sorely his it been bruised
A ci-<levant friend of mine, and an in-
timate acqaintance of yours, has given my feel-
ings a wound that I perceive will gangrene dan-
gerously ere it cure. He has wounded my pride !
pcntlcman to whose liberal advice and information he to-day !
13 much indebted, Mr. Jolm Murdoch, the carlv in-
structor of the poet; aceonipanied by the following
interesting note : —
London, Hart-Street, Dloomsbury, 2Stt Dtc. ISO?.
DE4II SIX,
Thi'. following letter, which I lately found among
my |i:ipor>i, I copy for your perusal, partly because it
is Riirns's, pnnly because it m^ikcs himoiirnble men-
tion of my rational Christian friend, his father; and
likewise because it is rathei flattering to myself. I
gliiry in no one thing so much as an ii tiniacy with
pood men ; — tlie fi lendship of others reflects no ho.
nour. When I recollect the pleasure, (and I hope be-
nelii;, I received from the conversation of William
BUKNS, especially when on the Lord's day «.■ walked
ne assured, my dear friend, that I cordially sympa-
thize with you all, and partie\darly with Mrs. \V.
liiirns, w!io is undoubtedly one of the most tender and
aRlctionate mothers that ever livid. Hemember me
to her in tlie most friendly manner, when yon see her,
or write. — Please present my best complini'ents to Mrs.
R. Unrns, and to vour brother and sisters.-
There is
togellier fur about two miles, to the liouse of pravcr, no occasion forme to exhoit you to filial dutv, and
tliere publiclv to .adoie and praise the (liver of all to use your united endeavours in rendering the even-
ooit, I entertain an ardent hope, that togcilier we shall '"g of iife as ?omfnrt.able as po->ible to a mother, wh-;
E' . „
•' renew the glorious iheine in distant worlds," with
powers more adequate to ihe mighty subject, i iik kx-
I;bi:11ANT BKNI l-'ltl-.NCE of the CUliAT crlator.
But to the letter:—
FROM MR. MURnOCH TO THE BARD,
CIVI.VG HIM AN ACCOI'NT OF Till'. UliATII OF
HIS BliOTIIi It WILLIAM.
Hurt-Street, B oumsbtr-i/.S'j'inre, Lrnidnn,
MV DFAa F»IIM>, Si-pt. -l/A, 17-0.
\ ol Its iif ihe ICtli of July, I received on the '-Tth,
in th afiernoon, per favour of in v friend Mr. Ken-
nedv. and at the same time was informed that your
brother was ill Heing cnt;ageil in biisir.ess till lite
that evcninc, I set out next morning to see him, and
h.id thought of three or f ur medic d gentl -men of my
acquaint in e, to one or other of whom I might apply
for ad> ice, provi 'ed it should be necessary, lint when
1 went to Mr. Harb r' , to my urea astonishment and
hcart-relt grief, I found ihat my young friend had, on
Saturday, bi ' an overcast ng f aeweli to all sublunary
things.— It was about a fortnight liefore that he had
founil me out. by Mr. .Stevcvson's aeciik-ntally calling
at my shop to buy something We had only one in-
terview, and that ws liighK entertaining to me in se-
veral re-pects. He nieir.ioned some ins ruction I had
given him when very young, to whieh he said h';
owed, !n a gre.il measure, th<- philanthropy he [lOsscs-
. setl. — He ai-o t 'ok noace of my exhortin;; vou all,
irheii I wrote, alK)ut tight \earsago, to the man who,
of all mankind that 1 ever knew, stood high' st in my
esteem, " not to et go your inlegrity." — \ ou may ea.
sliy conceive that SHcli conversation was both pleasing
anil cue in ago g tome: 1 antieipated a de.il of ratio-
nal hai>pinessfroin fmuiecouvers^iions. — Vain arc our
expectations an., dopes Tlu y are so almost always —
Perhaps, (nav, ecrtainly), for our good. Were it not
foi di-appom ed hopes we could haolly spend a thought
on anoiher state of existen. e, or be in any degree re-
oonciled to the quitting of this j
1 ki ovv of no one source of consolaiion to those who '
have lost young rel.itives, equal U) that of their being
»f a good disposition, and ot a promising character.
has dedicated so great a part of it in promoting youl
temporal and spiritual welfare.
\o\\T letter to V>\ Moore, I ch'livered at his house,
and shall most likely know voiir opinion of Zeleueo,
the first lime I meet with him. 1 wish and hope for
a long letter. Uc particular about \onr mother's
health 1 liopc she is too much a Christian to be af.
fiicted above measure, or to soirow as those viho have
no hope.
One of the most pleasing hopes I have is to visit
you all; but I am commonly disappointed in vthat I
inost ardently wish for.
1 am, dear Sir,
\'ours sincerely,
JOHN MURDOCH.
I promised myself a deal of happiness in the con.
vcrsatii n of my dear voung friend; but my promises
of this nature generally jirove fallacious. Two visits
were Ihe uiniost that 1 received. \t one of them,
however, he rejicated a lesson which I hid given hiia
about twentv years before, when he was a merechiM,
concerninq the pity and tenderness due lo animals.
To that lesson, (which it seems was ! roughl to the le-
vel of his capacity i, he declared himself indebted for
almost all the philanthropy he doss, ssed
Let not (larcnts and te.ieliers imagine Ihat it is need-
less to talk -erionsly to children. Tney are sooner fit
to be reasoned vvith tli.an is generally thon^'ht. .Strong
and indelible impressions are to l)c made before th«
mind be agitated and ruffled by Ihe numenu.s train of
distractii g cares and unruly passions, whereby it ii
frequently rendered almost unsusceptible of the prin-
ciples ana precepts of rational religion and sound mo-
rality.
Hut I find myself digressing again. Poor William
then in the bloom and vigour of youth, caught a pu
trid fever, and, in a few days, as real chief mourner
I foUowL^ hii> remoius lo the land of forgetfulness.
JOl N MURDOCH.
CaoHsi
BURNS' WORKS.
Ko. CLI.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
EUisland, 8th jiugvst, 1 790.
Forgive me my once dear, and ever dear
friend, my seeming negligence. You cannot
sit down, and fancy the busy life I lead.
I l.iid down my s^oose feather to beat my
biains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts
of a country grannam at a family christening :
a bride on the market-day before her marriage ;
a tavern-keeper at an election dinner ; &c. &c.
—but the resemblance that hits my fancy best
is, that blackguard miscreant, Satan, who roams
about like a roaring lion, seeking, searching
whom ho 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 integi ity, I mav rear
up the superstructure of Independence, and from
its daring turrets, bid defiance to the storms of
fate. And h not this a " consummation de-
voutly to be wished ?"
" Tl.y spirit, Independence, let me share ;
Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eve!
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,
Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky '"
Are not these noble verses? They are the in-
troduction of Smi>llill^s Ode to Independence :
If yiu h,:ve not seen the poem, I will send it to
you. How wretched is the man that hangs on
by the favours of the j;ivat. To shrink fronr
every dignity of man, at the approach of a lor-d-
y piece ot self-consequence, who, amid all his
tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but a crea-
ture forn>>-d as thou art — and perhajjs not no
well formed as thou art — came into the world
a puling infant as thou didst, and must go out
jf it ab all men must, a naked corse*.
No. CLIL
FROM DR. BLACKLOCK.
ndinhnrgh, \st Stpteml-er, 1700.
With love of the IMuses so strongly still smitten.
I meant this epistle iri verse to have written ;
But from age and infirmity, indolence flows.
And this, much I fear, will restore me to prose.
Anon to my business I wish to proceed,
Dr. Anderson guides and provokes me to speed
A man of integrity, genius and worth.
Who soon a peiformance intends to set forth ;
A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free.
Which will weekly appear, by the name of the
Bee.
Of this from himself I enclose you a plap
And hope you will give what assistance you can
Entangled with business, and haunted with care,
In which more or less human nature must shai-e,
Some moments of leisure the Muses will claim,
A sacrifice i\ue to amusement and fame.
The Bee, which sucks honey from ev'ry gay
bloom,
With some rays of your genius her work may
illume.
Whilst the flower whence her honey spontane-
ously flows,
.\s fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows.
Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to con-
clude.
And add, your promotion is here understood ;
Thus free from the servile employ of excise. Sir,
We liope soon to hear you connnence supervisor ;
You then more at leisure, and free from control,
Jlay indulge the strong passion that reigns in
your soul.
But I, feeble I, must to nature give way ;
Devoted cold death's and longevity's prev.
From verses tho' languid my thoughts must un-
bend,
Tho* still I remain your affectionate friend,
THO. BLACKLOCK
No. CLIII.
EXTEACT OF A LETTER
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM.
Edinburgh, Mth October, 1790.
I LATELY received a letter from our friend
E , — what a i-harming fellow lost tc
society — born to great exjiectations — with su-
perior abilities, a jiure heart and untainted mo-
rals, his fate in life has lieen hard indeed — still
I am persuaded he is hapjiy ; not like the gal-
How does my dear friend ?— much I languish '""''. ""; '-'''y Lothario, but in the si,„plici,y of
to hear,
His fortune, relations, and all that are dear;
ruial enjoyment, unmixed with regret at the re-
membrance of " the diys of other years."
I saw Mr. Dunbar put, under the cover of
' ^'your newspaper, Mr. Mood's Poem on Thom-
• Ihc- jircccdine loftcr evplnint Ihc fcflmRk unilcr *on. This poem lias .sugge-ted an idea to me
which this w;,s wntnn. The Mr.nn nf indipiw.nt m. which vou alone are capable to execute :— a
vective fi(ic> on Minn- tune lciii(>eriii ihe siylc which i' . i i c ■ rr-,
cur haul was too apt to iii.l'ilge, and of which Uie *'""K '""'I'''"'! to eacit season o( tiie year. The
wadtr hasaheiuly siea soiiiuc.i. , task is difficult, but the theme is c barmjm? •
CtJRRESPONDENCE.
349
«liould you succeed, I will undertake to get new
music worthy of tli',' sulijcct. What a fine fiflil
for your iuKiijination, ami who is there alive can
draw so many beauties from Nature and j)ast<u'al
iinajjerv as yourself? It is, by the way, sur-
prising that there does not exist, so f.ir as I
know, a proper son/7 for each season. Wt \ave
songs on huiiting, fishing, skaiting, and ont au-
tuuuiil song. Harvest Home. As your muse
is neither spavied nor rusty, you may mount
the hill of Parnassus, and return with a sonnet
in your pocket for every season. For my sug-
gestions, if I he rude, correct me ; if imperti-
nent, chastise me ; if presuming, despise me.
But if you blend all my weaknesses, and pound
out one graiu of insincerity, then am I not
thy
Faithful friend, &c.
place the capital letters properly ; »s to the
punctuation, the printers do that themselves.
I have a copy of Tarn o* Shanter ready to
senil yon by the first opportunity ; it is too
heavy to send l)y post.
1 heard of ftlr. Corbet lately. lie, in con-
sequence of your reccMUUiendation, is most zeal-
ous to serve nie. Please favour me soon with
an account of your good folks ; if Mrs. II.
is recovering, and the young gentleman doing
well.
No. CLIV.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
Novemher, 1790.
" As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good
news fmm a far country."
Fate has long owed me a letter of good news
from you, in return for the many tidings of sor-
row which I have received. In this instance
I most cordially obey the apostle — " Rejoice
with them that do rejoice" — for me to slnff for
joy is uo new thiug ; but to preach for joy, as I
have done in the cominenceuietit of this epistk,
is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which I n-'-
ver rose before.
I read your letter — I literally jumped for joy
— How could such a mercurial creature as a poet,
lumpishly keep his seat on tiie receipt of the
best news from his best fi lend. I seized my
gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument indis-
pensably necessary, in my left hand, in the mo-
ment of inspiiation and rapture; and stride,
stride — fjuick and quicker — out sklpt I among
the broomy banks of Nith, to muse over my
'oy liy retail. To keep within the bounds of
prose was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more
elegant, but not a more sincere compliment to
the sweet little fellow than I, extempore al-
most, poured out to him in the following verses.
(See the poem — On the Birth of a Posthumous
Child.)
I am much flattered by your approbation of
my Tarn o' Shunter, which you express in your
former letter, though, by the Oye, you load me
in that 8aid letter with accusations heavy and
many ; to all which I plead not r/viltj/ ! Your
book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. As
to piinting of poetry, when you prejiare it for
the press, you have only to spell it right, and
No. CLV.
TO CRAUFORD TAIT, Esq. Edikburoh.
DEAR SIR, EIHshnd, Oct. 15, 1730.
Allow me to introduce to your accpiaintanca
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 more
than enough for common life ; as to his heart,
when nature had kneaded the kindly clay that
composes it, she saiil, " I can no more."
You, my good Sir, were Iwirn under kinder
stars ; but your fraternal syini'.atliy, 1 well know,
can enter into the feelings of the young man,
who goes into life wn, . the laudable ainUilion to
do something, and to be something among his
fellow creatures ; but whom the consciousness
of friendless obscurity presses to the earth, and
wounds to the soul !
Even the fairest of his virtues are against
him. That independent spirit, and that inge-
nuous modesty, qualities inseparable from a no-
ble mind, ace, with the million, circumstances
not a little disqualifying. What pleasure is in
the i)ower of the fortunate and the happy, bj
their notice and patronage, to brighten the
countenance and glad the heart of such depress-
ed youth ! I am not so angry with mankind
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-creature, ye^
takes nothing from our own means of enjo)-
ment? We wrap ourselves up in the (loak of
our own better-fortune, and turn away our
eyes, lest the wants and woes of our brother-
mortals should disturb the selfi-sh apathy of our
souls !
1 am the worst hand in the world at asking a
favour. That indirect address, that insinuating
implication, which, without any positive re-
quest, plainly expresses yc.ur wish, is a talent
not to be acquired at a plough-tail. Tell m.
then, for you can, in what periphrasis •»! laa
35C
BURNS' WORKS.
guaje, in what circumvc '.ition of phrase, I shall
envelope yet not conceal this plain story. —
" My dear Mr. Tait, my friend Mr. Duncan,
whom I have the pleasure of introducing to you,
5S a young lad of your own profession, and a
gentleman of much modesty and great worth.
Perhaps it may be in your power to assist iiim
in the, to him, important consideration of get-
ting a place ; but at all events, your notice and
acquaintance will be a very great acquisition to
him ; and 1 dare pledge myself that he will ne-
ver disgrace your favour."
You may possibly be surprised. Sir, at such
a letter from me ; 'tis, 1 own, in the usual way
of calculating these matters, more than our ac-
qu;iJutance entitles me ta ; but my answer is
short : Of al! the men at your time of life, whom
I knew in Edinburgh, you are the most acces-
sible on the side on which I have assailed you.
You are very much altered indeed from what
you were when I knew you, if generosity point
the path you will not tread, or humanity call to
you \n vain.
As to myself, a being to whose interest I be-
lieve you are still a well-wisher ; I am here,
breathing at all times, thinking sometimes, and
rhyuiing now and then. Every situation has its
share of the cares and pains of life, and my situ-
atiun I am persuaded has a full ordinary allow-
ance of its pleasures and enjoyments.
My best compliments to your father and Miss
Tait. If you have an opportunity, please re-
member me in the solemn league and covenant
of friendship to IMrs. Lewis Hay. I am a
wretch for not writing her; but I am so hack-
neyed with self-accusation in that way, tlut
my consi.'.encu lies in my bosom with scarce the
sensibility of an oyster in its shell. Where is
Lady M'Kenzie? wherever slie is, God bless
her ! I likewise beg leave to trouble you with
compliments to Mr. Wm. Hauiihon ; Mrs. Ha-
milton and family ; and ]\Irs. Chalmers, wl.en
you are in that country. Should you meet
with Miss Kimmo, please remember me kindly
to ht^r.
No. CLVL
TO
■>Ear sir,
WiiETHSR in the way of my trade, I can be
of any service to the Uev. Doctor,* is I fear very
doubtful. Ajax's shield consisted, I think, of
seven i)ull-hi(les and a plate of brass, which al-
together set Hector's utmost force at defiance.
Alas ! I am not a Hector, and the worthy Doc-
tor's foes are as securely armed as Ajax was.
Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity, ma-
levolence, self-conceit, envy — all strongly bound
in a massy frame of brazen impudenc*;. Good
God, Sir ! to such a shield, humour is the peck
of a sparrow, and satire ':.« pep-gun of a sctcoi
boy. Creation-disgracing se'erats such as ther
God only can mend, and the devil only can pii-
nish. In the comprehending way of Caligula, ]
wish they had all but one neck. J £"«1 impoten-j
as a child to the ardour of my wishes ! O for a
withering curse to blast the gcrmins of their
wicked machinations. O for a poisonous torna-
do, winged from the torrid zone of Tartarus, to
sweep the spreading crop of their villainous con-
trivances to the lowest hell !
LETTERS, 1791.
No. CLVII.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
EUhland, 23d January, 1791.
Many happy returns of the season to you,
my dear friend ! As many of the good things of
this life, as is consistent with the usual mixture
of good and evil in the cup of Being !
I have just finished a poem, which you will
receive enclosed. It is my first essay in the way
of tales.
I have, these several months, been hammer
isg at an elegy on the amiable and accomplish
ed Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no
farther than the following fragment, on which,
please give me your strictures. In all kmds o:
poetic composition, I set great store by your
opinion ; l)ut in sentimental verses, in the jioe-
try of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set
more value on the infallibility of tlie Holy Fa-
ther than I do on yours.
I mean the introductory couplets as text ver-
ses.
• Dr. M'Gill of Ayr.
ELEGY
OX THE LATE MISS BURNET OF MONBODDO
Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize.
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ;
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow.
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low
Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ;
In richest ore the brightest jewel set !
lu thee, high Heaven above was tiuest shown,
As by his noblest work the Godhead best :«
known.
In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ,
Thou crystal streamlet with thy 3owery shore ;
Ye woodland choir tliat chauut ytur idle loves,
Ye cease to charm ; Eliza is nc more.
Ye heathy wastes ininix'd with reedy fens.
Ye mossy streamj, with se<ige and jushe»
stor'd,
Ye rugged cliffs o'erhanging dreary glens.
To you I fly, ye witii my soul accord
CORRESPONDENCE.
351
Ffirccs wli(>«e cjmb'rous pride was all tlicir
worth,
Shall vcn;il lays their pompous exit hail ;
And tliDU, sweet excelleuce ! forsake our earth,
And not a muse in honest grief bewail.
Wc saw thee shine in youth ami beauty's pride,
And virtue's light that beams beyond the
spheres ;
But like the sun cclipsM at mornin;^ tide.
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears.
Let me hear from you soon. Adieu !
No. CLVIII.
TO MR. PETER HILL.
17M January, 1701.
Take these two guineas, and place tl.^ ver
against that account of yours I iuch
has gagged my mouth these five or six months !
I can as little write good things as apologies to
the man I owe money to. O the supreme curse
of making three guineas do the business of five !
Not all tl'.e labours of Hercules ; not all the He-
brews' three centuries of Egyptian bondage were
such an insuperable business, such an
task!! Poverty! thou half-sister of death, thou
cousin-gcrman of hell ! where shall I find force
of execration equal to the amj)litude of thy de-
merits ? Oppressed by thee, the venerable an-
cient, growu hoary in the practice of every vir-
tue, laden with years and wretchedness, im-
ploi"es a little — little aid to support his exist-
ence, from a stony-hearted son of IMammon,
whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud ;
and is by him denied and insulted. Oppiosed
by tlieo, the man of sentiment, whose heart
glows with independence, and melts with sensi-
bility, inly pines under tlie neglect, or writhes
in bitterness of soul, under the contumely of ar-
rogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee,
the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition
plants him at the tables of the fashionable and
polite, must see, in suffering silence, his rem irk
neglected, arid his person despised, while shal-
low greatness, in his idiot attcni|)ts at wit, shall
meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it
only the family jf worth that have reason to
coiiiplam of thee ; the children of folly and vice,
though in common with thee, the olfspring of
evil, smart equally under thy rod. Ovving to
thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and ne-
glected educatiiin, is condemned as a fool for his
dissipation, desoised and shunned as a needy
wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to
waat : and when his unprincipled necessities
drive him to dishonest practices, he is ablmrred
as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice of his
country. Hut fir otherwise is the k '"of the man
of family and fortune. His ea'ly fillies and ex-
travagance, are s|)iiit and fire ; his consequent
wants, are the embarrassments of an honest fel-
low ; and when, to remedy tlu matter, he has
gained a legal commission to plunder distant
provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he re-
tiirns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine
and murder ; lives wicked and respected, and
dies a and a lord. — Nay, worst of all.
alas fjr helpless v/oman ! the needy prostitute
who has shivered at the corner of the street,
waiting to earn the wages of carnal ])rostitutiiin,
is left neglected and insulted, ridden Jown by
the chariot-wheels of the coroneted rip, hurry-
ing on to the guilty assignation ; she, who,
without the same necessities to plead, riots
nightly in the same guilty trade.
V/ell ! divines may say of it what they please,
but execration is to the mind, what phlebotomy
is to the body ; the vital sluices of both art
wonderfully relieved by their respective evacu»-
tions.
No. CLIX.
FROM A. F. TYTLER, Esq.
DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, I2th March, 1791
Mr. Hii.l yesterday put into my hands b
sheet of Gioses Antiquities, containing a poem
of yours, entitled Turn o' Shajiler, a tale. Ths
very high pleasure I have received from the
perusal of this admirable piece, I feel, demands
the warmest acknowledgments. Hill tells me
he is to send off a packet for you this day ; 1
cannot resist therefore putting on paper what I
must have told you in person, had 1 met with
you after the recent perusal of your tale, which
is, that I feel I owe you a debt, which, if un-
discharged, would reproach me with ingrati-
tude. I have seldom iu my life tasted of liighei
enjoyment from any work of genius, than I have
received from this composition ; and lam much
mistaken, if this poem alone, had you never
written another syllable, would not have been
sufliiient to have transmitted your name down
to posterity with high reputation. In the in-
troductory pait, where you paint the character
of your hero, and exhibit him at the ale-house
ingle, with his tippling cronies, you have deli-
neated nature with a humour an(i naivete, that
would do h(niour to Jlatthew Prior ; but when
you describe the unfortunate orgies of the
witches' sabbath, and the hellish scenery in
which they are exhibited, you display a power
of imagination, that Shakspeaiu himself could
not have exceeded. I kno,v not tliat I have
ever met with a picture of more horribJe fan''.y
than the following :
" Coffins stood round like open presses,
That showed the dead in their last drecsca :
S53
BURNS WORKS.
And by some devilish cintrip sliglit,
Each in his cault! hanii held a light."
But when I c.ime to the succeeding lines, my
blood ran cold within me :
'* A knife a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son of life bereft :
Tite grey hair? uet stuck to the heft."
And here, after the two following lines, " Wi'
maJr o' horrible and awfu'," &c. the descrijitive
part might perhaps have been better closed, than
the four lines which succeed, which, though
good in themselves, yet as they derive all their
merit from the satire they contain, are here
rather misplaced among the circumstances of
pure horror.* The initiation of the young
witch is most happily described — the effect of
her charms, exhibited in the dance, on Satan
hiraseif — the apostrophe—" Ah, little thought
thy reverend grannie !" — the transport of Tarn,
who forgets his situation, and enters completely
into tke spirit of the scene, are all features ot
high merit, in this excellent composition. The
only fault it possesses, is, that the winding up,
or conclusion of the story, is not commensurate
to the interest which is excited by the descrip-
tive and characteristic painting of the preceding
parts. — The preparation is fine, but the result
is not adeouate. But for this, perhips, you
have a good apology — you stick to the popular
tale.
And now that 1 have got out my mind, and
feel a little relieved of the weight of that debt
I owed you, let me end this desultory scroll by
an aiivice : — You have proved your talent for
a species of composition, in which but a very
few of our own poets have succeeded — Go on
— write more tales in the same style ; you will
eclipse Prior and La Fontame ; for, with equal
wit, equal power of numbers, and equal naivete
of expression, you have a bolder, and more vi-
gorous imagination.
I am, dear Sir, with mucli esteem.
Yours, ike.
ho. CI.X.
TO THE SAME.
sin,
NoTHiNO less than the unfortunate accident
I have met v.'ith, could have prevented my
giateful acknowledgments foi- your letter. His
own favourite poem, anil that an essay in a
walk of the muses entirely new to him, where
consequently his liopes and fears were in the
most anxious alaim for his success in the at-
tchipt ; to have that poem so much ajiplauded
ay one of the first judges, was the most delici-
3US vibration that ever trilled along the heart-
• Chir bat J profiled by Mr. I'ytler's criticism, and
.fxyuuged tiie lowr lines aocoidingly.
strings of a poor poet. However, prov'denc*
to keep up the proper proportion of evil witL
the good, which, it seems is necessary in tliin
sutilunary state, thought proper to cheek my
exultation by a very serious misfi)rtune. A
day or two after 1 received your letter, my
horse came down with me and broke my ri:^ht
arm. As this is the first service mv arm has
done me since its disaster, I find myself unable
to do more than just in general terms to thank
you for this additional instance of your patron-
age and friendship. As to the faults you de-
tected in the piece, they are truly there : one
of them, tlie hit at the lawyer and priest, I shall
cut out ; as to the filling off in the catastrophe,
for tiie reason you justly adduce, it cannot easily
be remedied. Your approbation. Sir, has given
me such additional s))irits to persevere in this
species of poetic composition, that I am already
revolving two or three itories 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 1 have
the honour to be, &c.
No. CLXI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
ElUsland, 7th February, 179!.
When I tell you, Madam, that by a fall, not
from my horse, but with my horse, I have been
a cripple some time, and that this is the first
day my arm and hand have been able to scrva
me in writing ; you will allow that it is too
good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful
silence. I am now getting better, and am able
to rhyme a little, which implies some tolerable
ease ; as I cannot think that the most poetic
genius is able to compose on the rack.
I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you
my having an idea of composing an elegy on
the lite Aliss Burnet of Monboddo. 1 had the
honour of being pretty well acquiiinted with
her, and have seldom felt so much at the loss ol
an acquaintance, as when I heard that so amia-
ble and accomplished a piece of God's works
was no more. I have as yet gone no farther
than the following fragment, of which please lei
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 ; *tii
well if we can place an old idea in a new light.
How far I have succeedeil as to this last, yoi;
will judge from what follows: — {See j). 3i7,
then this additional verse),
The parent's heart that nestled foml in thee.
That heart how sunk, a piey to grief anil
care !
So dcckt the woodbine swecf yon aged tree,
So from it ravaged, leaves it bleak and bars.
I have proceeded no further
CORRESPONDENCE.
Four kind letter, with your kind remem-
btartee of your goil-son, oaiue sifo. Tliis last,
Rlailam, is scarciiy what my pride can bear.
As to the little fcllnvv, he is, partiality apart,
the fiiH'st hoy I have of a long time si-en. Ik-
is now seventeen months old, has the sniall-pox
and measles over, has eut several teeth, and yet
never had a grain of doctor's drugs in his
bowijls.
I am truly happy to hear that the " little
floweret" is hloomiiig 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 dlfF.culty. When I get a
little abler you shall hear farther from.
Madam, yours, &c.
No. CLXII.
TO LADY W. 51. CONSTABLE,
ACKNOWLEDGING A PRESENT OF A VALUABLE
SNUFF-BOX* WITH A FINF. riCTURE OF >IARV,
QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE LID.
MY LADY,
Nothing less tnau the unlucky accident of
having lately broken my right arm, could have
prevented me, the moment I received your lady-
ship's elegant present by Mrs. IMiller, from re-
turning you my warmest and most grateful ac-
knowledgments. I assure your ladyshij), I shall
set it apart ; the symbols of religion shall only
be more sacred. In the moment of poetic com-
position, the box shall be my inspiring genius.
When 1 would breathe the comprehensive wish
of benevolence for the happiness of others, I
shall recollect your ladyship ; when I would in-
terest my fancy in the distresses incident to hu-
Biauity, I shall remember the unfoituuate Mary.
iir.portancp, Mr. (i. ran dc mc MTvIce oi im
utmost iniporVince in time to ciune. 1 Nva*
born a poor lii g ; and however 1 may occasion-
ally pick a better boiie than I used to do, I
know I must live and die poor ; but I will in-
dulge the flattering faith that my poetry will
considerably outlive my poverty ; and withou
any Uistain affectatiou of spirit, I can piomise and
atfirni, tliut it must be no oidiiiary cr.iviiig o.
the latter shall ever make me do any tliiii'^ ii"*
jurious to the honest fame of the former. \\'hat-
ever may be my failings, for failings are a i)ar<
of human nature, may they ever be those of a
generous heart, and an independent mind. It
is no fault of mine that I was boin to depen-
dence ; nor is it ]\Ir. G 's chiefest praise
that he can command influence ; but it his me-
rit to bestow, not only with Jic kindness of 4
brother, but with thcr politeness of a gentleman ,
and I trust it shall be mine, to receive with
thankfulness and retiiember with uudiininishecl
gratitude.
No. CLXIIL
TO MRS. GRAHAM, OF FINTRY.
MADAM,
Whether it is that the story of our Mary,
Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on tiie
feelings of a poet, or whether 1 have, in the en-
closed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic
success, I know not : but it has i)leased me be-
yond any effort of my muse for a good while
past ; on that account I enclose it particularly
to youi It is true, the purity of my motive*
may be suspected. I am already deeply indebt-
ed to Mr. G 's gooilne<« ; anil, what in
No. CLXIV.
FROM THE REV. (NOW PRINCIPAL)
BMRD.
SIR, Londor.\, Sf/i Frhrunrtj, 1791.
I TROUBLE you with this letter, to inform
you that I am in hopes of being able very soon
to bring to the press a new edition (long since
talked of) of Michad JJnice's Pnems. The
profits of the edition are to go to his mother —
a woman of eighty years of age — ])oor and help-
less. The poems are to be puUished by sub-
scri|)tion ; and it may lie possible, I think, to
make out a 2s. 6d. or 8s. volume, with the as-
sivtance of a few hitherto unpublished verses,
which I have got fiom ths mother of the T)oet.
IJut the design I have in view in writini; to
yon, is not merely to inform you of these facts,
it is to solicit the aid of your name and pen in
sujipiirt of the scheme. Tlie reputation of Hruce
is already high with every reader of classical
taste, and I shall be anxious to guard against
tarnishing his character, by allowing any new
])oems to appear that may lower it. For thii
purpose, the JISS. I am in ))ossession of, have
beva submitted to the revision of some wlios*
critical talents I ran trust to, and 1 uieaa still to
submit them to others. <
May 1 beg to know, therefore, if you will
take the trouble of jitrusing the MSS. — of giv-
ing your opinion, and suggesting what curlail-
nunts, alterations, or amendments, occur to you
as advisable ? An(i will you allow us to let it ht
known, that a few lines by yruwiU be a;ldsil
to the volume ?
1 know the extent of this request,— It ii
bold to make it. But I have this consolation,
the uiual wavs of men, is of iufinlttly greater | that thout;h yo»« see it j)iopt;r to refuse it, yoa
354
BURNS' WORKS.
you will
will not blame me for having mauv, .
K^ my apology in the nintivg.
May 1 just adii, that Michael Bruce is one in
whose com)>atiy5 from his past appearance, you
would not, I am convinced, l)lush to be found ;
and as I would submit every line of his that
should now be published, to Jour own criti-
cisms, you would be assured that nothing dero-
gatory either to him or you, would be admitted
in that appearance he may make in future.
You have already paid an honourable tribute
to kindred genius in Fergussnn — I fondly hope
that the mother of Bruce will experience your
patronage.
I wish to have the subscription papers circu-
lated by the 1 -tth of March, Bruce's birth-day ;
which, I understand, some friends in Scotland
talk this year of observing — at that time it will
be resolved, I imagine, to place a plain, liumble
stone over his grave. This, at least, I trust
you will agree to do — to furnish, in a few coup-
lets, an ijiscriptlon for it.
On those points may I solicit an answer as
early as possible ; a short delay might disap-
point us in procuring that relief to the mother,
which is the object of the whole.
You will be pleased to address for me under
cover to the Duke of Athole, London.
P. S. — Have you ever seen an engraving
published here some time ago frcjn one of your
poems, " O thou Pale Orb." If you have
not, I shall have the pleasure of sending it to
rou.
No. CLXV.
TO THE REV. G. BAIRD,
IK ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING.
Wkt did you, my dear Sir, write to me in
such a hesitating style, on the business of poor
Bruce ? Don't 1 know, and have I not felt,
the many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic flesh
is heir to ? You shall have your choice of all
the unpublished poems I have ; and had your
letter had my direction s» as to have reached
me sooner (it only came to n,y hand this mo-
ment), I should have directly put you out of
suspense on the subject. I only ask, that some
prefatory advertisement in the book, as well as
the subscription bills, may bear, that the publi-
cation is solilv for the benefit of Bnice's mo-
ther. I would not put it in the ))o\ver of igno-
rance to suinii^e, or malice to insinuate, that I
clubbed a share in the work from mercenary
motives. Nor need you give me credit for any
remarkable generosity in my part of the busi-
ness. I have such a host of peccadilloes, fail-
ings, follies, and l)ack»lidings (any bo<ly but my-
self miglit jicrliaps give some of tliem a vvorie
appellation), that by way of some balance, how ■
ever trifling, in the account, I am fain to do anj
good that occurs in my very limited power to a
fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose oi
clearing a little the vista of retrospection.
No. CLXVI
TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON.
Ellisland, near Dumfries, lUh Feb. 1791
SIR,
You must, by this time, have set me down
as one of the most ungrateful of men. You
did me the honour to present me with a book
which does honour to science and the intellectual
powers of man, and I have not even so much as
acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is,
you yourself are to blame for it. Flattered as
I was by your telling me that you wished to
have my opinion of the woik, the old spiritual
enemy of mankind, who knows well that vanity
is one of the sins that most easily beset me, put
it into my head to ponder over the performance
with the look-out of a critic, and to draw up
forsooth a deep learned digest of strictures on a
composition, of which, in fact, until I read the
book, I did not even know the first principles.
I own. Sir, that at first glance, several of your
propositions startled me as paradoxical. That
the martial clangor of a trumpet had something
in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime,
than the twingle twangle of a Jews' harp ; that
the delicate flexure of a rose-twig, when the
half-blown flower is heavy with the tears of ihe
dawu, was infinitely more beautiful and elegant
than the upright stub of a burdock ; and that
from something innate and independent of all
association of ideas ; — these 1 had set down as
irrefragible, orthodox truths, until perusing your
book shook my faith. — In short, Sir, except
Euclid's Elements ofGeomttry. which I mule
a shift to unravel by my father's fire-side, in the
winter evening of the first season I held the
plough, 1 never read a book which gave me
such a quantum of information, and added so
much to my stock of ideas as your " Essaijs (;?i
the Prijtci/.les of Taste." One thing. Sir, you
must forgive my mentioning as an uncoiuuion
nu-rit in the woik, I mean the language. To
clothe abstract jjhilosophy in elegance of styls,
sounds something like a contradiction in tci ms ;
but you have convinced me that they are quite
compatible.
I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my
late com))()sition. The one in print is my fiisl
essay in the way oi telling a tale.
I am, Sir, &c
CORRESPONDENCE.
355
No. CI.XVII.
TO DR. MOORE.
EUisland, 2Sth Ftbruari/, 1791.
I no not know, Sir, wlifther you are a sub-
icrilier to Grose's Antiquities of Scotland. If
»'nu are, the enclosed poem will not be altoc;e-
ther new to you. Captain Grose did me the
favour to send me a dozen copies of the ]iroi)f-
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 hard ; and also of show-
ing you, that the abilities you have been pleas-
ed to commend and patronize are still employed
in the way you wish.
The Elegy on Captain Henderson, is a tri-
bute to the memory of a man I loved much.
Poets have in this the same advantage as Ro-
man Catholics ; they can be of service to their
friends after they have past that bourne where
all other kindness ceases to be of any avail.
Whether, after all, eitlwr the one or the other
be of any real service to the dead, is, I fear, very
problematical ; but I am sure they are highly
gratifying to the living : and as a very orthodox
text, I forget where in Scripture, says, " what-
soever is not of faith, is sin ;" so say I, wliat-
Boever is not detrimental to society, and is of
pn^itive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all
good things, and ought to be received and eii-
••ycd by his creatures with thankful delight.
As almost all my religious tenets originate from
mv heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the
idea, that I can still keep up a tender inter-
course with the dearly beloved friend, or stih
more dearly beloved mistress, who is gone to
the world of spirits.
The ballad on Queen ]\Iary was begun while
I was busy with Percy's Reliques of Emjliih
Pottry. By the way, how ranch is evei'y
honest heart, whiih has a tincture of Caledonian
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 vii'tory. I should have been mortified to
the grouhd if you had not.
/ have just read over, once more of" many
times, your Ztluco. 1 marked with my pen-
cil, as I went along, every passage that pleased
me particularly above the rest ; and one, or
two, I think, which, with humble deference, I
am disposed to think unequal to the merits of
the bonk. I have sometiEiies thought to tran-
icribe these marked passages, or at least so much
of them as to point where they are, and send
them to you. Original strokts that strongly
depict the huJi'an heart, is your and Fielding's
province, bvyond any other novelist I have ever
perused. Richard>on indeed might perh ips be
ixcepted ; but, unhappily, his drai'\itis per-
sona: are beings of some other world ; and horj--
ever they may captivate the une.\perienced, ro-
mantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever,
in |)roi)orti()n as we have made human naturs
our studv, dissatisfy our riper minds.
As to my private concerns, I am going on, a
mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have
lately hid 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 fa'l
into the file of supervisiuship Viy seniority. I
have had an immense loss in the death of the
Earl of Glencairn ; the patron from whom al.
my fame and good fortune took its rise. Itide-
pendent of my grateful attachment to him,
which was indeed so strong that it pervaded
my very soul, and was entwined with the thread
of my existence ; so soon as the prince's friends
had got in (and every dog, you know, has hia
day), my getting forward in the excise wculd
have been an easier business than otherwise it
will be. Though this was a consummation de-
voutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can
live and rhyme as 1 am ; and as to my boys
poor little fellows 1 if I cannot place them on
as high an elevation in life as I could wish, I
shall, if I am favoured so much of the Disposer
of events as to see that period, fix them on as
broad and independent a basis as possible. A-
mong the many wise adages which have been
treasured up by our Scottish ancestors, this is
one of the best. Bitter be the head of the com
nionulty, as the tail o' the gentry.
But I am got on a subject, which, however
interesting to me, is of no manner of conse-
quence to you ; so I shall give you a short poem
on the other page, and close this with assuring
you how sincerely 1 have the honour to be,
yours, &c.
(^Beauteous liose-Bud, p. 56.)
No. CLXVIII.
EXTRACT OF A LETTER
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM
}2th March, 1791.
If the foregoing piece be worth your stric
tures, let me have them. For my own part, a
thing that I have just composed, always appears
through a double portion of that partial medium
in which an auth. r will ever view his own
works. I believe, in general, novelty has some-
thing in it that inebriates the fancy, and not
unfrequently tlissipates and fumes away like
other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient,
as usual, with an aching heart. A striking
instance of this might be adduced, in the rsvo.
lution of many a hymeneal honcvuicou. But
S56
BURNS WORKS.
lest I 8:nk into stupid prose, and so sacrilegious-
'y intrude on the offic-e of my parish piiest, I
shall fill up the piire in my own xviiy, and p;ive
you another song of my kte composition, which
will apjjcar, perhaps, in Johnson's work, as well
as the formei'.
You must know a beautiful Jacobite air.
There II never he peace till Jumie comes home.
When political combustion ceases to be the ob-
ject of princes and patriots, it then, you know,
becomes the kwful prey of historians and poets.
(See Songs, p. 236).
If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your
fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear friend, how
much you would oblige me, if, by the charms
of your delightful voice, you would give my
honest effusion to " the memory of joys that are
past, to the few friends whom you indulge in
that pleasure. But I have scribbled on 'till I
hear the clock has intimated the near approach
of
" That hour o' night's black arch the kcy-
stane." —
So good night to you ! Sound be your sleep,
and delectable your dreams ! Apropos, how do
you like this thought in a ballad, 1 have just
now on the tapis ?
I look to the west, when I gae to rest,
That happy my dreanis and my slumbers may
be :
For fir in the west is he I lo'e best —
The lad that is dear to my baby and me !
which I send you ; and God knows you may
perhaps pay dear enough for it if you read i
through. Not that this is my own opinion ; but
an 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 ol
my best friend, my first, my dearest patron and
benefactor ; the man to whom I owe all that I
am and have I I am gone into mourning for
him, and with more sincerity of grief than I
fear some will, who by nature's ties ought to
feel on the occasion.
I will be exceedingly obliged to you indeed,
to let me know the news of the noble family,
how the poor mother and the tws sisters sup-
port their loss. 1 had a packet of poetic baga-
telles ready to send to Lady Betty, when I saw
the fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see bv the
same channel that the honoured remains of my
noble patron, are designed to be brought to the
family burial place. Dare I trouble you to let
me know privately before the day of interment,
that I may cross the country, and steal among
the crowd, to pay a tear to the last sight of my
ever revered benefactor ? It will oblige me be-
yond expression.
Good night, once more, and God bless you
No. CL.
No. CXLIX.
TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZIEL.*
FACTOR, FINDLAYSTON.
ElUsland, March 19, 1791.
Mr DEAR SIR,
I HAVK taken the liberty to frank this letter
to you, as it encloses an idle jjoeui of niir.e,
• This B nilcman, the factor, or steward, of Biirns's
nol.le friend. I^onl (Jlenrairn, with a view toeiicourapc
a second eilitiiin (if the |>ofnis, l;\id the vohiiiic bifcue
his lordship, with such an acfoiint of the niitio h;ird's
uluation and prospects .is from his slender ac(]uaiiit.
ance with him he co dd lurnish The rcsidt, as com
iHimicatcd to llunishv Mr. Dalziid, is hit;lily creditable
to the character of Lord CIcncairn. After ro.Khng the
book, his liirdsliiii declared that Its merits Rieatiy ex-
ceeded his cxpeelalioii, and he iciok it witli him .is a
Mterary curiusilj/ to Echnburyli. He repeated hit
FROM DR. MOORE.
DEAR SIR, London, 29th March, 1791.
Your letter of the 28th of February I recei-
ved only two days ago, and this day I I;ad the
pleasure of waiting on the Rev. Mr. Baird, at
the Duke of Athole's, who had been so obliging
as to transmit it to ire, with the printed verses
on Allowaij Church, the Elegy on Captain
Hcnrierson, and the Epitaph. There are many
poetical beauties in the former : what [ particu-
larly admiie are the three striking similes trom
" Or like the snow falls in the river,"
and the eight lines which begin with
" By this time he was cross the ford ;"
so exquisitely expressive of the superstitious im-
pressions of the country. And the twenty-two
lines from
" CofRiis stood round like open presses,"
wishes to he of service to Burns, and dcjircd Mr. Dal.
niel to oiform him, that ni patronizing the iKiok, ush-
erinf? it with effect imo the world, or treating with
the l)ook>ellcrs, he would most willingly give every
;ud ill his power ; adihiig his request that Hums woulj
take the earliest O|iportuiiitv of letting him know in
what way or manner he eonld best further his interislJi
He also expressed a wish to see some of the unpiiU
lished maniiscri|its, with a view to establishing Ins eha
lacttr Willi the world. — Cro-mlk.
CORRESPOMDENTE
35?
which, in rr.y opinidn, are equal to the ingre-
dients of Sliakspeaie's cauMrnii in Mdcl/ft/i.
As fur the Elegij, tlie cliief merit of it con-
fists in the very graphical description of the ob-
jects belonging to the country in which the poet
writes, and which none but a Scottish jioet
could hive described, and none but a re.il poet,
and a close observer of Nature, could have «o
described.
3MDENTE.
land, I will let you know, that you may meet
me at your own house, or my friend Mrs. Ha-
milton's, or botii.
There is something original, and to me wonder-
fully pleising, in the Epitn/ih.
I remember you once hinte<l before, what you
"■poit in your last, that you had made somt 'e-
ui irks on Ztluco, on the margin. I should be
very glad to see them, and regret you did not
send tliem before the last edition, which is just
published. Pray transcribe them for me, I sin-
cerely value your opinion very highly, and pray
do not siippiess one of those in which you ctn-
Hire the sentiment or expression. Trust me it
will break no squares between us — I am not
ikin to t!ie Bishop of Grenada.
I must now mention what has been on my
mind for some time : I cannot help thinking
you imprudent in scattering abroad so many
(•o|)ies of your veises. It is most natural to
give a few to confidential friends, particularly
to tho-'e who are connected with the subject,
or who are perhaps themselves the subject, but
tkis ought to be done under promise not to give
other copies. Of the poem you sent me on
Queen IMary, I refused every solicitation for
copies, but I lately saw it in a newspaper. My
motive for cautioning you on this subject is,
that I wish to engage you to collect all your
fugitive jiieces, not alreidy printed, and after
they have been re-considered, and polished to
the utmost of your power, I would have you
publish them by another subscription ; in pro-
m<iling of which I will exert myself with plea-
*ure.
In your future compositions, I wish you
would use the modern English. You have
shown your powers in Scottish sufficiently.
Although in certain subjects it gives additional
zest to the humour, yet it is lost to the Eng-
lish ; and wliv should you write onlv for a part
of the island, when you can command the ad-
miration of the whole. •
If you chance to write to my friend Mrs.
Dunlop of Dunlop, I beg to be affectionately
remembered to her. Slve must not judge of ti*
warmth of my sentiments respecting her, by the
number of my letters ; I hardly ever write a line
but on business : and I do not know that I
should hive scribbled all this to you, but for the
business part, that is, to instigate you to a new
|)ubltcation ; and to tell you that when you
think you h ive a sufficient number to make a
vwUinie, you shouiil set your friends on getting
subscriptions. I wish I could have a few liours
conversation with you — I have many things to
•iV vvhi'di I cannot write. If I ever go to Scot-
Adieu, my dear Sir, kc
No. CLI.
TO MRS. DUNLOI'.
Ellisland, Wtli April, 1791.
I AM once more able, my honoured friend, to
return you, with my own hand, thanks for the
many instances of your friciidship, atid particu-
larly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster
that my evil genius had iu store for me. How-
ever, life is chequered — ;joy and sorrow — for
on Saturday morning last, Mrs. IJurns made
me a present of a fine boy ; rather htouter but
not so handsome as your goil-son w;is at his time
of life. Indeed I look on your little namesake
to be my chef d'asuvre in that species of manu-
facture, as I look on Tain o' Sliunter to be my
standard perfiirmance in the poetical line. 'Tia
true, both the one and the other discover a spic*
of roguish waggery, that might, perhaps, be as
Well spared ; but then they also show, in my 3-
piiiion, a force of genius, and a finishing polish,
that I despair of ever excelling. Mis. IJurni
is getting stout again, and laid as lustily about'
her to-<lay 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 hcatlier. We cannot
hope for that highly polished m:nd, that charm-
ing delicicy of soul, which is found among the
female world in the more elevated stations of
life, and which is certainly by far the most be-
witching charm in the famous cestus of V^enus.
It is iudeed such an inestimab'e treasure, that
where it can be had iu its native he.ivenly ])u-
rity, unstained by some one or other of the
many shades of affectation, and unalloyed by
some one or other of the many speci .s of ca-
[)rice, I declare to Heaven, 1 should think it
cheaply purchased at the expense of every other
eiithly gooil ! But as this angelic creature is,
I am afraid, extiem 'ly rare in any station and
rank of life, and totally denied to such an hum-
ble one as mine ; we meaner mortals must put
U]) 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 ; un-
affected modesty, and unsullied purity ; nature*
mother-wit, and the rudiments of taste ; a sim-
plicity f.f soul, unsusjiicious of, because unac-
quainted with, the crooked ways of a selfisl^
interested, disingenuous world ; — and the dear-
est charm of all the rest, a yielding sweetiiest
of disposition, and a generous warmth of heart,
gratctul for love on our part, and ardently glow-
ing with a more than equal return ; these,
wit/- a healthy frame, a sound vigorous consci
358
BURNS' WORKS.
tution, v/liich jour Tiigh ranks can scarcely ever
hope to enjoy, are tlie charms of lovely woman
in my l.umble walk of life.
This is the greatest effort my broken arm has
vet made. Do, let me hear by first post, how
cher petit Monsieur comes on with his small-
pox. May Almighty Goodness preserve and re-
store Lim J
No. CLII,
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
]\th June, 1791.
Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham,
in behalf of the gentleman, who waits on you
with this. He is a I^Ir. Clarke, of Moffat,
principal schoolmaster there, and is at present
suffering severely under the of
one or two powerful individuals of his em-
ployers. He is accused of harshness to
that were |)lace(l 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 im-
pervious and inaccessible by any other way
than a positive fracture with a cvidgel ; a fellow
whom, in fjct. 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 mi-
nisters, magistrates, and town-council of Edin-
burgh, and us the business comes now before
them, let me beg my dearest friend to do every
tiling in his ])ower to serve the interests of a
man of genius an<l worth, and a man whom 1
particularly respect and esteem. You know
Bome good fellows among the magistracy and
council, but
particularly, you have much to say with a re-
verend ge .tleuian to whom you have the ho-
nour of being very nearly related, and whom
ills country and age have hid the honour to
produce. 1 need not name tl-.e historian of
Charles V'.' I tell him, tluough the medium
of his nephew's itifluence, thit Mr. Clarke is a
gentleman wlio will not disgrace even his pa-
tronage. I know the merits of the cause tbo-
rouglily. and say it, thit my friend is falling
a sacriticc to iirejudiced ignorance, and
God help the chi. (hen of dependence!
Hated and persecuted by their enemies, and too
often, alas ! alnio-^t nnexceplionably, received by
their friends with disrespect and reproach, under
the thin disguise ot cold civility and liumiliating
advice. O to be a stu iy savage, stalking iu
the pride of his independence, amid the solitary
• Dr. RoU'rtion was uncle to Mr. Cunnincham.
wilds of his deserts, rather than in civilized ilfe,
helplessly to tremble for a subsistence, precari-
ous as the caprice of a fellow-creature ! Every
man has his virtues, and no man is without hia
failings ; and curse on that privileged plain-
dealing of friendship, which in the hour of my
calamity, cannot reach forth the helping hand
without at the same time pointing out those
failings, and apportioning them their share in
procuring my present distress. My friends, for
such the world calls ye, and such ye think your-
selves to be, pass by virtues if you please, but
do, also, spare my follies : the first will witness
in my breast for themselves, and the last will
give pain enough to the ingenuous mind with-
out you. And since deviating more or less from
the paths of piopriety and rectitude, must be
incident to human nature, do thou, fortune,
put it in my power, always from myself, and
of myself, to bear the consequences of those
errors. 1 do not want to be independent that
I may sin, but I want to be independent in my
sinning.
To return in this rambJing letter to the sub-
ject I set out with, let me recommend my friend,
Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good of-
fices ; his worth entitles him to the one, and
his gratitude will merit the other. I long much
to hear from you. Adieu.
No. CLIII.
FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN.
Dryhurgh Abbey, \lth June, 1791.
Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr
Bui IIS to make one at the corotiation of the bust
of Thomson, on Ediiam Hill, on the 22d of Sep-
tember ; for which day jierhaps his muse may
inspire an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose
Mr. Burns should, leaving the Nith, go across
the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest
point from his faim — and, wandering along the
pastoral banks of Thomson's puic parent stream,
catch inspiration on the devious walk, till he
finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dry-
burgh. Tlieie the commendator will give him
a he irty welcome, and try to light his lamp at
the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar
of Caledonian virtue. This poetical perambu-
lation of the Tweed, is a thought of the lata
Sir Gilbert Elliot's and of Loril Minto's, follow-
ed out by his accL Mplished grandson, tlie pre-
sent Sir Gilbert, who, having been with I onJ
Buchan lately, th( project was renewed, an*
will, tliey hope, be executed in the uianner pro
posed.
CORRESPONDENCE.
359
No. CLIV.
TO THE SAME.
MT lORD,
Language sinks under the ardour of itiy
ffcliiig!', when I would thank your lordship for
the lionour you have done me in inviting uie
to make one at the coronation of the hust of
Thomson. In my first enthusia!«n in reading
file card you did me the honour to write me, I
ovei looked every ohstacle, and determined to go ;
but I tear it will not be in my power. A week
or two's dbsenee, in the very middle of my har-
vest, is what I mueh doubt I dare not venture
on.
Your lordship hints at an ode for the occa-
sion : l)ut who would write after Collms ? I
nad over his verses to the memory of Thomson,
and despaired. — I got indeed to the lenstli of
thiee or four stanzas, in the way of address to
the shade of the burd, on crowning his bust.
I shall trouble your lordship, with the subjoin-
ed copy of them, whieh, I am afraid, will be
but too convincing a proof how unequal I am
tu the task. However, it affords me an oppor-
tunity of approaching your lordship, and declar-
iiig how sincerely aud gratefully I have the ho-
cuur to be, &c.
( See p. 55.)
No. CLV.
TO JIR. THOMAS SLOAN.
CAR* OF \VM. KENNEDY, ESQ. MANCHESTER.
Ellhland, Sept. 1, 1791.
»IV DFAR SLOAN,
Suspense is worse than disappointment, for
that reason I hurry to tell you that 1 just now
learn that Mr. Ballantine does not chouse to in-
terfere more in tlie l)usiness. I am tiuly sorry
for it, but cannot help it.
You blame me lor not writing you sooner,
but you will please to recollect that you omit-
ted one little necessary piece of information ;
your address.
However you know equally well, my hurried
life, indolent temper, and strength of attach-
ment. It must be a longer period than the
ongcst life " in the world's hale and undegc- :
Derate days," that will make mc forget so dear I
a frien J as Mr. Sioan. 1 am prodigal enough '
tt times, but I will not part with such a trea-
sure as that.
I t:an easily enter into the embarras of your
present situation. You know mv favouiite quo
tation from Young — .
-" On Reason build Resolvk
And that other favourite one from Thomson*
Alfred—
" MHiat proves the hero truely great,
Is, never, never to despair."
Or, shall I quote you an author of your ac-
quaintance ?
" — Whether doing, suffering, or forbear-
ing,
You may do miracles by — persevering."
I have nothing new to tell you. The few
friends we have are going on in the olrl way. I
sold my crop on this day se'night, and sold it
very well. A guinea an acre, on an average,
above vaue. IJut such a scene of drunkenness
was hardly ever seen in this country. After
the roup was over, about thirty peo|,le engaged
in a battle, every man for his own hand, and
fought it out for three hours. Nor was tlie
scene much better in the liouse. No fighting,
iadeed, but folks lying drunk on the floor, and
decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by
attending them, that they could not stand.
You will easily guess how I enjcyed the scene ;
as I was no farther over than )ou used to see
me.
Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshita
these many weeks.
Farewell ! and God bless you, my dear Friend !
sir.
That eoluiim of true majesty in man." 1
Nn. CLVL
FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN
Dryhurgh Ahhey, \Qth September, 179L
Your address to the shade of Thomson has
been well received by the puMic ; and though I
should di>aiiprove of your allowing l\-.;asus to
riile with you off the field of your lioiiourdile
and useful profession, yet I cannot resist an ioi.
pul.se which I feel at thi.s moment to suggest tc
your niiise, Jhiivcut Hume, as an excellent fnih-
ject for hei grateful song, in whieh the peculiar
aspect and manners of our country might fur-
nish an excellent portrait and la^d,^cape of Scot-
land, lor the employment of happy moments ot
leisure and reeess, fioni your more important
oceiip.itions.
Your Ilullmeen, jnd Saturdai/ Niylit, will
remain to distant posterity as interesting jiic-
tures «f rural innocence and hapjiiness in yout
native country, and were happily written in tht,
dialect of the people ; but ILirieat IJome bt-it^g
suited to descriptive poetr\. except where collo-
quial, may escape disguise of a dialect which ad-
mits of no elegance or dignity of expression.
Without the assistance of any god or goddess,
ind without the invocation of any foreign muse,
you may convey in epistolary form the de»criu'
BURNS' WORKS.
No. CLVirr.
TO MR. AINSLIE.
MT DEAR AINSLIE,
Can you minister to a mint! diseased ? Csa
you, amid the honors of penitence, regret, re.
morse, head-ache, nausea, ami al) the rest of the
d — d hoimds of hell, that beset a poor wretch,
who has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness— —
can you speak peace to a tioulileil soul ?
Miserable perdu that I am, 1 have tried every
thing that used to amuse me, but in vain : here
must I sit a monument of the ven^;eanc« laid up
in store for the wicked, slowly counting every
ihick of the clock as it slowly — sloulv numbers
over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, d — n
them, are ranked up before me, every one at his
neighbour's backside, and every one with a bur-
then of anguish on his back, to pour on my de-
voted head — and there is none to pity me. My
wife scolds me ! my business torments me, and
my sins come staring tne in the face, every one
telling a more bitter talc thau his fellow.—
Wheii I tell you even .... has lost its
i power to please, you will guess something of
Kr LAlvV, my l\ell within, and all around me — I began
I wouT.n, as usual, have availed myself of the EUlanks and Elibraes, but the stanza fell un-
{Scn of a scene sn pl.iddcnirg nnd picturesque,
urith all the ioncomitant local position, land-
•cape and costume ; contrasting the peace, im-
provement, and ha|ipiness of th.e borders of the
once hostile nations of Britain, with their former
oppression and misery, and showing, in lively
and beiutiful colours, the beauties and joys of a
rural lite. .\nd as the unvitiated heart is na-
turally disposeil to overflow in giatitude in the
moment of [)rosperity, such a subject would fur-
nish you with an amiable opportunity of perpe-
tuating the names of G.-ncairn, Aliller, and
your other eminent benefactors ; which from
what I know of your spirit, and have seen of
your poems and letters, will not deviate from
the chastity of ])raise, that is so uniformly unit-
ed tu true t;iste and genius.
I am, Sir, 8cc.
No. CLVII.
TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM
privilege your gnodness has alloweil nie, of send
leg you any tliirig 1 compose in my poetical
way ; but as 1 had resolved, so soon as the
Vjck ot Miy ii reparable loss would allow me, to
Dav a trib'ite to mv late benefactor, 1 determined
M make t'li.it the fiist piece I should do myself
the honour of sending von. Mad the wing of
enjoyed, and unfinished from my listless tongue ;
at last 1 luckily thought of reading over an old
letter of yours, that lay by nie In my book-case,
and I felt something lor the first tune since I
opened my eyes, of pleasurable existence.
Well — 1 begin to breathe a little, siiu:e 1 began
j to write you. How aie you, and wbat are vou
my fancy Iict ecpial to the ardour of my heart, doing ? How goes law ? Apropos, for connec-
tion's sake do not address to me sujjervisor, for
that is an honour I cannot pretend to — I am on
the list, as we call it, lor a supervisor, and will
be called out by and bye to act one; but at
to show as ojienly that my heart giows, j |,resent, I am 3 simp'e ganger, tho' t'other diy I
got an appointment to an cxci-e division of L.5i5
jier uiin. better than the rest. My present in
come, down money, is L.70 jier ann.
the enclosed bad been nuich more worthy your
piTUsal ; as it is, 1 beg leave to lay it at your
ladv?hip's feet. As all the world knows my
oliliiiations to the late Karl of Glencairn, I would
wish
ami shall ever glow, with the most gratelul
wnse and reineniloance of his lordship's good-
aess. 'I'he sables 1 did m\self the honnur to
wear to his lordship's memory, were not the
"niocktiy of woe.'' Nor shail my gratitude
perish with lue : — If, among my children, I
t!i,ill have a son tliat has a heart, he sli.ill band
it iliiwn to his child as a family honour, and a
family debt, that my dearest existence 1 owe to
the uolile house oi (ileiuMirn !
I was aliont to say, my Inly, th.it if you thuk
the poem may venluie to see the light, I wonM,
in some way or other, give it to the world.*
• t lip p.<-m eniloiitil. Is 'MiC Ul'Htni for Jamtt,
I h ive one or two good fellows here whoa
you would be .;lad to know.
No. CLIX.
FROM S.R JOHN M'HITEFOORD.
SIR, AViir Miv/Uile, in/ A Oct. 1T91
Accept of my thanks for your favour with
the Lamrnl on tl.c death of my much esteemeii
fi lend, and y(uirwoitliy patron, the perusal of
which pleased and .dfei'te<l me much. The line«
aillressed to me are very llittiring.
t have always tnou^ht it most natural to s'lp
>Mie, (uiid a Htruag uigunu'ut iri favour of i fu
yei
ture existence) tnat wYfTi we see an lionoiinible
aiitl viitiioiis man labouring under boilily iiilir-
niitie<, :inil oppre-sed by the fiowns of torluin'
in tills world, that thore was a happier state be-
yond tlie grave ; where that worth and b( nour
wiiieh weie negUcted heie, would meet with
tiii'ir just reward, and where temporal misfor-
loiies would reeeivu an eternal recompense. Let
us cherish this hope for our departed friend ;
and moderate our grief for that loss we have
fu>tait.ed ; knowing that he cannot return to
us, but we n-.ay go to liiin.
Hcinenibcr nie to your wife, and with every
good wish for the prosperity of you and your
family, believe me at all times,
Your most sincere friend,
JOHN WIIITEFOORD.
No. CLX.
FROM A. F. TYTLER, Esq.
Erlinhurgh, 27th Nov. 1791.
You bnve much reason to blame me for ne
gli'cting till now to acknowledge the receipt of
B most agreeable packet, cnnt.iining The W/ii^-
tle, a baihul ; and I'lie Linneut ; which reached
nie about six weeks auo in London, from whence
I am just returned. Your letter was forwarded
to me there from Edmhurgh, where, as I ob-
served by the date, it had lain for some days.
This wys an additional reason for me to have
answered it immeiliately on receiving it ; but
the truth wa«, the bu-lle of business, engage-
ments and confusion of one kind or anotl.er, in
which I found myself immersed all the time I
was in London, ubsoluttly put it out of my
power. ]5iit to have done with apologies, let
me now endeavour to prove myself in some de-
gree deserving of the very flattering compliment
you pay me, by giving you at leist a frank and
candid, if it should not be a judicious criticism
on the poems you sent me.
The ballad of The Whiit/e is, in my opinion,
trulv excellent. The' old tiadition which you
have taken up is the best adapted for a Biccha-
nalian ci'm])osition of any I have ever met with,
and you have done it foil justice. In the first
place, the strokes of wit arise naturally from
the subject, and ar« uncommonly happy. For
example, —
" The bands grew the tighter the more they
were wet."
'* Cyuthia 'linted she'd find them next morn."
* Thnigh Fate said a hero should perish in light.
So up rose bright Pl.iebus and down fell the
kni,:;ht."
mh the celt place, you are singularly happy in
the diRcrimlnation of your here es, and in givinj;
e.ich the sentiments and language suitable to his
character. And, lastly, you have much merit
ill the delicacy of the paiii'u'yric which you have
contrived to throw on eich of the dniinntis per-
soncr, jierfectly ajipinpri ate to his iharacter.
The compliment to .Sir Hubert, the blunt sol-
dier, is peculiarlv line. In short, this composi-
tion, in my opinion, does you great honour, and
I see not a line or a word in it which 1 couid
wish to be altered.
As to 7he Lament, I suspect, from scime ex-
pressions in your letter to me, that yu are more
doubtful with respect to the merits of this piece
than of the other, anil I own I think you lune
reason ; for although it contains some beautihil
stanzas, as the first, " The wind blew Imllow,"
&c. the fifih, " Ye scatter'd birds ;" the thir-
teenth, " Awake thy la>t s.id voice," Sic. Yet
it appears to me faulty as a whole, and inferior
to several of tho-e yon have already pulilislied
in the same strain. My principal olyecMon lies
against the plan of the piece. I think it was
unnecessary and improper to put the lamenta-
tii'n in the mouth of a fictitious character, au
ayed burd. — It had been much better to hsve
l.iiiiented your patron in your own person, to
have expressed your genuine feilings for liis loss,
and to have spoken the Iai.i;u.ige of nature rather
than that of fiction on the subject. Compare
this with your poem of the same title in your
])rinted volume, which begins, () ihou /-ti/e
Orb ! and oliserve what it is that forms the
charm of that composition. It is, that it speaks
the language of truth and ci nature. The change
is, in my opinion, injudicious too in this respect,
that an agtd bard has much less need of a pa-
tron and protector than a yoimy one. I have
thus given you, with much freedom, my opinion
of both the pieces. I should have made a very
ill return to the comjihment you paid nie, if 1
had given you any olher than my genuine sen-
tiiiieiits.
It will give me great pleasure to hear from
you when you find leisure, and I beg you will
lielieve me ever, dear Sir, yours, &c.
No. CLXI.
TO MISS DA VIES.-
It is impossible. Madam, that the generout
warmth and angelic purity of your youthful
mind, can have iny de.i of that mural ili>e.i»e
uniier which I uanappily must rank a> tlie chief
of sinners ; I mean a turpitmle of the mora'
powers that may be called, a lethargy of con-
science.— In vain remorse rears her horrent
crest, and routes all lier snakes ; benea'h the
di-adly tixed eye and le.iden hand of induJenct,
their wildest ire iicharniid Intci the torpor of ih«
bat, slumliNiing out tin- ri;;ours of ^viiiter in thi
VV
862
BURNS' WORKS.
chink of a rained wall. Nothing less. Madam,
could have inadt me so long neglect your oblig-
ing commands. Indeed I had one apology — the
bagatelle was not worth presenting. Besides,
10 strongly am I iiterc-ted in INIiss D 's fate
and welfare in the serious business of life, amid
its chances and changes ; that to make her the
subject of a silly ballad, is downright mockery of
these ardent feelings ; 'tis like an impertinent
jest to a dying friend.
Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity be-
tween our wishes and our powers ? Why is the
most generous wish to make others blest, impo-
tent and ineffectual — as the idle breeze that
crosses the pathless desert ? In my walks of life
I have met with a few people to whom how
gladly would I hive said — " Go, be happy ! I
know that your hearts have been wounded by
the scorn of the proud, whom accident has plac-
ed above you — or worse still, in whose hand are,
perhaps, ])laced many of the comforts of your
life. But there! ascend that rock, Indepen-
dfnce, and look justly down on their littleness
of soul. Make the worthless tremble under your
indignation, and the foolish sink before your con-
tempt ; and largely impart that happiness to
othei s, which, I am certain, will give yourselves
so much ])leasure to bestow !"
Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this de-
lightful reverie, and find it all a dream ? Why,
amid my generous enthusiasm, must I find my-
self poor and poweiless incapable of wiping one
tear from the eye of pity, or of adding one com-
fort to the friend I love ! — Out upon the world !
say I, that its affairs are administered so ill .'
They talk of reform ;— good Heaven ! what a
reform would 1 make among the sons, and even
the daughters of men ! — Down, immediately,
should go fools from the high places where mis-
begotten chance has peiked them up, and through
life should they skulk, ever haunted by their na-
tive insignificance, as the body marches accom-
panied by its shadow. — As for a much more for-
midable class, the knaves, I am at a loss what to
do with them : Had 1 a world, there should not
be a knave in it.
But the hand that coulil give, I wou/d liberally
Sll ; and I would pour delight on the heart that
?ould kindly forgive, and generously love.
Stdl the inequalities of his life are, among
men, comparatively tolerable — but theie is a de-
licacy, a tindernext, accompanying erery view
in which we can place lovely Woman, that are
grated and shocked at the rude, caj)riciuus dis-
tinctions of fortune. Woman is the blourl-royal
'>f life ; let there be slight ilcgrees of precedency
•mong them — but let them be all sacred.
Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong,
I am not accountable ; it is un origiual compo-
Miat feature of my mind.
No. CLXn.
TO MRS. DUNLOP
ElUdand, 11 th December, »79)
Many thanks to you, Madam, for your gooi
news respecting the little floweret and the mo-
ther plant. I hope my poetic prayers have
been heard, and will be answered up to tht
warmest sincerity of their fullest extent ; and
then Mrs. Henri will find her little darling the
representative of his late parent, in every thing
but his abridged existence.
I have just finished the following song, which,
to a lady the descendant of Wallace, and many
heroes of his truly illustrious line, and herseli
the mother of several soldiers, needs neither pre ■
face nor apology.
{Death Song. Seep. 230)
The circumstance that gave rise to the fore-
going verses was, looking over, with a musicai
friend, IM'Donald's collection of Highland airs
I was struck with one, an Isle of Skve tune
entitled Or an an Aoig, or. The SoJig of Death
to the measure of which I have adapted mj
stanzas. I have of late composed two or thref
other little pieces, which eie yon full orbed
moon, whose broad impudent face now stares at
old mother earth all night, shall have shrunk
into a modest crescent, just peejiing forth at
dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to transcribt
tor you. jI Dieuje vous commende !
LETTERS, 1792.
No. CLXin.
TO FRANCIS GROSE, Esq. F.A.S.
SIR, 1792.
I BELIEVE among all our Scots literati you
have not met with Professor Dugald Stewart,
who fills the moril philosojihy chair in the Uni-
versity of Edinbi rgh. To say that he is a man
of the first pattt, and what is more, a man o,
the first worth, to a gentleman of your general
acquaintance, and who so mi;ch enjoys the lux-
ury of unencumbered freedom and undisturbed
privacy, is not perhaps retomniendatlon enough :
— but when I inform you that ]\lr. Stewart'a
principal characterisMc is v(.nr favourite fea
tore ; Mu^ sterling indepeiiilciu-e of miiul, which,
though every man's right, so tew men have the
courage to claim, and fewer st;ll the m.ignani-
mity to support ; — When I till you, that unse-
iluced by sjflenilour, and undisguste<l by wretclv-
edncss, he appreciates the merits of the varioui
actors in the great drama of life, merely as tho
CORRESPONDENCE.
363
perfinii tlu-ir parts — in short, he is a man after
your own heart, and 1 comply with his earnest
re<iue>t 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 Cas-
tle, whieh you proposed visiting ; or if you
eiuil.l transmit him the enclosed, he would with
the gri'atest pleasure, meet you any where in the
neiglil)OurhooH. I write to Ayrshire to inform
I\Ir. Stewart tliat I have acquitted myself of my
promise. Should your time and spirits permit
your meeting with Mr. Stewart, 'tis well ; if
not, I hope you will forgive this liberty, and I
have at least an opportunity of assuring you
with what truth ar><l respect,
I am. Sir,
Your great admirer.
And very humble servant.
No. CLXIV.
TO THE SAAIE.
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
Buch a night as the devil would choose to take
the air in ; a farmer or farmer's servant was
plo<]ding and plashing homeward with his plough
irons on his .shoulder, having been getting some
repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His
way l.iy by the kii k of Alloway, and being ra-
ther on the anxious look out in approaching a
place so well known to be a favourite haunt of
the devil and the devil's friends and emissaries,
he was struck aghast by discovering tlirough
t!ie hcrrora of the storm and stormy night, a
Huht, which, on his nearer approach, plainly
jnowcd itself to proceed from the haunted edi-
fice. Whether he had been fortified fiom above
on his ilevout supplication, as is customary with
people when they suspect the inmiediate pre-
.sence of Satan ; or whether, according to ano-
ther custom, he had got courageously drunk at
t.Se smithy, I will not pretend to determine ;
b.it so it was that he ventured to go up to, nay
into the very kirk. As good luck would have
it his temerity came off unpunished.
The members of the infernal junto were all
out on some midnight business or other, and he
saw nothing, but a kind of kettle or caldron, de-
pending liom the roof, over the (ire, simmering
tome heads of unchristened childien, limbs of
executed malefactors, &c. for the business of the
night. — It was, in foi a penny, in for a pound,
witli the honest plooghmin: so without cere-
mony he unhooked the caldron from off the fire,
itid pouring out the damnable ingredients, in-
veiti^i * on his he.ui, ami carried it fairly home,
»'h»"-e it remained long in the family, a liv iig
evidence of the truth of the ston'.
Another story which . can prove to be tqi'dU
ly authentic, was as follows •. —
On a market day in the town of Ayr, a farBi-
er from Carrick, and consequently whose way
lay by the very .gate of Alloway kiik-yird, in
order to cross the river Doon at the old bi idge,
which is about two or three hundred yanis fur-
ther on than the said gate, had been iKtained
by his business, tdl by the time he reached Al-
loway i> was the wizard hour, between night
and morning.
Though he was terrified, with a blaze stream-
ing from the kirk, yet as it is a well-known fact
that to turn back on these occasions is ruiming
by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudent-
ly advanceil on liisroad. When he had reached
the gate of the kirk-yard, he was surprised and
entertained, through the ribs and arches of ao
old gothic window, which still faces the high-
way, 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 stop})ing 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 does not say ; but the ladies
were all in their smocks : and one of them hap-
pening urduckily to have a smock wliich wai
cimsiderably too short to answer all the purpose
of that piece of dress, our faimer was so tickled,
that he involuntarily burbt out, with a loud
laugh, " Weel luppen, Maggy wi' the short
sark!" and recollecting himself, instantly spur-
red his horse to the top of his speed. I need
not mention the universally known fact, that no
diabolical power can pursue you beyond the
middle of a running stream. Lucky it was for
the poor farmer that the river Doon was so near,
for notwithstanding the speed of his horse, which
was a good one, against he reached the midille
of the arch of the bridge, and consequently the
middle of the stream, the pursuing, vengeful hags,
were so close at his heels, that one of them actual-
ly sprung to seize him ; but it was too late, no-
thing 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 reacK,
However, the unsightly, tail-less conditum ot
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
maikets.
The last relation 1 shall give, though eijua'lj
true, is not so well identified as the two forme--,
with regard to the scene ; but as the best autho-
rities 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 expiiy
of the chearful day, a shepherd boy belonging
to a farmer in the immediate neighbouihoo;! of
Alloway kirk, had just folded his ch.4rge, aiid
was returning home. Ashe passed the klik.
in the adjoining field, he fell in with a cre« e
SG4
BURNS' WORKS.
men and women, wno were busy pulling stems
of the plant ragwort. He observed tbat us
eacb person (lulled a ragwort, he or sbe got
astride of it, and called out, " up borsie!" on
wliich the ragwort flew off, like Pegasus,
through the air with its rider. Th.e foolish boy
likewise pulled his ragwort, and crieii with the
rest, " up borsie !" and, strange to tell, away
be flew with the company. The first stage at
wh.ich the cavalcade stopt, was a merchant's
wine cellar in Dourdeaux, where, without say-
ing by your leave, they quaffed away at the best
the cellar could afford, until the morning, foe to
the imps and works of darkness, threatened to
throw light on the matter, and frightened them
from their carousals.
The poor shepherd Idd, being equally a
stranger to the scene and the liquor, heedlessly
got himselt drunk ; and when the rest took
horse, he fell asleep, and was found so next day
by some of the peojile belonging to the merchant.
Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him
what he was, he said he was such-a-one's herd
in Alloway, and by some means or other getting
home again, he lived long to tell the world the
wondrous tale.
I am, &c. &c.*
No. CLXV.
TO MRS. DUXLOP.
bth Jamtary, 1792.
You «ce my hurried life, Madam : I can only
eoinniaiid starts of time ; h(iwe\er, I am glad
of one thing ; since 1 finished the other sheet,
the politici! blast that threatened my welfare
is overblown. I have correspomleil with Com-
niissiiiuer Cirahani, for the Hoard had made
me the subject of their animadversions; ami
now I lu've the pleasure of informing you, that
all is set to rights in that quarter. Now, as to
these informers, may the ('evil be let loo-ie to
but bold ! I was prayitig most fervently
in my last slieet, and I must not so soon fall a
swearing in this.
Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idlv of-
fwiiiuH think what mischief they do by their
lualiiioMs insinuations, indirect impertinence,
or tbonghtlcKs blabbings. M hat a difference
* This letter wa' topic d from the Cmswa Litcruria,
l7Kfi. Ii was coiiiinuriio^iteil to tile editor of that w'ork
Ov Mr. Gilchrist of SUunford, with the following re-
mark.
" In a collection of miscellaneous ptipcrs of the An-
tiiiii oy (■<ri>vc vvhoh I pilrchascd C few years since,
I (■iiinil ihc followiiif; letter written to him by Hums,
t»licii the former was collecting the Nntiquitics of Scot-
land ; When I premise it was on the second tradition
that he aflerw.irils formed tlic inimllah'e Ia!e of " Tarn
ONhaiitcr," I cannot <l"ubtof its I>ciM)J read with yreat
interest. It were " hiiriiilii,' d.iy-li(;ht" to |> liiit ciut to
I leader, (and wh(> is not a icailcr ol liMrns?/ the
(hoiif^hts he iftcrwarus iianiiiiUntcd iiit^ tiic rhythini-
<ial narr;< ve."
O. G.
there is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevor
lence, generosity, kindness — in all the charitieg
and all the virtues, between one class of human
beings and another. For instance, the amiable
circle I so lately mixed with in the hospitable
hall of D , their generous hearts — their un-
contaminated dignified minds — their informed
and polished understandings — what a contrast,
when compared — if such comparing were not
downright sacrilege — with the soul of the mis-
creant who can deliberately plot the destruc-
tion of an honest man that never offended him,
and with a grin of satisfaction see the unfortu-
nate being, his faithful wife, and prattliitg inno-
cents, turned over to beggary and ruin !
Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. I
had two worthy fellows dining with me the
other day, when I, with great formality, pro-
fluced my whigmelcerie cup, and told them that
it had been a family-piece among the descend-
ants of Sir William Wallace. This roused such
an enthusiasm, that they insisted on bumpering
the punch round in it ; and by and bye, never
did your great ancestor lay a Southron more
completely to rest than for a time did your
cup my two friends. Apropos, this is the sea-
son of wishing. May God bless you, my dear
friend, and bless me the humblest and sincerest
of your friends, by granting you yet many re-
turns of the season ! May all good things at-
tend }ou and yours wherever they are scattered
over the earth !
No. CLXVL
TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE,
PRINTER.
Dumfries, 22d Januari/, 1792.
I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce a voung
lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks of
fashion too. What a task ! to you — who cara
no more for the held of animals called young
ladies, than you do for the herd of animals
called young gentlemen. To you — who despisi?
and detest the groti])ings and combinations of
fashion, as an idiot painter that seems indus-
trious to place siaritig fools and unprincipled
knaves in the foreground of his picture, while
men of sense and honesty are too often thrown
in the dimtnest shades. BIrs. Uiddel, who
will take this letter to town with her and send
it to you, is a character that, even in your own
w»y, as a naturalist and a philosopher, would
be an acquisition to your acquaintance. The
lady too is a votary of the muses ; and as I
think myself somewlwt of a judge in my own
trade, I assure you that her verses, always cor-
rect, and often elegant, are much beyond the
common run of the iiili/.poetessvs of the day
She is a great admirer of your book, and hear-
ing me say that I was acquainted with you, slu
CORKESPOXDENCE.
365
Beg;,'e(l to be known t) you, as she is just fjoirii?
U) jiiy liiT first visit to our Caledonian capital.
I tii!(l licr that her best way was to desire lier
near relation, and your intimate friend, Crais^-
d irrocli, to have you at liis liouse while she was
theie ; and lest you might think of a lively West
Indian f^irl 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,
slie has one unlucky fiiling, a failing which
you will easily discover, as she seems rather
pleased with indulging in it ; and a failing that
you will as easily ])irdon, as it is a sin which
very much besets yourself; — where she dislikes
or despises, she is apt to make no more a se-
cret of it, than where she esteems and respects.
I will not present you with the unmeaning
eumpliments of the season, but I will send you
my warmest wishes and miist ardent prayers,
that lORTUNE may never throw your suusisT-
ENCE to the m°"'y of a knave, or set your
CHARACTER On the judgment of a fool, but
that, upright and erect, you may walk to an
honest grave, where men of letters shall say,
here lies a man who did honour to science ; and
men of w(m th shall say, here lies a man who did
konour to human nature '
No. CLXVII,
TO MR. W. NICOLL.
20th Fdirunnj, 1792.
O TTioir, wisest among the wise, meridian
bhize of prudence, full moon of discretion, and
chief of many counsellors ! How infinitely is
thy puddle- headed, rattle-headed, wrong-head-
ed, round-headed slave indehted to thy sujier-
eniinent goodness, that from the luminous jiath
of thy own right-lined rectitude, tliou lookest
benignly down on an erring wretch, of whom
the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of
calculation, from the simple co[)ul ition of units,
up to the hidden mysteries oi fiuxions ! May
one feeble rav of that light of wislom which
darts from thy sensoriuni, straight as the arrow
of lieaven, and bright as the meteor of inspira-
tion, may it be my portion, so that I may be
less unw(rrthy of the face and favour of that fa-
ther of proverbs aci'I master of maxims, that
antipode of fa'ly, and magnet among the sages,
tlie wise and witty Willie NicoU ! Amen ! Amen !
Yea, so be it !
For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know
nothing ' Fiom the cave of my ignorance,
imid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential
fumes of my political heresies, I look up to
thee, as doth a toad through the iron-barred
lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloud-
less glory of a summer sun ! Sorely sighing
ii bitterness of soul I say, when ihall mv u»nie
be the q notation of tne wise, and my counte-
nance be the delight of the godly, like the illus
trious lord of Laggan's many hills.'* As foi
him, his works are perfect ; never did the pen
of calumny blur the fiir page of his reputation,
nor the bolt of hatred fly at his dwelling.
Thou mirror of puritv, when shall the clfine
lamp of my glimnierous understanding, purged
from sensual appetites and gross doires, shine
like the constellation of thy intellectual powers.
— As fur thee, thy thoughts are pure, ami thy
lips are holy. Never did the unhdiowed breiih
of the powers of darkness, and the pleasures o.
darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy sky-
descended and heaven-bound desires ; never did
the vapours of impurity stain the unclouded
serene of thy cerulean imaginatiim. O that
like thine were the tenor of my life, like thiue
the tenor of my conversation ! then should no
friend fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice :n
my weakness ! Then should 1 lie down and
rise up, and none to make me afraid. — May thy
pity and thy prayer be e.vercised fur, O thou
lamp of wisdom and mitror of morality ! thy
devoted slave.f
No. CLXVIir.
TO MR. CUNNING H.\M.
3(/ March, 1792.
SiKCE I wrote to you the last higuhrious
sheet, I have not had time to write you farther.
When I say that I had not time, that, as usual,
means, that the three demons, indolence, busi-
ness, and ennui, have so completely shared my
hours among them, as not to leave me a five
minutes fragment to tike up a pen in.
Thank heaven, I feel my spirits hunting up-
wards with the renovating year Now I shall
in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I
dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly,
and I must own with too much a])pearauce of
truth. Apropos, do you know the much admir-
ed old Highland air called The Sulor's Duch-
ter ? It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and 1
have written what I reckon one of my bestsongg
to it. I will send it to you as it was sung with
groat a])plause in some fashionable circles by
Major Robertson, of Lude, who was here with
his corps.
There is one commission that I must trouble
you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a |ire-
• Mr. Nicoll.
t This strain of irony w«s excited ly a letter of Mr
Nicoli's containing good advice.
%6
BURNS' WORKS.
«eiit from a departed frienJ, which vexes me
much. I lave gotten one of your Highland
pelmles, which I fancy would make a very de-
cent one ; and I want to cut my armorial bear-
ing on it ; wL 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, how-
evpr, I do not intend having on my seal. I am
a bit of a herald ; and shall give you, iecundian
artcm, my arms. On a field, azure, a holly
bush, seedfd, proper, in base ; a shepherd's pipe
and crook, saltierwise, also proper, in chief. On
a wreath of the colours, a wood-lark perching
on a sprig of bay-tree, proper : for crest, two
mottoes, round the top of the crest, Wi/od-nntes
wild. At the bottom of the shield, in the usual
place, Bttter a tvee bush than nae bicld. By
the shepiierd's pipe and crook I do not mean the
nonsense of painters of Arcadia ; but a Stock
anil Horn, and a Club, such as you see at the
head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition
of the Gentle Shepherd. By the bye, do you
know Allan? He must be a njan of very great
geniu-i. — 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 ?
1 once, and but once, got a glance of that noble
edition of the noblest pastoral in the world, and
dear as it was, I mean dear as to my pi)';ket, I
would hive bought it ; but I was told that it
Wis printed and engraved for subscribers only.
He is the only artist who has hit genuine pas-
toral costume. What, my dear Cunningham,
is there in riches, that they narrow and harden
the heart so? I think that were 1 as rich as the
sun, I should be as generous as the day ; but
as I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler
one than any other man's, I must conclude that
wealth imparts a bird-lime quality to the pos-
sessor, at which the man, in his native poverty,
widild have revolted. What has led me to this,
is the idea of such merit as Mj-. Allan possesses,
and such riches as a nabob or governor-contrac-
tor possesses, and why they do not form a mu-
tual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish un-
orotected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity
:£ that merit will richly repay it.
No. CLXIX.
TO l\m. T. CLARKE, Edinburgh.
July IG, 1792.
Mr. Burns liegs leave to present his most
respectful comjjliments to ]\L-. Clarke. — Mr. B.
(ouie time ago diil himself the honour of writ-
ing M C. rcs'jecting :oming out to the coun-
try to give a little musical iwstruction in ahi|h
ly respect.ible family, where Mr. C. may have
his own terms, and may be as happy as indo-
lence, the Devil, and the gout will permit him.
iVIr. B. knows well how Jlr. C. is engaged with
another family ; but cannot Mr. C. find two or
three weeks to spare to each of them ? Mr. B.
is deeply impressed with, and awfully conscious
of, the high importance of ]Mr. C's time, whe-
ther in the winged moments of symphonious
exhibition, at the keys of harmony, while list-
ening Seraphs cease their own less delightful
strains ; — or in the drowsy hours of slumberous
repose, in the arms of his dearly-beloved elbow-
chair, where the frowsy, but potent power of
indolence, circumfuscs her vapours round, and
sheds her dews on. the head of her darling sou.
— But half a line convcvinjj half a meacin"
from Mr. C. would make iMr. B. the very hap-
piest of mortals.
No. CLXX.
TO IMRS. DUNLOP.
Annnn Water Font, 22d August, 1793.
Do not bl.inie nie for it. Madam — my own
conscience, hackneyed and weather-beaten as it
is, in watching and reproving my vagaries, fol-
lies, indolence, &c. has continued to blame aDd
punish me sufficiently.
Do you think it possible, my dear and hoa.
oured friend, that I could be so lost to gratitude
for many favours ; to esteem for much worth,
and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now,
old acquaintance, and I hope and am sure of pro-
gressive increasing friendship — as, for a single
(lay, not to think of you — to ask the F.itis what
they are doing and about to do with niv uiuch
loved friend and her wide-scattered connexions,
and to beg of them to be as kind to you and
yours as they possibly can.
Apropos (though how it is apropos, I have
not leisure to e.\plain), do you know that ] am
ahnost in love with an acquaintance of yours?
— Almost ! said I — I am in love, souse ! over
head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable
abyss of the boundless ocean ; but the word,
Love, owing to the inltrmingledoms of the good
and the bail, the pure and the ini])ure, in this
world, being rather an equivocal term for ex-
pressing one's sentiments and sensations, I must
do justice to the sacred purity of my attachment
Know then, that tlie heart-struck awe ; he dls-
tarit hundile approach ; the delight we should
have in gazing upon and listening to a Mess'^'U-
ger of Heaven, appearing in all the unspotted
purity of his celestial home, among the coar>e,
polluted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver to
them tidings tliat make their hearts swim in joy
CORRESPONDENCE.
36'
ind their imaginations soar in transport — such,
go clulitihtin;;;, and so [nirc, wore the emotions of
my soul on meeting the other day with Miss
L — J? — , yotir neighbour at M Mr. B.
with his two daughters, accompanied by iMr. H.
of G. passing through Dumfries a few days ago,
on tlieir 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),
hjhI accompanied thcni fourteen or fifteen miles,
and disied and spent the day with them. 'Twas
about nine, I think, when I left them ; and rid-
ing home, I composed the following ballad, of
which you will probably think you have a dear
bargain, as it will coast you another groat of
postage. You must know that there is an old
ballad beginning witli
" ]\Iy bonnie Lizzie Baillie
I'll row thee iu my plaidie," &c.
So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the
first copy, " unanointcd unannealed," as Kam-
let says. — See p. IQ^.
So much for ballads. I regret that you arc
gone to the east country, as I am to be in Ayr-
shire in about a fortnight. This world of ours,
notwithstanding it has many good things in it,
yet it has ever h:id this curse, that two or three
people who would be the happier the ofiener they
met togttner, are, almost without exception, al-
ways so placeil as never to meet but once oi
twice a-year, which, considering the few years
of a man's life, is a very great " evil under tiie
sun," which I do not recollect that Solomon h.iis
mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of man.
I hope and believe that there is a state of exist-
ence 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.
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be !"
A thousand times have I made this apostrophe
to the departed sons of men, but not one of them
lt<is ever thought fit to answer the question.
' O that some courteous ghost would blab it
oiit !" — but it cannot be ; you and I, my friend,
must make the experiment by eurselves and for
ourselve-i. Ilov.-ever, I am so convinced that an
unshaken faith in tiie doctrines of religion is not
only necessary, by making us better men, but al-
so by making us happier men, that I shall take
every care that your little god-son, and every
little creature that shall ca2l me father, shall be
taught them.
So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at
this wild place of the world, in the intervals of
my l.ihiiur of discharging a vessel of rum from
Ar.tii;ua.
No. CLXVII
TO MR. CUNMNGIIAM.
Dumfries, \Oth September, 1792.
No! I will not attempt an apology. — An id
all my hurry of business, grinding the face ol
the publican and the sinner en the merciless
wheels of the excise ; making ballads, and then
drinking, and singing them ; and, over and
above all, the correcting the press-work of two
different publications ; still, still I might have
stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of the first
wf my friends and fellow-creatures, I might
have done, as I do at present, snatched an hour
near " witching time of night" — and scrawled
a page or two. I might have congratulated my
friend on his marriage ; or I might have thank-
ed the Caledonian archers for the honour they
have done me (though to do myself justice, I
intended to have done both in rhyme, else I had
done both long ere now. ) Well, then, here is
to your 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 horneo
Deil, or any of his subaltern imps who may be
on their nightly rounds.
But what shall I write to you ?— " The voice
said cry," and I said, " what shall 1 cry?" — O,
thou spirit ! whatever thou art, or wherever
thou makest thyself visible ! be thou a bogle by
the eerie side of an auld thorn, iu the dreary
glen through which the herd callan m lun bicker
in his gloamin route frae the faulde ! 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 thv iron fliil affi ight thy-
self, as thou performest the work of twenty of
the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing summon
thee to thy ample tog 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 tumb-
ling boat ! — Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying
thy nocturnal visits to the hoai y ruins of decay-
ed grandeur ; or performing tliy mystic rites in
the shadow of thy 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 ot tne villain,
or the murderer, pourtraying on his dreaming
fancy, pictures, dreadful aa the hoirors of un-
veiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed
Deity ! — Come, thou spirit, but not in thesa
horrid forms ; come with the 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 clishmaclaver for ever
and ever — come and assist a poor devil who is
quite jaded in the attempt to share half an idea
among half a hundred words; to till up four
quarto pages, while be has not got one single
S63
BURNS' WORKS.
•entence of recollection, inforrnation, or remark
worth putting pen to paper for,
I feel, I feel tl e presence of supernatural as-
sistance ! circleil in the embrace of my elhow-
chair, my liiejst labours, like the bloated Sybil
on her three-footed stool, and like her too, la-
bours with Nonsense Nonsense, au>picious
name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the
mystic niiizes of Lw ; the cadaverous paths of
physic ; and particularly in the sightless soar-
ings of SCHOOL niviMTV, who, leaving Com-
mon Sen»e ccmfurnded at his strength of pinion,
Reason delirious with eyeing his gidily flight,
and Truth creeping back into .the bottom of her
well, cuising the hour that ever she offered her
loomed alliance to the wizard power-of Theolo-
gic Vision — raves abioad on all the win<ls. " On
earth Discord ! a gloomy Heaven above, open-
ing her jealous gates to the nineteen thousandth
pait of tlie tithe of mankind ! and below, an in-
escapable and inexorable hell, expanding its le-
viathan jaws for the vast residue of mortals ! ! !"
— O doctrine ! comfortable aud healing to the
weary, wounded soul of a man ! Ye sons aiui
daughters of affliction, ye pauvres miserables, to
whom day brings no pleasure, and night yielils
no rest, be couiforted ! " 'Tis but <me to niue-
teen hundred tliousand that ycur situaticm will
mend in this world ;" so, alas I the experience
of the poor and the needy too often affirms ; anil
'tis nineteen hundred thousand to one, by the
dogmas of , that you will be damned
eternally iu tlie world to come !
But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is
the most nonsensical ; so enough, and more
than enough of it. Only, by the bye, will you,
or can you tell me, my dear Cunningham, why
a sectarian turn of mind has always a tendency
to narrow and illibcralize the heart ? They are
orderly; they may be just; nay, I have known
them merciful : but still your children of sanc-
tity move among their fellow-creatures with a
nostril snuffing putrescence, and a foot spurning
filth, in short, with a conceited dignity that
your titled
. . . or any other of your Scottish lordlings
of seven centuries standing, display when they
accidentally mix among the many-aproned sons
of iiu'clnnical life. I remember, in my plough-
boy (lays, I could not conceive it possible that a
noble lord could be a fool, or a godly man could
be a knave How ignorant are ])lough-boys ! —
Nay, I have since discovered that a fjod/y ifo-
vian may be a I — But hold — Here's t'ye
again — this rum is generous Antigua, so a very
unfit inensrruum for scauilal.
Apropos, how do you like, I mean really like
the married life ! Ah, my friend ! matrimony is
quite a different thing from what your love-sick
youths and sighing girls take it to be ! But
marriage, we are told, is ajipointed by God, and
I siiall ni ver quarrel with any of his institutions,
I am a husband of older standing than you, and
ihall c\wa you iity ideas of the conjugal state —
i»n yanscint, ,vou know I am no Lutiuist, in not
con;«^a/ derived from jf«i7Mm, a jtikt'') Well
then, the scale of goud-wifeship I divide intc
ten parts Good-nature, four ; Good Sense.
two ; Wit, one ; Personal Charms, viz. a sweet
face, eloquent eyes, fine limb?, graceful carriage,
(I would add a fine waist too, but that is sc
?oon spoilt, you know), all these, one ; as for
the other qualities belonging to, or attending on,
a wife, such as Fortune, Connections, Educa-
tion, (I mean education extraordinary), FamiW
Blood, 8cc. divide the two remaining degree*
among them as you please ; only, remember
that ail these minor properties must be express-
ed by fractions, for there is not any one of
them, ill the aforesaid scale, entitled to the dig-
nity of an integer.
As for the rest of my fancies and reveries-—
liow 1 lately met with Miss Lesly Baillle, th'
most beautiful, elegant woman in the worl'
— hov/ I accompanied her and her father's fa-
mi!y fifteen miles on their journey, out of pure
devotion, to admire the loveliness of tl;e works
of God, in such an unequalled display of thenr
— how, in galloping hone at night, I made r,
ballad on her, of which these two stanzas make
a part —
Thou, bonnie Lesly, art a queen,
Thv subjects we before thee ;
Thou, bonnie Lesly, art divine,
The hearts o' men adore thee.
The very Deil he could na scaith
Whatever wad belang thee I
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 frienil, and by thy beloved
spouse, my other dear friend, at a more conve-
nient season.
Now, to thee, and to thy Jefore-designed ho-
som-companion, be given the precious things
brought forth by the sun, and the precious
things brought forth by the moon, and the be-
nignest influence of the stars, and the living
streams which flow from tlie fountains of life,
and by the tree of life, for ever and ever !—
Amen !
No. CLXVHL
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
Dumfries, 24-fh September, 1792.
I HAVE this moment, my dear Madam, yoiiri
of the twenty-third. All yjur other kind re-
proaches, your news, &c. are out of my head
when I read and think on Mrs. H 's situa-
tion. Good God! a heart- wcninde 1 helpless
young woman — in a strange, foreign at.'d, aud
CORRESPONDENCE.
369
th»t hti convulsed with even* hormr, that ran
harrow the liiini in fcL-lin'^s — >.ick — Umkinj;,
loui;ini» fur a conit'ortcr, but fiiuliiifj nouu — :i
motlicr's iVflin^^*, toi) — liut it is too much : he
who nuumlfJ (he only ciin) may He heal !*
T wish the firmpv Ejreat joy of his new ac-
quisitiiin to his family
I catinot say that 1 give him joy of his life as a
farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer p^iying a dear, un-
conscionable rent, a. cursed lift.' As to a laird
farminsr his own property; sowins^ his own
corn in hope , aad reapin<; it, in spite of brittle
weather, in gUdness; knowing th;it none can
say uuto him, " what <l(>st thou V" — fattenin;,'
his heids ; shewinR his flocks ; rcjoicinij at
Christmas ; and l)et;>'tting sons and daii!;hters,
unt 1 he be tlie venerated, grey-haired lea<ler ol
a little tribe — 'tis a heavenly life' but Devil
take the life of reaiinig the fruits that another
niu-t e.it.
Wfll, your kind wishes will he gratified, as
to seeing me when 1 make my Ayrshire visit.
I cannot leave Mrs. 15 , until her nine
nioiitlis' race is run, which may perhaps he in
three or four v.eeks. Slie, too, seems determin-
ed to nuke me the patriarchal leader of a band
However, if Heaven will lie so obliging as let
me have them on 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 buys that will do honour to my cares and
name ; but I am not equal to the task of rear-
•ng girls. Besides, I a:n too poor ; a girl should
always have a fortune. Apropos, your little
god-son is thriving charmingly, but is a very
devil. He, though two years younger, has com-
pletely mastered hi> brother. Robert is indeed
the mildest, gentlest creature 1 ever saw. He
has a most surprisii-.g memory, and is quite the
pride of his schoohnastii.
You knuw how readily we get into jirattle up-
on a subject dear to our heart : you can excuse
t. God bless vou and vouis !
cept that wl'.ich religion holds out to the vhlV.
■ lien of afflic'ion — ihihircn of n^iction '—
bow just the cxpressiini ! and like every e»her
fimily, they have matters among them whiek
they hear, see, and feel in a seiious, all-impor-
tant manner, of which the world bus not, nor
cares to have, any idea. The woild looks in»
dltrerently on, makes the jiassing remark, and
proceeds to the next novel oeciirreiice.
Alas, Midam ! who would wi-h for many
vears ! What is it but to drag existence until
our jo\s gradually expire and leave us in a nio;ht
of misery ; like the gloom which blots out the
stars one by one, from th.e f ice of night, and
leaves us, withol;^a ray of comfo;t, in the howl-
irig waste !
I am interrupted, and must leave off. You
shall soon hear from me agini.
No. CLXIX.
TO THE SA.ME.
iCFPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRlfTEH ON THE
DSATH OF MUS. K , HEil I> « IJG IITEII.
I HAD been from home, and did not receive
your letter until my return the other day.
\Vl'at shall I sty to cmnfort you, my much-va-
lued, muLh-atllicted friend ! I can but grieve
with you ; consolation I have none to o"er, ex-
» This much-lamenteil ladv was gone to the south
of France wiih her uifaiit so;i, wlicie »lie died «oon u£-
ter
No. CT..\>'.
TO THE SAME.
Dumfries, 6th Dicemher, 1792.
I SHALL be in Ayrshire, I think, next \ce.k ;
and if at all possible, I shall certainly, my much-
esteemed friend, have the pleasure of visiting at
Dunlop-house.
Alas, lAI idam ! how seldom do we me meet
in this world, that we hive reason to congratu-
late ourselves on occasions of happiness ! I have
not passed half the ordinary term of an old man's
life, and yet I scarcely look over the obituary of
a newspaper, that 1 do not see some names that
I have known, and which I, and other acquaint.
anres, little thought to meet with there so soon.
Every other instance of the mortality of our
kind, makes us cast an anxious look into the
dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder with
ypiiiehensions for our own fate. But of how
ditrerent an importance are the lives of ditferent
individuals? Nay, of what importance is one
period of the same life, more than another? A
few years ago, 1 could have lain down in the
dust, " careless of the voice of the morning ;'*
and now not a few, and these most helpless in-
dividuals, would, on losing me ai.d my exer-
tions, lose both their " staff and ihield." By
the way, these helpless ones have lately got an
addition, Mrs. B. havmg given me a fine girl
since I wrote you. There is a charming pas-
sage in Thomson's Edward and JEleanora.
" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer—
Or what need he regard his single woes V" &c.
As I am got in the way of quotations, I shali
give you another from the same piece, peculiar,
ly, alas ! too peculiarly apposite, my dear Alo.
dam, to your present frame of mind :
" Who so unworthy hut may proudly deck Uiat
With Li» fair-weather virtue, that exult*
W2
S70
BURNS' WORKS.
Glad o'er the •unimer maia? tje tempest
comes,
The rough winds rage aloud ; when from the
hehn
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies,
Lamenting — Heavens ! if privileged from trial,
How cheap a thing were virtue !"
I do not remember to have heard you men-
tion Thomson's dramas. I pick \\p favourite
quotation*. a!"(l stoie them in my mind as ready
armour, ofiensive, or defensive, amid the struggle
of this turbulent existence. Of these is one, a
rery favourite one, from his Alfred,
' Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds
And offices of life ; to life itself.
With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose."
Probably I have quoted some of these to you
formerly, as indeed when I write from the heart,
1 am apt to be gnilty of such repetitions. The
compass of the heart, in the musical style of ex-
pression, is much more bounded than that of
the imagination ; so the notes of the former are
extremely apt to run into one another ; but in
return for the paucity of its compass, its iew
notes are much nioje sweet. I must still give
you another quotation, which I am almost sure
i have given you before, but I cannot resist the
temptation. The subject is religion — speaking
of its importance to mankind, the author says,
•■ 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning
bright," &c. as in p. 4-9.
I see you are in for double postage, so I shall
e'en scrilible out t'other sheet. We in this
country here have many alarms of the reform-
intr, or rather the republican spirit of your part
ef the kingdom. Indeed we are a good deal in
commotion ourselves. For me, I am a place-
man, you know ; a very humble one indeed.
Heaven knows, but still so much so as to gag
Eie. What my private sentiments are, you will
find out without an interpreter.
I have taken up the subject in another view ;
Br.d the other day, for a pretty actress's benefit-
night, I wrote an address, which I will give
you on the other page, called The Riiihts of
THE RIGHTS OF WOMAX.
An OccnsioiKil Address apoken hi/ Miss Fon-
TiiNELi.E on her benefit n'ujht.
While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things,
Ihf fate of emi)ir^s and the fall of kings,
A'hile Qii,.iks of state must each produce his
]>lan,
A,nd even childien lisp the Jii<)hts of Man ;
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention.
The Rights of Woman merit some a.tentio
First, in the sexes* Interniix'd connexion.
One sacred Right of Woman is protection.
The tender £ower that lifts its head, elate,
Helpless, must fall before the blast of fate,
Sunk to the earth, defaced its lovely form.
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.-*
Our second Right's — but needless here is caiv
tion.
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion.
Each man of sense has it so full before him.
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum.—'
There was, indeed, in far less polisli'd days,
A time, when rough rude nea had naughty
ways :
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kitk up a
riot.
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. —
No«', thank our stars ! these Gothic times are
fled:
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-
bred —
Most justly think (and we are much the gain-
ers)
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.*
For Right the third, our last, our best, our
dearest.
That right to fluttering female hearts tlie near-
est.
Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros-
tration
IMost humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ;
There taste that life of life — immortal love —
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, r.irs,
'Gainst such an ho>t what flinty savage dares —
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms,
\V]\o is so rash as rise ia rebel arms ?
But truce with kings, and truce with ccn'»li
tutions,
With bloody armaments and revolutions ;
Let majesty your fiist attention summon.
Ah ! C(i ira ! the Majesty ok Woman !
I shall have the honour of receiving your cri-
ticisms in pel sou at Dunlop.
No. CLXXL
TO R. GRAHAM, Esq. FiNTRr.
SIR, December, 1T92.
I HAVE been surprised, confounded, and dis"
tracted, by I\lr. Mitchell, thj collector, tellui''
me that he has received an order from you;
• Ironical allusion to the saturnalia of tlie Calea*
nian JJuiil.
:ORRESPONDENCE.
371
Biard to inquire into my political conduct, and
biamitia; nie as a person (lisafffctcd to Govciii-
ment. Sir, you are a hiistiaiid — and a father. —
You know wliat you would fctl, to see the nnu-h-
!ovi-d wife of your bosom, and your hel|)!ess,
prattlinc; little ones, turned adrift into the world,
de-^raded and disgraced from a situation in wliich
they had heen rcspectal)le and respected, and left
almost without the necessary support of a mi«er-
»l)'e existence. Alas, Sir ! must I thiidi that
)urh, soon, will by my lot ! and from the d-mned,
iark insinuations of hellish (groundless envv too !
I helieve. Sir, I may aver it, and in the siijht of
Omniscience, that I would not tell a deliherare
falsehood, no, not thoujjh even worse liorrors, if
worse can he, *han those I have mentioned, liung
over my heaa ; and I say, that the alleiration,
wliatevcr villain has made it, is a lie ! To the
Biitish Constitution, on revolution ))rinciples,
next after my God, I am most devoutly attach-
ed ! You, Sn', have heen much and generously
my fi iend. — Heaven knows how warmly I have
felt the ohlj/jation, and how gr-tefully I have
thanked you. — Fortune, Sir, has made you pow-
trful, and me impotent ; has given you patrim-
age, and me dependence. — I would not, for my
single self, call on your humanity ; were such
Tiiy insular, unconnected situation, I would de-
spise the tear that now swells in my eye — I
could lirave misfortune, I could face ruin ; for
at the woist, " Death's thousand doors stand
open ;" hut, good God ! the tender concerns
that I have mentioned, the claims and ties that
I see at this moment, and feel around me, how
they unnerve Courage, and wither Resolution !
To your patronage, as a man of some genius,
you have allowed me a claim ; and your cs-teem,
as an honest man, I know is my due : To these,
Sir, permit me to appeal ; hy these may I ad-
jure you to save me from that misery wkich
threatens to overwlielm me, and which, with
my latest breath I will say it, I have not deserved.
No. CLXXII.
TO 3MRS. DUNLOP.
»rAR mapam, Dectmher 3\, 1792.
A iiUKRV of business, thrown in heaps by my
absence, has until now prevented my returning
my grateful acknowledgments to the good fa-
mily of Dunlop, and you in particular, "for that
hospitable kindness which rendered the four
days I spent under that genial roof, four of the
pleasantest I ever enjoyed Alas, my dearest
iiend! 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 ;
t man whose days promised to be many ; and
on Saturday last we laid him in the dust !
Januarif 2, 1793.
I HAVE just received yours of the 30 th, and
feel much for your sitiiation. However, 1 hearti-
ly rejoice in your prosjiect of reciiveiy from thai
vile jiiundice. .As to myself, I am betr».'r, though
not (juite free of uiy complaint. — You must not
th.nk, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way
of life I waTit exercise. Of that I have enough ;
but occasional hard drinking is the devil to me.
Ag;unst this I have again and again bent my re-
solution, and have greatly succeeded. Taverns
I have totally abandoned : it is the private [jar-
ties in the fau.ily way, anu)ng the hard drinking
gentleman of the country, that do me the mis-
chief— but even this I have more than half given
over.
Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me at
present; at least I should be shy of a])[)lying.
I cannot possibly be settled as a supervisor, for
several years. I must wait the rotation of the
list, and there are twenty names before mine
I might indeed get a job of officiating, where a
settled supervisor was ill, or aged ; but that hauls
me from my family, as I could not remove thetn
on such an uncertainty. Besides, some envious,
malicious devil, has raised a little demur on my
political principles, and I wi>h to let that mat-
ter settle before 1 offer n.yself too much in the
eye of my superiors. I have set, henceforth,
a seal on my lips, as to these unlucky politics ;
but to you, I must breathe my sentiments. In
this, as in every thing else, I shall shew the un-
disguised euiotions of the soul. War I depre-
cate : misery and ruin to thousands, are in the
blast that announces the destructive demon. But
The remainder of this letter has been torn
iway by some baibarous hand.
LETTERS, 179.3.
No. CL XXIII.
TO MISS B-
OF YORK.
M'^"'\.>?, 2\st March, 1795.
Among many things for which I envy those
hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, u
this in paiticular, that when they met with any
body after their own heart, they had a charm-
ing long prospect of many, many hapjiy meet-
ings with tl'cni in after-life.
Now, in this short, stcrmy winter day of our
fleeting existence, when you now and then, ic
the Chapter of Accidents, meet .in individux
whose ai^quaintance is a real acquisition, there
are all tne probabilities against you, that you
shall never meet with that valued chiracter
more. On the other hand, brief as the miser-
able being is, it is none of the least of the mi-
series belonging to it, that if there is any mis»
creant whom you hate, or creature whom you
despise, the ill run of the chances shall be bo
372
BURNS* WORKS.
against you, that .n the overtalilngs, turnings,
and JD-itlings of life, pop, at some unlucky cor-
ner, eternally comes the wreioi. upon you, and
will not allow your indignation or contempt a
moment's rej)ose. As 1 am a sturdy believer
hi the powers of darkness, I take those to he
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 doulit that he is per-
fectly acijuainted with my sentiments respect-
ing Miss B ; how mttcli I admired her
abilities and valued her worth, and how very
fortuniite I thought myself in her acquaintance.
For this last reason, my dear Madam, I must
enteitiin no hopes of the very great pleasure of
meeting with you again.
Miss II tells me that she is sending a
packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the
C'uclosed sonnet, though to tell you the real
truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may
have the opportunity of declaring with how
much respectful esteem I have the honour to
be, &c.
No. CLXXIV,
TO PATRICK MILLER, Es.j.
OF DALSWINTON.
SIR, April, 179,3.
Mv poems having just come out in another edi-
tion, will you do me the honour to accept of a
copy ? A mark of my gnititude to you, as a
gentleman to whose goodness I have been much
indebted ; of my respect for you, as a jjatriot
who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the
chain|)ion of the liberties of my country ; and
of niy veneration for you, as a man, whose be-
nevolence of heart does h.onour to human nature.
There urns a time. Sir, when I was your de-
pendant : this language l/ien would have been
like the vile incense ol flattery — 1 could not have
used t. — Now that connection* is at an end,
do m.e the honour to accej)t of this lionest tribute
of respect from. Sir,
Your much indebted humble Servant.
No. CLXXV.
TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, EsQ.f
OF MAR,
•IR, Dumfries, With April, Mm.
Decfnerate as human nature is said to be;
»nd in mativ instances worthless and uuprinci-
• AlUulinp to the time wlicn he helil the farm of El-
islaml, as tenant to Mr. M.
t Tills Rciitlem.in, must obliginplv favoured the
K'Jitor with a peifect copy of the original letter, and
pled it is ; still tnere are bright examplw to tht
contrary : examples that even in the eyes of su-
perior beings, must shed a lustre on the name of
man.
Such an example have I now before me,
when you. Sir, came foiwaid to patrcmise and
befriend a distant obscure stranger, merely be-
cause poverty ha<i made him helpless, and his
British hardihood of mind had provoked the ar-
bitrary wantonness of power. IMy much es-
teemed friend, Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, has
just read me a paragraph of a letter he had
fiom you. Accept, Sir, of the silent throb oi
gratitude ; for words would but mock the emo-
tions 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 gen-
tleman who must be known to you, Mr. Graham
of Fintray, a gentleman who has ever been iry
warm and generous fiiend, I had, without so
much as a hearing, or the slightest previous \u~
timatiou, been turned adrift, with my helpless
family, to all the hormrs of want. — Had I had
any other resource, probably I might have saved
them the trouble of d di»in:ssion ; but the little
money I gained by my publication, is almost
every guinea embarked, to save from ruin un
only brother, who, though one of the worthiest,
is by DO means one of the most fortunate ol
men.
In my defence to their accusations, I said,
that whatever might be my sentiments of re-
publics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I ab-
jured the idea : — That a constitution, which,
in its original princi|)les, experience had proved
to be every way fitted for our happiness in so-
ciety, it would be insanity to sacrifice to an tin-
tried visionary theory :— That, in consideration
of my being situated in a department, however
humble, immediately in the hands of peojile in
power, I had forborne taking any active i)art,
either perstinally, or as an author, in the present
business of reform. But that, where I must
declare my sentiments, I would sav there exist-
ed a system of corru|)tion between the executive
power and the representative part of the leg'sla-
ture, which boded no good to our glorious con-
stitution ; and which every patriotic Briton
must wish to see anienil-ed. — .Some such senti-
ments as these, I st.ited in a letter to my gene-
rous p.itnm fllr. Graham, which he laid befoie
the Board at large ; where, it seems, my last
remark gave great oifence ; and one ')f our sn-
allowe<. linj to l.iy it before the public ► t is paitly
printed lu Ur. Currie's Edition.
It will 1)0 neees>ary to st.ite, that in consequence ot
the pod's treedoin of remark on public measures, iiia-
lieiuu-ly mlsripieseiitcd to the Board of Kxeiso, ht
was rcpii'scnted as a.tuaily ilisinissed from his ulliee.
— This report induced Mr. lOr.skuie lo projiose a sul>
seriplioii in his favour, which was refused bv thi> p"e'
wiih that ele\eti(>n of sentiment that pccuhaily eha-
raetcrised his mind, and which is so happily di>i>layed
in this letter, .'■t-e letter No. 171. in the presint vo-
lume, written by Itiiriis, with evin more than his ac-
customed p.ithos and eloquence, in further explana
i tion.— CHOM1..K.
CORR[:SPONDENCE.
873
pfnnsnr* t^encr.il, a Hfr. Corbet, w.ts instructed
to iinjiiire on the spiit, and to dociinUMit mo —
" tint Miy tiusincss w;is to act, not to tliitih ,
Hiid tliiit wIiatcvtT might lie men or nuMsuies,
it «as for mc to he silfiil and ohei/icnt."
Mr, Corbet was likewise my steady friend ;
BO liet'veeri Mr. Graham and )iim, I have been
pa-t!v forgiven ; only I inidcrstand thit all
hopes of my getting (ilficially forward, are
bl.isted.
Now, Sir, to the bnsiness in wliidi I would
more nnmediately interest you. The [lartiality
of my COUNTKVMKN, has brought me forward
as a man of genius, and has given me a charac-
ter to support. In the i-okt I have avowed
m.inly and independent sentiments, which I
trust will he foiiiid in the man. Reasons ot no
less wei;;ht than tlie sui)(H)rt of a wife and fa-
mily, have pouited out as th« eligible, and si-
tuated as I was, the oidy eligible line of life for
me, my present occupation. Still my honest
fame is my dearest concein ; nnd a thousand
times have I trembled at tlie idea of those tie-
griidiiig epithets that malice or misrepresenta-
tion may affix to my name. I have often, in
blasting anticipation, listeneil to some future
baokr.ey scribbler, with the heavy m.ilice of sa-
Tage stupidity, exulting in iiis hireling para-
priphs — " Burns, nntwithstanding the fan-
fiirinidde of independence to be found in bis
woiks, and after h ivirii; been held forth to piib-
I;c view, and to public estimation as a man of
some genius, yet, quite destitute of lesources
within himself to support his boriowed dignity,
he dwinilli'd into a paltry exciseman, and slunk
out the rest of his insignificant existence in the
meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of
mankind."
In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to
lodge my disavowal and defiance of these slan-
derous falsehoods. — HtJUNs was a pour man
fr<nii birth, and an exciseman by necessity : but
— I will say it ! the sterling of his honest worth,
nu poverty could debase, and his independent
British mind, oppression might bend, but cuuld
not subdue. Have not I, to me, a more pre-
cious stake in my countiy's welfare, than the
ridiest dukedom in it? — I have a large family
of children, and the prospect of many more. I
h ive three sons, who, I see already, have brouyht
into the worlil souls ill qualitied to inhabit the
bodies of SLAVES Can i look tamely in, and
See any machination to wrest from them the
birthright of my boys, — the little in<lependent
BUiroNs, 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 in in tell me, that my full efforts
can be of no service ; and that it does not lie-
long to my hiinible station to meddle with the
concern ot a nation ?
I can tell him, that it is on such individuals
as 1, that a nation has to rest, botli for the
nan<i of support, and the eye of intelligence.
The uuinfofii'd hob. may swell a nation's
bulk ; and the titled, tinsel, courtly t ironsf
may be its feathere<l ornament ; but the nuiii'.
her of those who are elevated enough in life tc
reason and to reflect ; yet low enoufjh to keep
clear of the venal contagion of a court; — thesa
are a nation's strength.
I know not how to apologize for the imper-
tinent length of this epistle ; but one small re-
quest I nmst ask of you farther — When vou
have honoured this letter with a perusal, please
to commit it to the flames. Burns, in whose
behalf you have so generously interested your-
self, I have here, in bis native colours diawn
as he is ; but should any of the peo])le in whose
hands is the very biead he eats, get the least
knowledge of the jiicture, it icould ruin the poor
UAKTi for ever !
My poems having just come out in another
edition, I beg leave to present you with a copy,
as a small mark of that hli;h esteem and ardeut
gratitude, with which I have the honour to be
Sir,
Your deeply indebted,
And ever devoted humble servut
No. CLXXVI.
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.
April 26, 1793.
I AM d — mnably out of humour, my dear
Ainslie, and that is the reason, why I take up
the pen to ynit . 'tis the nearest way, (prubatum
est) to recover my spirits ajiin.
I received your last, and was much entertain-
ed with it ; but I will not at this time, nor at
anv other time, answer it. — Answer a letter? I
never coulil answer a letter in my life ! — I have
written many a letter in return for letters I have
received ; but then — they weie original matter
— spmt-away ! z g, here ; z.ig, there ; as if the
Devil that, my grannie (an oM woman indeed !)
otti-n told me, rode in will-o'-wisj), or, in her
moie classic phrase, Sn.NKiE, were looking
over my elbow. — Happy tluuight that idea has
engendenil in my heaii ! SpunKiF. — thou shalt
heneefoith be ni) symbol, signature, and tute-
lary genius! Like thee, hap-step-.\nd-lowp, h^rc-
awa-there-awa, hlgglrty-pigglety, pell-mell, Li-
therand-yon, ram-staui, happy-go lucky, up
t lils-.'i'-by-the-light-o'-the-moon ; has been, is,
and shall be, my jirogress through the mosse§
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
ou n li^'ht : and if any opaque-souled lubber
of mankind complain that my eltiiie, lambent,
tjlimmerous wanderings have misled his stupid
sttps over precipices, or into bogs ; let the
thick-headed Biuiiderbuvt recollect, that he i«
not Sl'L'NKIE : — that
s;4
BURNS' WORKS.
Spunkie's warKierinc^s cnuld not copied be ;
Amid these perils none durst walk but he
I
I have no doubt but scholarcraft may be caught
«s a Scotsman catches the itch, — by friction.
How else can you account for it, that liorn
blockhe^uls, by mere dint of handling books,
grow so wise that even they themselves are
tijually convinced of and surprised at their own
parts? I once cairied this ]ihilosophy to that
decree 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 littiC, wise-
looking', squat, upright, jabbering body of a
tailor, 1 ddvi-ed him, instead of turning over
the leaves, to hind the book on fn's Lack- — Johnic
took the hint ; and as our meetings were every
fjurth Saturday, and Pricklouse hiving a good
Scots mile to walk in coming, and, ot course,
another in returning. Bodkin was suie to lay
his hands on some heavy (piarto, or ponderous
folio, with, and under which, wra|)t up in his
grey jilaid, he grew wise, as he grew weary, all
the way iioine. He carried this so far, that an
old musty Hebrew concordance which we had
in a present from a neighboiii ing priest, by mere
dint of a]'plying it, as doctors do a blistering
])la!>ter, between his shoulder-;, Stitch, in a
dozen pilgrimages, acquijcd as much lational
theology as the said priest h.'.d done by foity
years perusal of the pat;es.
Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think
of this theory.
Yours,
SrUNKIE.
Kg. CLXXVn.
TO MISS K
the finest part of God's works below), havj
sensations for the poetic heart that the hekd ol
man are strangers to. — On this last account,
Madam, I am, as in many other things indebt-
ed to IMr. Hamilton's kindness in introducing
me to y(!u. Your lovers may view you with a
wish, 1 look on you with pleasure ; their hearts,
in your presence, may glow with desiff, mine
rises with admiration.
That the arrows of misfortune, however they
should, as incident to humanity, glance a sligh
wound, may never reach your heart — ill it tht
snares of villany may never beset you in the
road of life — that innocence mav hanil you by
the path of honour to the dwelling of peace,
is the sincere wish of him who has the hocour
to be, £;c.
MADAM,
P. R.'MiT me to jj'-esent you with the enclosed
song an a small though grateful tribute for the
honour of your acqu lintauce. 1 have, in these
verses, attempted some faint sketches of your
portrait in the iinemlielli^hed simple manner of
descriptive truth Flattery, I leave to your
I OVERS, v.'hose exaggerating fancies iinv make
them iiiiagiiie you still nearer perfection than
you redly are.
Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel mo*t for-
cibly the powers of ukahtv; as, if they are
really pulcT.s of n.iture's making, their feelings
must be finer, and their taste more delicate
than m<i~t of the world In the cheeiful bloom
of spiUNO, tir the pen<ive mililtie-s of autu.mn;
the grandeur of mjmmhu, nr the hoary majesty
of WINTKU ; the poet leels a charm unknown to
the lest ot his species. Jlveii the sight of a Cue
flower, or the euuipinj of a fine woman {^\>v 'n.
No. CLXXVIII.
TO LADY GLENCAIRN.
JIY i.Anv,
The honour you have done your poor poet,
in writing him so very oblig'iig a iitter, anil tLe
pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have given
him, came very seasonably to his aid amiil the
cheerless gloom and sinking despondency of dis-
eased ni-rves and December weather ( siij)/>iised
DeCLiiihtr, I7y >). As to forgetting the family
of Gleiieairn, Heaven is mv witness with wh.l
si.icei ity I could use thn-e old verses which pieast
mc more in their rude simplicity than the m«
elegant lines I ever saw.
If thre Jerii<alem I forget,
Skill part from my right hand. —
My tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave..
If I do thee forget
Jerusalem, and tliee above
My chief joy do not set
When I am tempted to do anv thin? i.-nprw
per, I d.ire not. because I look on mv-cK u , ha
couiitabie to your ladyship and family. liirtt
and then wlien I h.ive the honour to b'; ralleJ
to the tables of the great, if I happen tc meet
with any mortification from the stately stupidity
of self-stifl[icient sijuires, or the luxuriant indo-
lence of upstart nabobs, I get a!<ove the crea-
tures by calling to iemen;!)ian':e that I am pa-
tronized liy the IS'oble House of Glencairu ; and
at t;ala-tinies, such as ^'ow-ycar's day, a ehii^-
tening, or the Kirn-niL;ht, when my punch-liowi
is lirought from its du>ty corner and filled uji in
honour of the occawon. I begin with, — The
Citviitfss (if (ileiiccirn ! My good wom.in with
the enihusihsin cf a gritetul beat t, next iries,
I/y Lmd ! jr d s.) t!ie toast goes on until I end
wi'h Lii'Ju H'lrr'.il^s little iiiujtl > whose cpi
ni>'!.n"inn, ' lii.fp |)1' dgt'd iii\S(df to write.
V. n-;.. ' f.ceived yon- ladyship's letter, J \\a%
CORRESPONDENCE.
375
|\i8t in the act of trail ■criliin;^ for ymi some verses
I have lately ciiiiii)os..>(i ; ami meant to have sent
them my first leisure hour, and aeciuaiiiteil you
witli my late eliar.ge of life. I mentioned to my
lord, Kiv fears coiieerning my farm. Tlmse
fiars Mere indeed too true ; it is a l)arg;ain would
have ruined me hut for the lucky circumstancL'
of mv having an excise commission.
People may talk as they please, of the igno-
niinv of the excise ; £bO a year will support
my wife and children and kei'p n-.e independent
of tlie world ; and I would much rather h ive it
Siid tliatmv profes>iou sorrowed credit from me,
than that I be rowed credit from my profession.
Another advantage I have in this husiuess, is
the knowled;;e it gives me of the various shades
of human character, consequently assisting me
vastly in my poetic jjursuits. I hid the nuist
ardent enthusiasm for the muses wlien nohody
knew me, hut myself, and that ardour is hy no
means cooled now that my Lord Glencairn's
goodness has intniduceil me to all the world. I
Not that I am in haste for the press. 1 hive no
idea of pulili>hinn, else I certaiidy had consulted j
niy nohle gcnenius patron ; hut after acting the
part' of an hoiiCst man, and supporting my fa-
jiily, my whole wishes and views aie directed
.0 poetic pursuits. I am aware that though I
vere to give perfnrmances to the world superior
•o my former works, still if they were of the
.ame kind with tlio-e, the comparative recep-
tion they would meet with woidd m«rtify me.
I have tiiriud my thoughts on the drama. I do
not mean the stately buskin of tlie tragic muse.
Does not your ladyship think that an Edinburgh
theatre wou'd be more amused with affectation,
fidly 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.
a talent for poetry ; none ever .Asplsed it who
liad pretensions to it. The fates and characters
of tlie ihyming tribe often employ my taoui;lit»
when I am disposed to be mel.incbojy. There
is not, among all the niaityrulogies that ever
were penned, so rueful a nanative as the lives of
the poets. — In the comparative view of wretehe«i,
the criterion is not wli.it they are doomed to suf-
fer, but how they are formed to hear. Take a
being of om' kind, give him a stronger imagi-
nation and a more delicate sensibility, which lie-
tween them will ever engender a more ungovern-
able set of passions than are (he usu d lot oi man ;
implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle
vagary, such as, arranging wild flowers in I iii-
tastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to his
haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks
of the litt'e minnows in the sunny pool, or
hunting after tn» ibtrigues of butteiHies — in
short, send him adrift after some pursuit wliich
shall eternally mislead hiin from the path of
lucre, and yet curse iiin) with a keener reli>h
than any man living, for the plasuies that lucre
can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure of his
woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of
his own dignity, and )ou have created a wight
nearly as miserable as a |)oet. To you, Madam,
I need not recount the fairy pleasures tiie mus"
bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of evil
Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman
she }>as in all ages been accused of misleading
mankind from the counsels of wisdom and the
paths of prudence, involving them in difticidties,
baiting them with poverty, branding ti-.em with
infamy, and plunging them in the wliirhng vor-
tex of ruin ; yet where is the man but must own
that all happiness on earth is not worthy the
name — that even the holy hermit's solitary pios
pect of paradisaical bliss is but the glitter ol a
northern sun, rising over a frozen region, com-
pared with the many pleasures, the namelesi
rajitures tlut we owe to the lovely Queen of the
heart of 2\Iaa !
No. CLXXIX.
TO JIISS CHALMERS.
tfiDAM, Aiipust, 17!)3.
Some rather unlookdl-for accidents have pre-
vented my doing my>eif the honour of a second
visit to Arbieg'and, as I was so ho-pit ibly invit- ;
ed, and so positively meant to have done. — I
However, I still hope to have that pleasure be- i
foie the busy motiths of harvest begin.
I enclose \ou two of my lute pieces, as some
kind return for the pleasure I have received in
perusing a ceitain MS. volume of poems in the
pis-essiiin of C-ptaia Riddel. To repay one
with an <lil sonij, is a nroverb, whose force you,
Midani, 1 know will not allow. What is said
:if illustrious descent is, I l*"lieve, ff-ually true of
No. CLXXX.
TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esq,
SIR, December, 1793.
It is said that we take the greatest libertie*
with our greatest friends, and 1 p ay myself a
very high compliment in the manner in which
I am going to ap|)ly the remaik. 1 hav«; owed
you money longer than ever I owed it to any
man. — Here is Ker's account, and here are six
guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shilling to
man — or woman either. IJut for these dauined
dirty, dog's ear'<i little pages,* [ had done mv
self the honour to hive waited on you long ago
Independent of tlie obligations yuur hospitalitj
* Scottish bajiknote*.
has laiil me um'tr, the conscioii'sjss of your sii-
pexliirity in the rauk of man ami i;t'ntleiiian, of
tsflf was fully !is much as I coulil evur make
heaii a'4ain--t ; hut to owe you money too, was
mdie than I couij face.
I think I once mentioned something of a col-
lection of Scotch songs I have fur some years
been making : I send you a peiusal of wliat I
liave got together. I couhl not conveniently
R|)are tiieni above five or six days, anil five or
six glances of them will probably mure than suf-
fice you. A very few of them are my own.
Wheri you are tired of them, please leive them
with Mr. Clint, of the KinL;'s Arms. There is
not ijiiuthrr cojiy of the collection in the world ;
and I shill be so -ry that any unlortunate negli
pence shia Id depr'"> rae of what has cost me a
good deal of pains.
LETTERS, 179i, 1795, 179G.
No. CLXXXI.
TO THE EARL OK BUCHAX,
WITH A corv OF " BRirrt's AnniiEss to his
IKOOl'S AT BANNOCKBURN."
MV loKi), Diinifriex, ]2th Jan. ]79i:
Wii.L your joiil.sliii) allow me to present you
with the '.nclused little comi)osition of mine, as
a small rnluite of gratitude for that acipiaint-
ani-e with wiiicli you have been pleased to ho-
nour me. Inilepriideiit of mv enthusiasm as a
Scotsniaii, I ha^i: rarely met witli any thing in
nisfiuy whub interest niy feelings as a man,
efjuai with the story of li.iuiupckburn. On the
one li.iiid, a cruel, but able usurper, leading on
the fineit ainiy in Europe to extinguish the ia^t
fpark of freedom among a gieatly-d.iring, and
gieatly-injiired peojde : on the other hand, the
diii-pcr.ite relics of a gallint nation, (h^voting
tlicin--elves to rescue their bleeding country, or
pel isli witii hiT.
LibeiTy! thou ait a prize tiul)', and iuiieed
invaluable 1 — loi never canst thou be too deaiiy
bought !
1 have the honour to be, &c.
No. CI.XXXII.
TO Mils. KIDDEL,
WHO WAS TO HPSPFAK A Pt A V OKE RVRNIKQ
At IllE IJUMFKIKS IIIKAthE.
I AM thinking to Kcnd my Ail<ltrn$ to some
prrirMlMiil publication, lm(^ it iias not got your
■am turn, ho pi ay look over it.
As lu ll 'luesday's jilay, let me beg of you.
my dear Madam, let me bej of m\\ tn give us,
The WoniiKr, a Wmnan keeps a Secret ; to
\vr h please adf.. The S/>r>ilt::l Chili! — you will
1' - j\y oblige me by so doing.
Ah, what an enviable creature you are ,
There now, this cursed gloomy !)lue-ilevil day,
you are going to a party of choice spirits—
" To play the shapes
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form
Those rapid pictures, that assembled train
Of fleet ideas, never join'd befoie,
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ;
Or foliy, painting huminir, giave himself.
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve.
But as you rejoice v/ith them that do rejoice,
do also remember to weep with them that weep,
and pity your melancholy friend
No. CLXXXIII.
TO A LADY
IN FAVOUR or A player's benefit.
MATAM,
Yoo were so very good as to promise me to
honour my friend with your ])iesence on bin
benefit-night. That night is tixe<l for Friday
first : the play a most interesting one ! TUt
w(i)j to keep Him. I have the pleasure to know
.Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is gene-
rally acknowledged. He has genius and worth
which would ilo honour to patronage : he is a
poor and modest man ; claims which, from
their very silence, have the more forcible power
on the generous heart. Alas, for pity ! tint,
from the indolence of those who have the good
things of this life in their gift, too oft>'n does
brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon,
the rightful due of retiring, huniide, want ! Oi
all the (juahties we assign to the author and di-
rector of Nature, by far the most enviable is —
to be able " To wipe away all tears from all
eyes." O what insignificant, sordiil wretches
are they, however chance may have loaded them
with \cealth, who go to their graves, to their
magnificent nuvisulcums, with liirdly the con-
sciousness of having made .,ne pour honest heart
hajipy !
Hut I crave your pardon. Madam ; I came te
l>eg, not to preach.
No. CI.XXXIV.
KITRaCT ok A LETTEIt
TO MR.
1 794
1am extremely obliged to yon for vour kinn
mention of my inteiests, in a letter which i\lr
CORRESPOXDEN'CE.
S77
b>- slim\'o(l mc. At present, my situation
in life must he in a great nic.isure ftatimuiry,
U least lor two or tliiee years. The statemeiit
Ie this — I am on the supervisor's list ; and as
ire tonie on there hy precedency, in two or
til ice years I shall he at the liead of that list,
inii lie appointed "/' coiine — then a Friend
might he <if service to ine in pettinij nii" into a
place of th.e kingdom which I would like. A
sjperviwir's income varies from ahout a luinilred
nn.l twenty, to two hundred u-year ; hut the
business is an ince-sant drud;^ery, and wotild he
nearly a coiiiiilete bar to every sjiei-ies of litera-
ry pursuit. The moment I am appointed su-
pervisor in the c(miiTion routine, I may be no-
minated on the collector's list ; and this is al-
ways a business [)ui'ely of political patronage A
collectoiship varies much, from better than two
liiindred a-ycar to near a thousand. They also
come forw.ird by precedencv on the list, and
have, besides a handsome income, a life of com-
plete leisure. A life of literary leisure, with a
i decent competence, is the summit of my wish-
es. It would be the jirudish affectation of sillv
pride in me, to say that I do not need or would
nut be indebted to a political fiiend; at the
same time. Sir, I by no means lay my alTairs
before you thus, to hook my dependent situa-
tion on your benevoJence. If, in my progress
of l;fe, an opening ^liuuld occur where the good
offices (}f a gentleman of your public character
and political consequence might bring me for-
waid, I will pitition your goodness with the
same Ir.inkness and sincerity as I now do niy-
Eelf the honour to subscribe myself, &c.
Xo. CLXXXV.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
DIAR MADAM,
I MKANT to have called on you yesternight,
but as I edged iiji to your box-door, the first
object which greeted my view, was one of those
lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dra-
gon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the
conditions and capitulations you so obligingly
ort'er, 1 sh ill certainly make my weather-beaten
rustic phiz a part of your box-furniture on
Tuesday, when we may arrange the business of
the visit.
Among the profusion of idle compliments
which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly luces-
lantly otters at your shrine — a shrine, how far
isalted above such adoration — [lermit me, were
I't but for rarity's sake, to pay you the honest
tiibiiteof a warm lieart, and an independent
liiud ; and to assure you, that I am, thou most
»iii able, and most dccomplislied of thy sex,
with the most respeetlul esteem, and fervent re-
gard, thine, kc.
ISo. CLXXXVI.
TO THE SAME.
I wit.T. wait on you, my ever-valued frierd
but wiiether in the morning I am not sure.
Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue bu
siness, and may probably keej) me employee
with my |ien until neon. Fine emploMi.ent for
a poet's pen ! There is a species of the huinac
genus that I call the yiti-horse class : what en-
viable dogs tliey are. Rounil, and round, and
round they go, — .Mundell's ox that drives hi,
cotton mill, is their exact prototype — without
an idea or a wish beyond their circle : fat,
sleek, stupid, patient, fjuiet, and coiitenfed ;
while here I sit, altogether N'ovenibi-rish, a d —
melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not
enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor
of the other to re|)ose sue in torpor ; my soul
flouncing and fluttering round her tenement,
like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of
winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I
am persuaded that it was of nie the Hebrew
sage prophesied, when he foretidd — " And be-
hold, on whatsoever this m.m ilotli set his heart,
it shall not ]>ros])er !" If my resentment is awak-
ened, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak ;
and if —
I'ray that wisdom and bliss be more frequea^
visitors of
R. B.
No. CLXXXV II.
TO THE SAME.
I HAVE this moment got the song froiE
S , and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt
it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to nie ho»r
I lend him any thing again.
I have sent you Wtrltr, truly happy to hava
any the smallest oppoitunity of obliging \ou.
'Tis tiue, IMadam, I saw you orico since I
was at W ; -awl tl.at once froze the very
life-blood of my heart. Your reception of nie
was such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his
judge, about to pronounce sentence of death on
liiiii, could only have envied my feelings and si-
tuation. lint I liate tlie theme, ami never mora
shall write or speak on it.
One thing 1 sha'l proudly say, that I can pay
Mrs. a higher tribute of esteem, and ap-
preciate her amiable worth more truly, than »ny
man whom I have seen approach L«r.
378
BURNS' WORKS.
No. CLXXXVIII.
TO THE SAME.
1 liAVE often told you, my dear friend, thi*
Toii had a spice of cajirice in your composition,
atid you have as often disavowed it, even per-
ha;!s while your opinions were, at the mon.ent,
irrefragal)ly proving it. Could ani/ thing es-
tranf;e me from a friend such as you ? — No !
To-morrow I shall have the honour of waiting
en you.
Farewell, thou first of friends, and most ac-
compl^hed of women ; even with all thy little
caprices !
No. CLXXXIX.
TO THE SAME.
MADAM,
I RETURN your common-i)lace book. I have
perused it witli much pleasure, and would have
continued my criticisms, but as it seems the
critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures
must lose their value.
If it is true tliat " offences come only from'
the heart," before you I am guiltless. To ad-
mire, esteem, and piize you, as the most accom-
p'.i>he(l of women, and the first of friends — if
these are crimes, I am the most ofTendiug thing
alive.
In a face where I used to meet the kind com-
placency of friendly confidence, now to find cold
neglect, and contemptuous scorn — is a wrench
that my heart can ill bear. It is, however,
some kind of mi.-i rable goi.d luck ; that while
ilc-liuut-en-has ligour may depress an uiidftcnd-
ing wretch to the grduuil, it has a tendency to
rouse a stuhlioi n Miii.ctliing in his bosom, which,
though it cannot heal the wounds of his soul, is
at least an opiate to blunt tiieir poighaucy.
With the profoundest respect for your abili-
ties ; the most sincere esteem, and ardent re-
gard for your gentle heart and amiable manners ;
and the most fervent wish and prayer for your
welfare, jieace, and bliss, I have the honour to
be. Madam, youi most devoted humble servant.
No. CXC.
TO JOiiN SYME, Esq.
You know that among other high dignities,
you have the hi.iioiir lo be my supreme court
of critical judicature, from which there is no
appeal. I enclose you a song which I c(nnpos-
eA since I «aw you, and I am goin',' to give you
the hihtory of it. Do you know that amoiig
much tiiat i uiliiiire in the character and man-
ners of those great folks whom I jave nov tlw
honour to cail mv acquaintances, the O
family, there is nothing charms me more than
than !Mr. O's unconcealable attachment to tha.
incomparable woman. Did you ever, my dear
Syme, meet with a man who owed more to the
Divine Giver of all gooti things than Mr. O. .'
A fine fortune ; a pleasing exterior ; self-evident
amiable dispositions, and an ingenious upright
mind, and that informed too, much beyond tho
usual run of young fellows of his rank and for-
tune ; and to all this^ such a woman ! — but o!
her I shall say nothing at all, in despair of say-
ing any thing adecjuate : in my song, I have en
deavoured to do justice to what would be his
feelings on seeing, in the scene I have drawn,
the habitation of his Lucy. As I am a good
deal pleased with my performance, 1 in my first
fervour thought of sending it to Mrs. O ,
but on second thoughts, perhaps what I oflfer as
the honest incense of genuine respect, miglit,
from the well-known character of pi.verty and
poetry, be construed into some modification or
other of that servility which my soul abhors*.
CXCI.
TO MISS —
VADAM.
Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessi-
ty could have made me trouble you with this
letter. Except my ardent and just esteem for
your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment
a>ising in my breast, as I put jien to paper to you,
is painful. The scenes I have passed with the
friend of mv soul, and his amiable connexions!
The wrench at my heart to think that he is
gone, for ever g(me from me, never more to
meet in the wanderings of a weary world ; and
the cutting reflection of all, that I had most un-
fortunately, though most undeservedly, lost the
confidence of that soul of worth, ere it took .'Is
fiight.
These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary
anguish However, yon, also, may be offended
with some inipntisd improprieties of mine ; sen-
sibility you know I possess, and sincerity none
will deny me.
To oppo'-e those prejudices which have bcea
raised against me, is not the business of this
letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how
to wage. The powers of po>itive vice I can in
^■ome degree calculate, and against direct male-
volence I can be on my guard ; but who ca.n
estimate the fatuity of giddy ca])rice, or ward
iiffthe unthinking mischief of piecipitate folly f
I have a lavdui- to request of you, Mmlam
ind of your si>ter Mrs. , through youi
• The song cnelosoil woi the one bofjiMiuiig with
" O wat ve wlia's in von town.
r:
CORRESPONDENCE.
37S
means. You know, fliat, nt tlie wish of my late
ftit'iul, [ iiKide a collection of all my trifles in
verse wlilch I lud ever written. They are ma-
: y of them local, some of them puerile, and sil-
•y, and all of them unlit for the public eye. As
t have some little fame at stake, a fame that I
trtisf, may live, when the hate of those who
" watch for my halting," and the contuni-eliou>
sneer of tho-^e whom accident has made my su-
j)eriors, will, with themselves, be gone to the
regions of oblivion ; I am iinca-jy now for the
fite of those manuscripts. — Will Mrs have
the goodness to destroy them, or return them to
me ? As ii pledge of friendship they were be-
stowed ; and that circumstance, iudecd, was all
their merit. Most unhappily for ine, that me-
rit thev no longer possess, and I hope that Mrs.
's goodness, which I well know, and ever
will revere, will not refuse this favour to a man
whom she once held in some degree of estima-
tion.
With the sincerest esteem I have the honour
to be, ftladam, ice.
No. CXCIL
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
A MIND DISEASED.
25/A Ftbnian/, 1794.
Camst thou minister to a mind diseased?
Canst tliou speik peace and rest to a soul to>sed
on a sea of troubles, without one frienilly star to
guide her course, and dreading that the next
surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to
a frame, tremblingly alive to the tortures of sus-
pense, the stability and hardihood of the rock
th it braves the blast ? If thou canst not do the
least of the>e, why wouldst thou disturb me in
my au:=eiies, with thy inquiries after mu ?
For these two months I have not been able to
Hft a pen. My constitution and frame were, uh
oriqine, blasted with a deep incurable taint it
bvpoehoiidria, which poisons my existence. Of
ate a number of domestic vexation-', and some
pecuniary share in the ruin of these times ;
losses which, though trifling, were yet what I
CGold ill bear, have so irritated me, that my
feelings at times could only be envied by a re-
piobate spirit listening to the sentence that
do.:ms it to |ieribt;on.
Are you deep in the language of consolation .'
I hive exhausted in reHeetion every tojiio of
ronifoit. A /leurt at eaae would have been
[•harmed with my sentiments and reasonings ;
but as to mvself. I Wd« like Judas Iseiriot
preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould
the hearts of those around him, but hi) own
kept its native incorrigibility.
Stil' •bf:re are two gieat pillars that bear us
up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery
The ONE is composed of the different modiflca
tions of a certain noble, stubborn sonie»'rne -^
man, known by the names of C(nirage, fortitude,
magnanimity. The otheii is made up of those
feelings and sentiments, which, however the
sceptic may deny them, or the entbusiist dis-
liguie them, are yet, I am coiivinceil, original
and componetit parts of the human soul ; those
somes of the mind, if I may be alloived tha
expression, which connect us with, and link
us to, those awful obscure realities — an alU
powerful and equal'y beneficent God ; ami a
world to come, beyond deatli and the grave.
The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray
of hope beams on the field ; — the last pours the
balm of comfoit into the wounds which time
can never cure.
I do not remember, my dear Cunningham,
that you and 1 ever talked on the subject of re-
ligion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as
the trick (jf the crafty few, to lead the undis-
cerning many ; or at most as an uncertain ob-
scurity, which mankind can never know any
thing of, and with which thtv are fools if tliey
give themselves much to <lo. Nor would I
quarrel with a inan fu- his irrelii;iiin, any more
that) I would for his want of a musical ear. I
would regret that he was shut out troni what,
to me and to others were such superiative 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. Il
my son should happen to be a man of feeling,
sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to
his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that ibis
sweet little fellow who is just now running
about my de>k, will be a man of a melting, ar-
dent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de-
lighted with the painter, and rapt witli the
poet. Let me figure him, wandering out in a
sweet evening, to inhale the balmy uales, and
eujiiy the giowiug luxuriance of the spr'iig ;
hiiii-elf the while in the blooming jniuth ot life.
He looks abroad on all nature, and through na-
ture up to nature's God. His soul, by swift,
delighting degrees, is wrajit above lh;s >ublu-
nary sphere, until he can be si'ent no longer,
and buistsout into the gluiiuus entliususni of
Thunisou. —
" These, as they change, .Almighty Father, these
.\ie but the varied God. — The rolling year
Is full of tnee."
.•\nd so on, in all the spirit and ardour of thjit
charming hymn.
These are no ide d pleasures; "hey are rea
delights, and I ask what of ihe deiiglits aniocg
the sons of men are superior, not t.i say, equa
to them ? And they have this pieeiotis, va-t ad-
dition, that conscious virtue stamps them foi
her OA 11 ; ami lays bold on them to bring her
self into the ]>resenee of a witiiiSisiiig, jud^m^.
aad approving God.
No. CXCIIl.
TO
lOPPOSF.S HIMSELF TO BE WRITING FROM THE
DEAD TO THE LIVING.
MADAM,
1 DARE saj this is the first epistle you ever
ra^'eiveil fioiii this riethcT world. I write you
from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of
the diiimjd. The time and manner of my lea-
vinjj your earth I do not exactly know ; as I
took my departure in the he.it of a fever of in-
toxication, contracted at your too hospitable
mansiori ; hut on my arrival here, I was fairlv
tried and setitvnced to endure the purgatorial
ttirtures of this infernal contine, for the space of
ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty-
nine days ; and all on account of the improprie-
ty (ff my coiiduct yisternight under your roof.
Here am I, laid on a lied of pitiless furze, with
my aching heail reclined on a oillow of ever-
pierciiig thorn, whde an infernal tormentor,
wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name, I think,
is Iltvitlk'Cti'in, with a whip of scorpions, for-
bids )icace or rest to approach me. and keeps
anguish eternally awake. .Still, Madam, it I
could ill any measuie lie reinstated in the good
opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last
night so much injured, I think it would be ati
alleviation to my tormeiit>. For this reason I
troulile you with this letter. To the men of
the ciim|iaiiy I will m-jke no apology. — Your
husband, who in^istcd on my drinking more
than 1 chose, has ni) right to lilani£ me ; and
the other gontU-inen were partakers of my guilt.
But to you. Aladain. I have much to apolog ze.
Your good o^i.iion I valued as one of the great-
est acqiiisitiiJiis I had made on earth, and I was
•a lily a beast to -forleit it. There was a Miss
1 too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and
unassuming manners — do make, on my part, a
miseralile d — il wi etch's best ajiology to her. A
Mrs. G , a charming woman, ilid nie the
iiDuour to be prejudiced in my favour ; this
makes me hope that I have not outraged her
beyond all forgiveness To all the other ladies
please present my humblest contrition for my
condui t, and my petition for their gr.icious par-
don. O all _\e powers of deieney and decorum !
whisper to tlieiii that my eriors, though great.
Were involuntary — that an intoxicated man is
the vilcNt of liea>t> — that it was not in niv na-
ture to be biutal to any one — that to be ruile to
a woman, when m my senses, was impossible
Willi me — but —
Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye tliree hell-
OouuiW that ever dog my >teps and bay at my
pare nie ! s|)aie uie I
Foiuive the (illeiiees, and pity the perdition
>f, Moilaiii, )uur huuilile i>l<ive.
No. CXCIV.
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN
MY I.ORD,
When you cast your eye on the name at tht
bottom of this letter, and on the title page oi
the book I do myself the honour to send voui
lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my va-
nity tells me, that it mu-t be a name not entire,
ly unknown to you. The generous patronage
of your late illustrious brother found me in the
lowest obscurity : he introduced my rustic m ise
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, I have endeavoured to ex-
press in a poem to his memory, which I have
now published. This edition i just from the
press ; and in my gratitude to the dead, and my
respect for the living (fame belie- you, my lord,
if you possess not the same dignity of man,
which was your noble brother's characteristic
feature), I had destined a copy for the Earl ot
Glencairn. I learnt ju^t now that vou are itj
town : — allow me to present it to you.
I know, my lord, such is the vile, ven.il con-
tagion which peivades the world of letters,
that professions of re>pect fioin au author, par-
ticulaily from a poet, to a lord, are more than
suspicious. I c^aiin my by-past conduct, and
my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to tha
too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honoura
of your lordshiji's name, and unn ted as is the
obscurity of mine ; with the ujirightness of an
honest man, I come before your lordship, wich
an oifering, however humble, 'lis all I have tc
give, of my grateful respect; and to beg of you,
my lord, — 'tis all I have to ask of you, that you
will do uie the honour to acce]it of it.
I have the honour to be, Sec. *
No. CXCV.
TO DR. ANDERSON,
AUTHOR Of THE LIVES Of THE FOCTS.
SIR,
I AM much indebted to my worthy friend
Dr. Blacklock for introducing me to a gentle-
man of Dr. Anderson's ceiebiiry ; but when you
do me the honour to ask my .issistauce in your
purposed publication, Alas, Sir! you might ar
Well think to i lieapen a little honesty at tht
sign of an Advocate's wig, or humility under
the Geneva band. I am a miserable hurried
devil, worn to the marrow in the friction ol
• The original letter is in the pnssessinn of the Ho
noiirahle Mrs. "ihaiiil of l'o\nm(,'s. Kroin i memo
ramhiui on llu- haek of ihe letur, it aiijiears to liav*
bvcii wriiteii in Mav 17144.
CORRESPONDENCE.
361
holdit g the nnscs of tlie pnnr publicans to the
grindstone cif Excise ; and like Milton's Satan,
for private reasons, am forced
To do what yet tlio' da/n'd 1 would ah-
hore;*' —
and except a couplet or two of lionest execration
No. CXCVII.
TO -Sin. JAMES JOHNSON.
No. CXCVI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP
Castle Douglas, 5th June, ITHl.
Here in a solitary inn, in a solitary village,
am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy
as I may. — Solitary confinement, you know, is
Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners ;
so let me consider by what fatality it happens
that I have so long; been exceeding sinful as to
neglect the coirespondence of the most valued
friend I have on earth. To tell you that I have
beet4 in poor health, will not be excuse enough,
though it is true. I am afiuid I am about to
•uffer for the follies of my youth. My medical
friends threaten me with a flying gout; but I
trust they are mistaken.
I am just going to trouble your critical pa-
tience with the first sketch of a stanza 1 h^ve
been framing as I paced along the road. The
suliject is LIBERTV : You know, my honciired
friend, Low dear the theme is to me. I design
it an irregular Ode for General Washir.gtin's
birth -day. After having mentioned the dege-
neracy of other kingdoms, I come to ScotlauQ
thus :
( See Poems, p. 77. )
You will probably have another scrawl from
me in a sta^je or two.
I send you by my frici;* Mr. Willace forty-
one songs for your fifth vo/jme ; if we cannot
finish it any other way, what would you think
of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs ?
In the meantime, at your lei-^ure. give a copy
of the Museum lo my worthy friend Mr. Peter
Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved
with blank leaves, exactly as he liid the laiid
of Glenriddel's,* that I may insert every anec-
dote I can learn, together with my cwn criu-
cisms and remarks on the songs. — A copy of
this kind I shall leave with you, the ed tor, to
Jiublish at some after period, by way of ni iking
the Museum a bonk famouu lO the end of time,
and you renowned for ever.
I have got an Highland dirk for which I have
great veneration ; as it once was the dirk of
Lord lialmcrino. It fell into liad hands, who
stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as
the knife and fork. I have some thfuights of
sending it to your care, lo get it nKuintcd anew.
Thank you for the co|)ies of my Volunteer
Ballad. — Our fiiend Clarke has done indeed
well ! It is chaste and beautiful. I have not
met with any thing that has pleased me so
much. You know, I im no connoisseur, but
that I am an amateur — will be allowed me.
No. CXCVIII.
TO I'ETER MILLER, Jun. EsQ.f
OF DALSWINTON.
DEMI SIR, Dumfries, Nov. 179i.
Your offer is indeed truly geneious, and most
sincerely do I thank you for it ; but in my pre-
sent situation, I find that I dare not accept it.
You Well know my politiciil sentiments ; and
Were I an insular individual, unconnected with
a wife and a family of ihiidien, with the most
firvid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my
services : I then could and would have desjjised
all consequences that might have ensued.
My prospect in the Excise is something; at
least, it is, encumbered as I am with the wel-
fire, the very existence, of near hail-j-score
of helpless individuals, what I dare not sport
with.
In the mean time, they are most welcome to
This is the manuscript Ixiok contRinin? the re-
l)lagui:d with low spirits marks on Scottish siiii;;s ainl liallails, prcstiitcvt to the
|)ubhc, with consiitera le Kdilitioix, in this volume.
t In a conversn'ion with hii friend Mr I'eiry, ilhe
MY DEAR FRIEN'D,
You should have heard from me long ago ;
but over and above some vexatious share iu the
pecn:.iary losses of these accursed times, 1 have
all tliis winter been
and biiie devils, so that / Aare almost hviig mij
harp vn the willow trees. \ pro;-rietor ■/ " The Muniiiij. Chroiiit le"), Mr. Miller
1 am just now busy correcting a new edition JJ^I'^fspnted to that );entJLinan ti.e iii-iittivjemv oj
„r 1 .1 • • 1 J- 1-1 '>"ri;-s salary to answer tlie imiienous <le:iiaii(ls of a
of my poems, and this, with my ordinary busi- ' numerous family, in tlieir svinpathv for his n.i'f',r^
ness, finils ui>- iu full empaiyment. * tunes, and in th ir rocrct that his talents ucre rearly
'"-^ '" ""^ «"rl'l of I'.tier^. the<e gentlemen agreed on
tlie plan of seithnj; him in London.
• riumss.-inxiety with regard to the correctness of To accomplish this mo^tdesiralileohject Mr Perrv
n>s wrjtiiiKS was \Lry iireat Being questioned ns to very spiritedly, made the jviet a handsome otf-r „i -'n
his m »l.- ot cimipositi.n, he repli.-d, •• All my poclry animal stipend for the exercise of his filrnts ^c hii
IS th^ effect of easy eomixjsitiou, but of laburluus cjr- itf-.vspaper. Unrns's re.asfms for ret using this oHei art
-ecti'jn." , Slated in ijie present letter— Cuomlk.,
S82
BURNS WORKS.
mv Ode ; only, let tliem insert t as a thin^
tbev luve met with by accident and unknown
to nie. — Nay, if J Jr. Perry, \vh;«e honour, af-
ter vour character of him I cannot doubt ; if
he will f;;ive ine an address and channel by which
anv thinc^ will come safe from those spies with
which he may be certain that hi« correspon-
dence is beset, I will now and then send him
any bagatelle that I may write. In the present
hurrv of Europe, nothint^ but news and politics
will be legiirded ; but against the days of peace,
which Heaven send soon, my little assistance
may perhaps till up an idle column of a News-
paper. I have long had it in my head to try
my hand in the way of little ])rose e>s lys, which
I propose sending into the world through the
medium of some Newspaper; and should these
be woith his while, to these iMr. Peiry shall
be welcome ; and all my reward shall be, his
treating me with his paper, which, by the bye, to
any body who has the least relish for wit, is a
high treat indeed.
With the most grateful esteem, I am ever,
Dear Sir, &c.
No. CXCIX.
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq.
MY DFAR SIR, Dumfries.
It is indeed with the highest satisfaction that
I congratulate you on the return of " days of
ease, and nights of pleasure," after the horrid
hoiirs of misery, in which I saw you suffering
existence when I was last in Ayrshire. I sel-
dom pray for any body. " I'm baith dead
sweer, ami wretched ill o't." But most fervent-
ly do I beseech the great Director of this world,
that VdU may live long and he happy, but that
you may live no longer than while 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; (1 mean an
English pint), and that ycu will nc'ver be wit-
ness to nuiic than one 1 owl of [luncii at a time;
and that cold ilrams you will never more taste.
I am well convinced too, that after drinking,
perhaps boiling punch, you will never mount
your horse aiid gallop home in a chill, late hour.
— Above all things, as I understanil you are
now in habits of intimacy with that lioanerijes
of gospel powers, Fallier Auld, be earnest with
him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, that
you may see the vanity of vanities in trcsting
to, or even practising .he carnal moral woi ks
of chtiriti/, liuKinnitij, ^enerositi/, and f ryive-
ness ; tlnngs which you practised so flagrantly
that it was evidrnt you delighted in theui ; ne-
glecting, or perhaps, prophanely des|)ising the
wuiilesi'me linctriiie of " Faith without works,
the only ancho.* uf salvation."
A hymn of thanksgivmg would, in my cm
nion, be highly becoming from you at present •
and in my zeal for your well-being, I earnestly
press it on you to be diligent in chanting ovef
the two enclosed pieces of sacred |)oesy. My
best compliments to Mrs. Hamilton and I\liss
Kennedy.
Yours in the L J
R. B.
No. CC,
TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, Juk.
DUMFKIES.
DF.AR SIR, Svnrlay Morning.
I WAS, I know, drunk last night, but I am so«
ber tliis morning. From the expressions Capt.
, made use of to me, had I had no-
body's welfare to care for but my own, we should
certainly have come, according to the manners
of the world, to the necessity of murdering one
another about the business. The woids were
such as, generally, I believe, end in a brace of
pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that I
did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and
a family of children in a drunken squabble.
Farther you know that the report of certain
political opinions being mine, has already once
before brought me to the brink of destruction.
I dread lest last night's business may be mis-
represented in the same way. — Yol', 1 beg,
will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish
for Mrs. Burns's welfare with the task of wait-
ing as soon as possible, on every gentleman
who «as present, and state this to hi»i\, and, as
you j)leasc, shew him this letter. What, after
all, was the obnoxious toast? " May our suc-
cess in the present war be equal to the justice
of our cause." — A toast that the most outrage-
ous frenzy of loyalty cannot object to, I request
and beg that this morning you will wait on the
parties present at the (oolish dispute. 1 shall
only add, that I am truly sorry that a man wiio
stood so high in my estimation as Mr. ,
should use me in the manner in which I con
ceive he has done.»
♦ At tliis perioil of our Poet's life, v.hon politic.il
animosity w,is niaiie llie ground of private quarrel, ilie
following fiiolisli verses were sent as an attack ou
Hums and his friends for their poliliial (ipiiiions.
I'hcy wore written by some member of a club styling
themselves tlie Lo.vci jVwi/cfJ of Dumfries, or rather
by the uri'ted f,'cm'iis of that club, which was more dis-
lr'i>c;iiislre(l fur drrmken loyalty, than e;llier lor re-
speelability or jioetical talent. 'I'he verse^ were hand-
ed ovir ihe table to Ihirns at a convivial meelina, awi.
lie instantly indorsed the subjoined reply.
The Loycd Natives' Verses.
Vc sons of sedition give car to my song.
Let SMiie, UuiiNS, and Maxwell, pervade cverj
thronii.
With, t'rai Uen the attorney, amt Mundcll the (juack,
Send Willie li.e monger to hell with a smack
CORRESPONDENCE.
383
No. CCI.
10 MR. ALEXANDER FINDLATER,
SUPERVISOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES.
ItR,
Enxlosed are the two schemes. I would
not have troubled you with the collector's one,
bat for suspicion lest it be not rii;ht. IMr. Ers-
kirie promised me to make it right, if you will
have the goodnes to shew him how. As I have
no co])y of the scheme for myself, and the alter-
ations bcini^ very considerab'e from what it w:is
formerlj', I hope that I shall have access to this
scheme I send you, when I come to face up my
new l)ooks. So much for schemes. — And that
no scheme to betray a friend, or mislead a
stranger; to seduce a young girl, or rob
a HENROOST ; to subvert i.ibektv, or bribe an
excisejian; to disturb the general assem-
bly, or annoy a gossipping ; to overthrow the
credit of orthodoxy, or the authority of old
songs ; to oppose your vishes, or frustmte mi/
hopes — MAY prosper — is the sincere wish and
prayer of
ROBT. BURNS.
No. ecu.
TO THE EDITORS OF THE MORNING
CHRONICLE.*
gentlemen, Dumfries.
You will see by your subscriliers' list, that
I have now been about nine months one of that
number.
I am sorry to inform you, that in that time,
seven or cii;ht of your j)apcrs either have nevei
Di'en sent me, or else have never reached me.
To be deprived of any one number of the first
newspiper in Great Britain for information.
Burnt— extempore.
Ve true " F.oval \ativf s" attend to mv song,
In iipni.-ir and riot rejoice the nipht lon'j;;
From einy and hatred your corps is exempt;
' Dot where is your shield from the darts of contempt?
• 1 his letter owa its origin to the fnllowiiif; cir.
curnstnpce. A neij^hbour of the Poet's at Diiiiil"ric<,
called Of him and eomphiincd that he was ffrcaiiy <lii>
anpoi^'lcd in tlic irrogtilar rtcMvery of the Paper of
Tfie Muniin-r Clironide. Burns asked, " Whv do
not yii'i write to the Editors of the Paper?" Cood
Go I, Sir, can / presmnc to write to the learned Kdi.
tors of a Newspaper ? — Well, if i/ok are afraid of writ,
'ng to iho Kihtors ol a Newspaper / am not; and if
roil think proper, I'll draw up a sketch of a letter,
which ycm may eojiy.
Burn< tLTC a leaf from his excise book a' d instantly
produced Ihe sketch which I have transcribed, and
*hich Is here printed. 'I'he poor man thanked him,
and took flic letter home. However, that caution
» hieh the watchlulness of his enemies had taught hiin
to exercise, iiroinpled him to the prudenc-c of [xggmg
R friend to wait on the per>on for whom it was writ,
ten, and request the f.ivour to have it returned. 'J'his
•equeat wis eomplieil with, aiid the paper never ap-
peared in print.
ability and independence, is what I can ill brook
and bear ; hut to be deprived of that most ad-
mirable oration of the JMarquis of Lansdowne,
when he made the great, though ineffectual at-
tempt, (in the language of the poet. I fear too
true,) " to save a sinking state" — this was
a loss which I neither can, nor will forgive yoj.
— That ])aper. Gentlemen, never reached me ;
but I demand it of you. I am a briton ; and
must be interested in the cause of liuertv : — •
I am a man ; and the rights of human na-
Tt!RK 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 sidiscriber,
can be of any consequence to you, in the eyes
of those to whom situation of life alone
is the criterion of man T am but a plain
tradesman, in this distant, obscure country
town : but that humble domicile in which 1
shelter my wife and children, is the castelli.m
of a BRITON ; and that scanty, l.ard-earned in-
come which supports them, is as truly my pro-
perty, as the most magnificent fortune, of the
most puissant member of your house of
nobles.
These, Gentlemen, are my sentiments ; and
to them I subscribe my name : and were I a
man of ability and consequence enough to ad-
dress the ruuLic, with that name should they
ajipear.
I am, &c.
No. ccin.
TO COL. W. DUNBAR
I am not gone to Elysium, most noble Co-
lonel, but am still here in this sublunary worlri,
serving my God by pro])agating his image, and
hontuiring my king by begetting him loyal sub-
jects. Many happy returns of the season await
my friend ! IMay the thorns of care never be-
vel his path ! Alay peace be an inmate of his
bosom, and rapture a frequent visitor of his
soul ! M.;y the blood-hounds of misfortune ne-
ver trace his steps, nor tlie screech-owl of sor-
row alarm his dwelling ! May enjoyitH'nt ttl!
thy hours, and pleasure number thy days, thou
friend of the Bard ! Blessed be he that blesg-
eth thee, and cursed be he that curseth thee '
No. CCIV.
TO MISS FONTENELLE,
accompanying a prologue to be spokem
for her benefit.
MADAM,
In such a bad woild is ours, those who adfl
to the scanty sum of our pleasures, are posi
3Si
BURNS' WORKS.
lively our benefactors. To yos, JlaiJam, on
pur humble DunitVics hoards, I have been more
indebted fi)r entertainment th.m ever I was in
prouder theatres. Your charms as a woman
Would insure ajiplanse to tlie most indifferent
actre-s, and yonr t)iealr:cal talents would insure
admiration to the plainest fii;iire. This, Madam,
is not the unmeanin", or insidious compliment
of the frivolous or interested ; I pay it from the
same h<inest impulse that the sublime of nature
excites my admiration, or her beauties give me
delitiht.
Will the foregoing lines he of any service to
you on ynur approaching benefit night ? If they
will, I shall be prouder of my mtise than ever.
They are nearly extempore : I know they have
no great merit ; but though they shouhl add but
little to the entertainment of the evening, they
give me the happiness of -an opportunity to de-
clare how much I have the honour to be, &c.
ADDRESS.
Spoken hy Miss Fonteneii.e on her bcnefit-
ni(;hl, Dec. 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Uum-
fries.
Still anxious to secure your partial favour,
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or sonic such matter,
T would vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
So, sought a I'oet, roosted near the skies,
Tiild him, I came to feast my curious eyes ;
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ;
And last, my pndogue-husine.-s slilv hinted. —
" JMd'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of
rhymes :
" I know your bent — these are no laughing
time" :
Can you — but Miss, I own I have my fears,
Dis-olve in pause — and sentimental tears —
Witlk- laden sighs, and solemn rounded sentence,
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repent-
ance ;
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand
W.iviog on high tlie (lesolating bratid.
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty
land!"
I could no more — askance the creature eyeing.
D'ye think, said 1, this fact was made for cry-
ing ?
ril kugh, that's poz — nay, more, the world
siiall know it ;
And so, your si^rvant — gloomy Blaster Poet.
l''nm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief,
That Misery's another word for Grief:
I also think — so may 1 be a bride I
That 80 much laughter, so much life enjoy d —
Thoii man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still umler bleak misfovtuiie's blasting eye;
Dooni'<l to that sorest task of man uhve —
To make three guimias do the work of five :
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the heli'am v^itcll
Say, yv'i'll be merry, though you can't be rich
Thou other man of care, the wretch in lovci
Who long with jiltish arts ami ^.irs hast strove;
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — tb*
neck —
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap :
Would'st thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf.
Laugh at heir follies — laugh e'en at thyself:
Learn to desjiise those frowns now so terrific.
And love a kinder — that's your grand speci-
fic—
To sum up all, be merry, I advise ,
And as we're merry, may we still be wise.—
No. CCV,
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
JiY DEAR FRIEND, 15i/i December, ]~9i.
As I am in a complete Decemlirish humour
gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity of Du!-
ness herself should wish, 1 shall not drawl out a
heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies,
for my late silence. Only one I shall mention,
because I know you will sympithize in it : these
four montlis, a sweet little giil, my youngest
child, has been so ill, that every day, a week or
less threatened to terminate her existence. There
had much need he many pleasures 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 hel|)less
little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ;
and on what a brittle thread does the life of man
hang ! If I am nipt off at the command of fate ;
even in all the vigour of manhood as I am, such
things happen every day — gracious God ! what
would become of my little Hock ! 'Tis here thai
I envy your people of fortune A father on his
death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of hij
children, has indeed woe enough ; but the man
of competent fortune leaves his sons and d.nigh-
ters independency and friends ; while I — but 1
shall run distracted if I think any longer ou the
subject !
To leave talking of the matter so grave y, .
shall sing with the old Scots ballad —
" O that I had ne'er been marries,
I would never had nae care ;
Now I've gotten wife and bail lis,
They cry, crowdi.', everiiiair.
Crowdie ! ance ; crowdie ! twice ;
Crowdie ! three times in a dav :
An ye ciowdie ony mair.
Ye' II crowdie a' my meal away."— »
CORRESPONDENCE.
December 2itfi.
We hive had a brilliant tlieatre here, this wa-
•on ; only, as ,-.11 otlifi- Ijiisinoss has, it e.xperi-
enoi's a »ta;;iiati(ia of traile from the epidemical
cn:;ii)!aint of the country, ivant of cash. I men-
tion our tneatie nieiely to \\\^ in an occasional
4(l<l>t<x, «hicli I wrote for the hei.efit-nifjht of
one of the ac resses, and which is as follows:^
( Sec Address, p. 3Si.^
25^/(, C/iristmas, 3lnrnin<i.
This, my nui''h loved fiiond, is a moruintf of
ivislies : accept mine — so Heaven hear rae as
they are sincere ! that blessing.s may attend your
steps, and affliction know you not ! In the
ch irmin!j words of my favourite author, T/ie
MuH i)f Fte'ing^ " May the great S|iirit bear up
the wei^^ht of thy s^'ey hairs ; and blunt the ar-
row that brinijs tlieni rest !"
Now th it I talk of authois, how do you like
Cowjier ? is not the 7'fi,</r a glorious poem ? 'I'he
rel'ifion (if the Tank, batin:; a few scraps of Cal-
vinistic diviiiity, is the relii;ion of God and Na-
ture : the religion thit exalts, that ennobles man.
Were not yon to send nie your Zduco in return
for mine? Tell me how you like my marks and
notes through the book. I would not give a far-
thing 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
skeich.e'j, in a rough draught, and afterwards
wrote out fair. On looking over some old musty
papers, wliich from time to time I had parcelled
by, as tra!-h that were scarce worth preserving,
and which yet, at the same time, I did not care to
destioy, I discovered many of those rude sketches,
and have written, and am writing them out, in
a bound ]M.S. for my friend's library. As I
Wrote always to vou the rhapsody of the moment,
I cannot find a single scroll to you, except one,
about the commencemmt of our acquaintance.
If there were any possible conveyance, I would
Send you a perusal of my book.
No. CCVI.
TO MR. HERON, OF HERON.
SIR, I791-, or 1705.
1 ENCLOSE you some copies of a couple of po-
litical ballads ; one of which, I believe, you have
never seen. ^^"ould to Heaven I couid make
you master of as many votes in the Stewartry.
iiut—
" Who does the utmost that he can,
Docs Well, acta nobly, angeU could no more."
In order to bring my humble efforts to bear
v.'ith more c*Tect on the foe, I have Yf'wiUtly
Diluted a good uian} ccuics of butli ballads, aud
I have sent them inioog friends all about the cou».
To pillory on l^arnassus the rank reprobation
of character, the ut*e.' dereliction of all [irinci-
! pie, in a prortigate junto wliich has not only
outiaged virtue, but v'olateil common decency ,
wl ich, spurning even hypocrisy as piltry ini-
quity below their daring; — to uniTiask their tla-
gitiousness to the broadest day — to deliver such
over to their merited fite, is surely not merely
innocent, but laudable ; is not only propriety,
but virtue. — You h ive alreaily, as your au.xiiia-
ry, the sober detcNtition of mankind on the
heads of your opponents; and I swear by the
lyre of Thalia to ttm-^teron your side all the vo-
taries of honest laugiiter, and fair, candid ridi-
cule !
I am extremely obliged to you for vour kind
mention of my interests in a letter which Mr.
Syme .lewed me. At present, my situation in
liie must be in a great measure stationary, at
least for two or three years. The statement is
this — I am on the supervisors' list, and as we
come on there by precedency, in two or three
years I shall be at the heul of that list, an I be
appointed, of course. Tlien a friend night
be of service to me in getting me into a Jilace
of the kingdom which I would like. A super-
visor's income varies from about a hundreii and
twenty, to t'vo hundred a ye»r ; but the busi-
ness is an incessent drudgery, and would be
nearly a complete bar to every s])ecies of litera-
ry |)ursuit. The moment I am appointed su-
peivi-or, in the common routine, I niiv be no-
minated on the collector's list ; and this is al-
ways a business purely of political pitroiiage,
A cullectorship varies much, from better than
two hundred a year to near a thousand. They
also come forward by precedency on the list ;
and have besides a handsome income, a life of
com])lete leisure. A life of literary leisuie with
a decent competence, is the summit of mv wislies.
It would be the ])rudish alTectation of sillv pride
in me to say that I do not need, or would no;
be indebted to a political friend ; at the same
time. Sir, I by no means lay iny affairs before
vou thus, to book my dependant situation on
your benevolence. If, in my progress of 'ifi^
an o;}ening should occur where the good ofhces
of a gentleman of your public character and \io-
liti',al consequence might bring me forward,
shall petition your gouilness with the same
frankness as I now do myself tl;e l.ouour to sub-
scribe myself, &c*.
• P.irt of iliis kl'er apiscarj a lir C^rrWi *i. ve»
ii. p. 4jU.
X
885
BURNS' WORKS.
No. CCVII.
ADDRESS OF THE SCOTS DISTILLERS,
TO
THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT.
ilR,
While pursy burgjesses crowil your gate,
sweating under the weight of heavy addresses,
permit us, the quondam distillers in that part
of Great Britain called Scotland, to approach
you, not with venal approbation, but with fra-
ternal condolence ; not as what you are just
now, or for some time have been ; but as what,
in all nrobabillty, you will shortly be We shall
nave the merit of not deserting our friends in
the day of their calamity, and you will have the
satisfaction of perusing at least one honest ad-
dress. You are well acquainted with the dis-
secti<!n of human nature ; nor do you need the
assistance of a fellow-creature's bosom to infoi m
vou, that man is always a selfish, often a jierfi-
dious being This assertion, however the hasty
conclusions of superficial observation may doubt
ef it, or the raw inexperience of youth may de-
ny it, those who make the fatal experiment we
have done, will feel. You are a statesman, and
consequently aie not ignorant of the traffic of
these corpmation 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 liireling efforts of venal stupidity. At best
they are the compliments of a man's friends on
the morning of his execution : They take a de-
cent farewell ; resign vou to your fate ; and hur-
ry away from youi approaching hour.
If fame say true, and omens be not very much
mistaken, you are about to make your exit from
that world where the sun of gladness gilds the
paths of prosperous men : permit us, great Sii,
with the sympathy of fellow-feeling to hail your
passage to the realms of ruin.
Whether the sentiment proceed from the sel-
fishness or cowardice of mankind is immaterial ;
but to point out to a child of misfortune those
who are still more unha])py, is to give him some
degree of positive ciijoynient. In this light, Sir,
our downfil may be iigrin useful to you ; —
Though not exactly in the same way, it is not
perhaps the first time it has gratified your feel-
ings. It is tiiie, the Iriumjih of your evil star
18 exceedingly despiteful. — At an age when
others are the votaiies of pleasure, or underlings
/n business, you had attained the highest wish
of a liritlsli St.it"sman ; and with the onliiiary
date of human life, what a (irospect was befirtf
you. Dec']iiy roo" ed in J{ot/ul luivovr, you
overshadowed the .and. The birds of jiassage,
which follow Diinisturial suiuihine till ougb every
cllrae of political faith and manners, flock^'d to
your branches ; and the beasts of the field, [the
lordly possessors of hills and rallies, ) crowded
under your sho-is. '' But behold a watcher, a
holy one camr: down from heaven, and cried
aloud, and said thus : Hew down the tree, and
cut eff his branches ; shake off his leaves, and
scatter his fruit ; let the beasts get away from
under it, and the fowls from his branches !" A
blow from an unthought-of quarter, one of those
terrible accidents which peculiarly mark the
hand of Omnipotence, overset your career, and
laid all your fancied honours in the dust. But
turn your eyes. Sir, to the tragic scenes of our
fate. — An ancient nation that for many ages
had gallantly maintained the unequi: struggle
for independence with her much more powerful
neighbour, at last agrees to a union which should
ever after make them one people. In ccnsi-
deiation of certain circumstances, it was cove-
nanted that the former should enjoy a stipulat-
ed alleviation in her share of ths public bur-
dens, paiticulaily in that branch of the revenue
called the Excise. This just privilege has of
late given great umbrage to some interested,
powerful individuals of the more potent part of
the empire, and they have spared no wicked
pains, under iusidlous pretexts, to subvert what
thev dared not openly to attack, from the dread
which they yet entertained of the spirit of their
ancient enemies.
In this conspiracy we fell ; nor did we alona
suffer, our country was deeply wounded. A
number of (we will say) respectable individuals,
largely engaged in trade, where we were not
only useful but absolutely necessary to our coun-
try in hiT dearest interest ; we, with a!! that
was near and dear to us, were sacrificed with-
out remorse, to the infernal deity of political ex-
pediency ! We fell to gratify the wishes of dark
envy, and the views of unprincipled ambition !
Your foes. Sir, were avowed ; were too brave
to take an ungenerous advantage ; you fell in
the face of day. — On the contrary, our enemies,
to complete our overthrow, contrived to make
their guilt appear the villainy of a nation. —
Y.'Uf downfaJ only drags with you your pri-
vate friends and partizans: In our misery are
more or less involved the most numerous, and
most valuable part of the communit} — all those
who iinuicdiately depend on the cultivation of
the soil, from the landlord of a province, down
to the lowest hind.
Ahow u«. Sir, yet farther, just to hint at nn-
otlier ricli vein of comfiirt in the dreary region?
of adversity ; — the Riatulations of an approving
conscience. In a certain great assendjiy, of
which you are a distinguished member, pane-
gyrics in your private virtues have so often
wounded your delicacy, that we shall not dis-
tress you with any thing on the sutiject. There
is, however, one part of your puhlic conduct
which our feelings will not ])crmit us to pass
in silcnc; ; our gratitude must trespass on your
inudeiB.7 ue niean, wuithy Sir, vuur whole
CORRESPONDENCE.
387
behaviour to the Scots Distil irs. — In evil hour?,
when obtrusive rccollci-tion presses bitterly on
the sense, let that, Sir, come like a Iiealir.i;
angel, and speak the peace to your soul which
tue world can neither give nnr take away.
We have the honour to be,
Sir,
Your sympathizing; fellow-sufferers,
And grateful humble Servants,
John Barleycokn — Pruses.
No. CCVIII.
TD THE HON. THE PROVOST, BAIL-
IES, AND TOWN-COUNCIL OF DUJI-
FRIES.
OrXTLEMEN,
The literary taste and liberal spirit of your
good town has so ably filled the various depart-
ments of your schools, as to make it a very
great object for a parent to have his children
educated in them. Still, to me, a stranger, with
my large family, and very stinted income, to
give my young ones that education I wish, at
the high school-fees which a stranger pays, will
bear hard upon me.
Some years ago your good town did me the
honour of making me an honorary burgess
Will you allow me to request that this mark of
distinction may extend so far, as to put me on
the footing of a real freeman of the town, in
the schools ?
If you are so very kind as to grant my re-
quest,* it will certainly be a constant incentive
to me to strain every nerve where I can offi-
cially serve you ; and will, if possible, increase
that grateful respect with which I have the ho-
Bour to be,
Gentlemen,
Your devot^id humble Servant.
No. CCIX.
TO MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON.
Dumfries, 20th December, 1 795.
I HAVE been prodigiously disappointed in this
London journey of yours. In the first phce,
when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was
in the country, and did not return until too
late to answer your letter ; in the next place,
I thought you would certainly take this route ;
and now I knovir not what is become of you, or
whether this may reach you at all. God grant
that it may find you and yours in prospering
health and good spiiits. Do let me hear from
you the soonest possible.
As I hope to get a frank from my friend
Captain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, take
up the pen, and gossip away whatever comes
first, prose or poesy, sermon or song. In this
last article, I have ab(UHided of late. I have
often mentioned to you a superb publication of
Scottish songs which is making its appearance
in your great metropolis, and where I have the
honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as nc
less a personage than Peter Pindar does over
the English. I wrote the following fur a fa-
vourite air. ■
December 29.
SixcE I began this letter I have been ap-
pointed to act in the capacity of supervisor here,
and I assure ycu, what with the load of business,
and what with that business being new to me, 1
could scarcely have commanded ten minutes to
have spoken to you, had you been in town,
much less to have written you an epist'e. This
appointment is only temporary, and during the
illness of the present incumbent ; but I look
forward to an early period when I shall be ap-
pointed in full form : a consummation devout-
ly to be wished ! My political sins seem to be
forgiven me.
• This request was immediately complied with.
This is the season (New-year's-day is aow
my date) of wishing ! and mine are most fer
vently 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 ibr the sake
of the rest of your friends ! What a transient
business is life ! Very lately I was a boy ; but
t'other day I was a young man ; and I already
begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints
oi old age coming fast o'er my frame. With
all my follies of youth, and, I fear, a few vices
of manhood, still I congratulate myself on hav-
ing had, in early days, religion strongly impress-
ed on my mind. 1 have nuthing to say to any
one as to which sect he belongs to, or what
creed he believes ; but I look on the man who
is firmly persuaded of infinite wisdom and good-
ness, superintending and directing every cir-
cumstance that can hajipen in his let — I felici-
tate such a man as having a solid fo_ndat;on for
his mental enjoyment ; a firm prop and sure
stay, in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and dis-
tress ; and a never-failing anchor of hope, when
he looks beyond the gravu.
January 12.
You will have «een our worthy and ingeni-
ous friea I, the Doctor, long ere this. 1 h jpe
S89
BURNS' WORKS.
he is well, and besf to be remembered to him.
I hive just been reatllni; over again, I (lire say
for the liundred ami fiftieth time, his View of
Society/ and Planners ; and still I read it with
delight. His humour is perfectly original — it
is neither the humour of Addisim, niir Swift,
nor Sterne^ nor of any body but Dr. Moore.
By the bye, you have deprived me of Zduco ,-
remember that, when you are disposed to rake
up the sins of my neglect from among the ashes
of laziness.
He has paid me a pretty compliment, by
quoting me ia his last publication. •
No. CCX.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
20th January, 179G.
I CANNOT express my gratitude to you for
jllowing mc a longer perusal of Anadiarsis.
In fact, I never met with a book tliat bewitch-
ed me so much ; and I, as a member of the li-
brary, must warmly feel the obligation you have
laid us under. Indeed to me the obligation is
stronger than to any other individual of our so-
ciety ; as Anadiarsis is an indispensable desi-
deratum 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
advertisements I lent (I did wrong) to a friend,
and I am ill able to go in quest of hiin.
The muses have not quite forsaken me. The
following detached stanzas I intend to interweave
n some disastrous tale of a shepherd.
No. CCXI.
TO MRS. DUN LOP.
Slst January, 1796.
These many months you have been two
packets in my debt — what sin of ignorance I
iiave committed against so highly valued a
friend, 1 am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas !
IMiidini, ill can I afford, at this time, to be de-
]iiived of anv of the small renmant of my plea-
sures. I have lately drunk deep of the cup of
affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only
daughter and darling child, and that at a dis-
tance too, and so rajiidly, as to |)ut it out of my
power to j)ay the last the duties to lur. I had
scarcely begun to remver from tha* jliock, whea
I became myself the victim of a mijst 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 1 am beginning to
crawl across my room, and once indeed have
been before my own door iu the stn>et.
Wlien pleasure fascinates the mental sight,
AfP.iction purifies the visual ray,.
Religion hails the drear, the untried night,
That shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtfui
day.
ccxn.
TO MRS. RIDDEL,
WHO HAD DESIRED HIM TO GO TO THE BIRTH
DAY ASSEMBLY ON THAT DAY TO SHEW HIS
LOYALTY.
ith June, 1796,
I AM in such miserable health as to be utter»
ly incajiable of showing my loyalty in any way.
Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every
lace with a greeting like that of Balak to Ba-
laam— " Come curse me Jacob ; and come de-
fy me Israel '" So say I — Come curse me that
east wind ; and come, defy mc the north '
Would you have mc, in such circumstances, to
copy you out a love song ?
I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I
will not be at the ball. — Why should 1 ? " man
delights not me, nor woman either !" Can you
supply me with the song, Z,et us all he vnhap-
py tO(}ttfier? — do if you can, and oblige le
pauvre mistrahh R. B.
Cawnrd,
No. CCXIIL
To rjR. JAMES JOHNSON, Edinbhrgh.
Dumfries, July 4, 1796.
How are you, my dear friend, and how conies
on vour fifth volume? You may probaMy
think that for some time past I have neglected
vou and your work ; but, alas ! the hand of
pain, and sorrow, and care, has these iiiai.y
months lain heavy on me ! Personal and do-
iiiestic affliction have almost entirely banished
that alacrity and life with which I used to wo'i
the rural muse of Scotia.
You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and
have a good right to live in this world — because
fwi (iesen-e it. M;iny a merry meeting tliis
pu'jlicatioii has given us, and |)os>ilile it ni.iy
give lis more, th.iugli, al.is ! I te:ir it. This
pnitractin^, slow, consimiinf; illness wlileli
hangs over me, will, I doubt much, my ever
dear friend, arrest my sun before lie has well
reached his middle career, and will turn over
the poet to far other and inure important eon-
cernt than stuilyinsj the lirlllianey of wit, or the
pathos of sentiment ! However, hnpe is the
cordial of the human heart, and 1 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 th.it it
is near fini>hed, I see, if we were to begin
again, two or three things that might be mend-
ed ; yet I will venture to prophecy, that to fu-
ture ages your publication will be the text-
book and standard of Scottish song and miusic.
I am ashamed to ask another favour of you,
because you have been so very good already ;
but my wife has a very particular friend of hers,
a young lady who sings well, to whom she
wi^hes to present the Scots Musical Jilitseiim.'
If you have a spare copy, will you be so oblig-
icjj as to send it by the very first Pit/, as I &in
Vixious tu have it soon.
Yours ever,
ROBERT BURKS.
No. CCXIV.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
Brow, Sea-bdthinp Quarurs, Ith July, 1796.
»IY DEAK CUNNINGHAM,
I KECKivED yours here this moment, and am
indeeil highly flattered with the approbation of
the literary circle you mention ; a literary circle
inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas !
my friend, I fear the voice of the bard will soon
be heard among you no more ! for these eight or
ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bed-
fast and sometimes nut ; but these last three
month-i I have been tortured with an excruciat-
ing rheumatism, which has reduced me to near-
ly the last stage. Yuu actually would not know
me if you saw me. Pale, emaciated, and so
feeble, as occasionally to nerd hcl,! from my chair
— my spirits fled ! fled ! — but I can no more on
the subject — only the medical filks tell me tliat
my last and only chance is bathing and country
• In tli's humbL" ami delicate manner did p'or
Biirn'i asU for a copy of a work "I" whieli he was prin-
cipally till- founiler, and to whieli he had contiibuled,
graliiit' tisly, not less than 181 origvuil, altrred, iiiiii
co.'lfitril s i:gs.' Tlie Editor has seen 180 transcribed
by his own hand, for the Musfitm.
Tins letter was wr''ten on the llh of July, — the poet
died on the I'lst No other letters of this iii'eresmig
Renod have heen discovered, exivpt one addiessed to
Irs. Duiiliip, of the 12th of July, which Dr. (urrle
very propirly snpjxisesto be the liut oroduction of the
4pu^ bard.— Cbumvk.
quarters, and riding. The deuce of the matter
is this ; when an exciseman is off duty, his sa-
lary is reduced to XS!i instead of .£'50 — What
way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain niy-
selt and keep a horse in country cjuarteis — with
a wife and live children at home, on £:ib ?
mention this, because I had intended to beg yout
utmost interest, and that of all the fiiends you
can muster, to move our Commissoners of Ex-
cise to grant me the lull salary. I dire say you
know them all personally. If they do not grant
it me, I must l«y my account with an exit truly
en poet e — if I die not of disease, I must peiish
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 1 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 introduc-
ed to the world by the respectable designation of
Alexmiiltr Cuiiniuyham Hunts : iMy last wa»
Jami's Gkiicairn ; so you can have no objec-
tiuQ tu the cumpaiiy of nobility. Farewell
No. CCXV
TO MRS BURNS.
IIT DEAREST LOVE, liroic, Thursday,
I Dfi.AVED writing until I could t«Il you
what cfl^ect sea-bathing was likely to produce.
It would be injustice to deuy that it has eased
my pains, and I think has strengthened me ;
but my ap])etite is still extremely bad. No fliah
nor fish can I swallow ; porridge and milk are
the only thing I can taste. I am very hajij)y to
hear, by JM;ss Jess Lewais, that you aie well.
Sly very best and kindest coiiiplinients to her
and to all the children. I will see you on Sun-
day. Your aDectiuuate husbaud, lU B.
CCXVI.
TO MRS. UUNLOP.
Ji 1AM, 12//» July, 1796.
HAVE written you so often, without recei-
viiii; any answer, that I would not trouble you
again, but fur the circumstances in which I am.
An illness whieli has long hun.; about me, in
all probability will speedily send me beyond that
b urne w/icuce Jtn trtneller returns. Your
friendshij), with which fur many years you ho-
noured me, was a friendship deaiest to my soul.
Your conrersation, and especially your cori~^-
spondence, were at once highly entertaining and
instructive. With wha'. pleasure did I use to
jroak up the seal I The remembrance yet addi
S90
BURNS* WORKS.
rjne pulse more to my poor palpitating heart,
t.ren-ell ! ! !
R. B.
The buu.c :; supposed to be the last produc-
,^n of Robert Burns, who died on the 21st
of the month, nine days afterwards. He haH,
however, the pleasure of receiving a satisfactory
explanation of his friend's silence, «nd an aisur-
tE>«e sf the cotiiiT.MUxea of her friendnhip to his
widow and childreu j an assurance that hm bsat
amply fulfilled.
It is probable that the greater part of her let.
ters to him were destroyed by our bard aboa
the time that this last was written. He did
not foresee that his own letters to her were y
appear in print, nor conceive the disappoint-
ment that will be felt, that a few of thi» e«eel-
lent lady's have Bot served to esncii *^ %i^tn
the coUectioa-
391
THE POET'S CORRESPONDENCE
WITH
MR. GEORGE THOMSON,
The Foot, besides his ample contributions to the Musical Museum, published by Johnsou, en-
gaged in the somewhat similar, but far more extended undertaking of Mr. George Thomson,
entitled Select Melodies of Scotland, — a Work more systematically planned, and scientifically
exccuteii, as to the Music — and more chastened in the composition and sentiment of the
Songs, than any of its precursors ; and which still maintains its superiority over all other col-
lecti.ins as the National Repertory of Scottish Sung, both as to the poetry and music. The
following Cortespondi'uce shews the rise and progress, with much of the interesting ietailt
of our Poet's contributions to Mr. Thomson's Work ;—
No. I.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET,
SOLICITING HIS CO-OPt IIATION.
dIR, Edinhitrrjli. Septemtier 1702.
For S'ime years [la'-t, I have, with a friend or
two, employed inariy leisure hcmrs in sfK-.-ting
and collating tlie most fivourite uf our national
mfloiiits for publication. Wo have eng.igt'd
Plevel, the most agieeable composer living, to
put accompaniments to these, and also to com-
pose an in'^truiiient il preluile and conclusion tn
eich air, the better to tit them fur concerts, both
public and private. To render this woik per-
fe'-t. we are (ie^ir•.llS to have tlie poetry inij)r(p-
vecl, wiierever it seems unworthy of the music ;
and that it is so in many instances, is alhiwerl
by every one conversant with our musical col-
lections. The editors uf these seem in general
to have depended on the music proving an ex-
cuse fur the verses ; and hence, some charming
mehidies are united to mere nonsense and dog-
grel, while others are aecominoilated with rhymes
so louse ai.d indelicate, as cannot be sung in de-
cent company. To remove this reproach, would
be an easy task to the author of The Colter's
Sdturilcy N'(jlit ; and, for the honour of Cale-
donia, I would filn hope he may be induced to
take u|) the pen. If so, we shall be enabled to
present the puhl.c with a collection infinitely
more interesting than any that has yet appear-
»!, and acce[)tal;!e to all persons of taste, whe-
ther they wi>h for correct melodies, delicate ac-
coinpaniiiieDts, or iharacteristic verses We j
will esteem your poetical assistance a partiruisr
favour, besides paying any reasonable price you
shall please to dem md ii-i it. Profit is quite a
secondary consideration with us, and we are rc-
si)lved to spare neither pains nor expense on the
pnhluatlon. Tell me frankly, then, whether
you will devote your leisure to v/riting twenty
or twentv-five songs, suited to the particular
melodies which I am prepared to send you. A
few songs, exceptionable only in some of their
verses, I will likewise submit to your considera-
tion ; leaving it to you, either to mend these,
or make uew songs in their stead. I* is super-
lluous to assure you that I have no intention to
di-iplace any of the sterling old songs ; those
only will lie removed, which appear quite si'V,
or absolutely indecent. Even these shall ail Uc
examined by Mr. IJurn!«, and if Ae is of opinion
tint any of them are deserving of tlie music, ia
such cases no divorce shall tai<e place.
Ui-Uing on the letter accompanying this to be
forgiven for the liberty I have taken in address-
ing you, I am, with gieat esteem, Sii, you;
most obedient humble servant,
G. THOMSON
No. II.
THE POET'S ANSWER.
sia, Dumfries, KU/j Sept. 1702.
I HAVE just this iiionient got your letter. Ai
the requett you make tu me will poiutiveW ad]
BURNS' WORK:^.
to my cnjoyinrnts In coni]iIyinpj witli it, I sliatl
^nter into vour undertaking with ail the small
poiiion of altilitics I have, strained to their ut-
aiost exertion Ijy the inijiulse of cnthu'^iasni.
Only, (liin't huti y nie : " Deil tak tlie hind-
nmst" is hv no means the cri c/e ffiiene of my
nnise. Will yon, a< I am inferior to none of
vnu in enthnsiastic attachment to the poetry and
niusitr of (lid Caledonia, and, since you re(jue>t
it, liave cheerfully promised my mite of assist-
ance— will yon let me have a list of your n\r<,
with the first line of the printed verses you in-
tend for them, that I in.iv have an opportunity
of >u2;c;estinu: a;iv alteration that may occur to
nie. You know 'tis in tlie way of my trade ;
still leavinj; you, gentlemen, the undouhted ri|;ht
of puhlishe;-', to approve. «ir reject, at your plea-
sure, for youi 'wn p,.'-licatiOi^ Apropos ! if
you are for I^iiffJitt,^ -erses, ''ere i„. ts my l)art,
an end of tlie matter. (Vheth _ ' ' tht .,'- plicity
of the ballad, or the pathos of tfie son^, I can
oiilj liope to please myself in heing allowed at
least a sprinkling of our native tongue. Eng-
lish verses, particularly the works of Scotsmen,
that liave merit, are certainly very cligihle.
TivfF.dside ; Ah tlie poor s/ieji/terd's inonrnfiil
fate ! Ah Chlnris, cn/tld I nnw but sit, &c.
you cannot mend : Rut such insipid stuif as,
Ti> Funny fair cmild I impart, &c. usually set
to 7 he Mil!, Mill O, is a disgrace to the col-
lections in which it has already appeared, and
Would douhly disgrace a collection that will have
the very superior merit of yours. But more of
this in the farther prosecution of the business,
if I am called on for my strictures and amend-
nients — 1 say, amendments ; fur I will not alter
exi-ept where 1 myself at least think that I
amend.
As to any rennmcration, you may think my
songs either above or below price ; for they
shad al)solutely rie the one or the other. In the
honest enthusiasm with whidi I embark in your
undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, liire,
&c. would he downright proi^titulion itf soid !
A jircot of each of the songs that I coni|)ose or
nniciid, ! shall receive as a favour. In tlie i us-
tic phrase of the season, " Gude sjieed the
walk !"
I am. Sir, your very bumble Servant,
U. IJL'UNS.
V. .S — I have some pirticiilar reasons for
wishing my iulcrference to be known as little as
possible.
Ho. III.
MR TMO.MSON l.V RITLV.
M*!i srii, Kdinhitriih, \'Mh Oct. 1792.
I UFi nvFii, with nnii'li satl^fll.lion, your
pleasant, and oMiging lutter, anil 1 leiuiii my
warmest acknowledgments for tlie enthuniasra
with which you hive entered into our underta-
king, fi'e have now no dcniht of being able tc
])r.«luce a collection, highly deserving of public
attention, in all respects.
I agree with you in thinking English verses,
that have merit, very eligible, wheiever new
verses are necessary ; because the English be-
comes every year, more and more, the language
of Scotland ; but, if you mean that no Engiish
ver-cs, except those bv Scottish authois, ought
to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ from
you. 1 shoui:" consider it un|)arilon able to sa-
crifice one good si,^ • in the Scottish dialect, to
make room for Englis,. .eises; ijut, if we can
select a few excellent ones suited to the unpro-
vided or ill-provided airs, would it not lie the
very bigotry of literary patriotism to reject such
merely because the authors were born s:i;irh of
the 'I" weed ? Our sweet air. My JVanme O,
which in the collections is joined to the poorest
stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, beginning
While some for plensi^rc /luwn their hvultli, an-
swers so finely to Dr. Percy's beautiful song
O Nancy wilt tlioii c/o uiih we, that one woula
think he wrote it on purpose for the air. How-
ever, it is not at all our wish to confine you to
English verses: you shall freely be allowed a
sprinkling of your native tongue, as you elegant-
ly exjiress it ; anil moreover, we will patiently
wait your own time. One thing only I big,
which is, that however gay and sportive the
muse may be, she may always be decent. Let
her not write !vhat beauty would blush to speak,
nor wouikI that chariuiiig delicacy which tonus
the most precious dowry of our daughters. I
do not conceive the song to be the most propel
vehicle for witty and brilliant conceits : simpli-
city, I believe, should be its prominent feature ;
iiut, in some of our songs, the wi iters have con-
founded simplicity with coa>-.cness and vulga-
rity ; although, between the one and the other,
as Dr. Beattie well observes, there is as great a
(hfferenie as between a plain suit of clothes and
a bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or (.>a-
tlietic complaint, is best suited to our artless
melodies; and more interesting indee.;l in all
songs than the most pointed wit, dazzling de-
scri|)fions, and llowery fancies.
With these trite observations, I send vou eleven
of the songs, for which it is my wish to substi
tute others of your writing. I shall soon trans
niit the rest, and, at the s.ime time, a prosjjectus
of the whole collection ; and you may believe
we will receive any h nts that you are so kind
as to give for im))roving the work, with th(
^luatesd pleasure and tlimkfulness.
1 remain, Dear Sir, &u
cohrespoxdexce.
393
No. IV.
TIlFi: PO C'l TO MR. THOMSON,
Willi " THE LEARIG."
MY DEAR SI a,
I.FT iiic ttll you tliat you are too fi^tidloiis
ill \(iiir iiltMs of sdii'is anil l)alla(ls. I (iwn tint
your t'iitli-isms art- jll^t ; the songs you specify
ill yiur li^t liave "// but o/,e the faults you re-
maik in them ; but who shall mend the matter?
Wild shall rise up and say — Go to, I will make
a tietier ? Fur instance, on leading over 77i<.'
Leii-rif], I immediately set ahout trving my
hand on it, ami, afrer all, I could in lUe mithin;^
mori; (if It than the fullowing, which, Heaven
kuuws, is poor enough :
{Step. 244.)
Your ohsrrvatidii as to the aptitude of Dr.
Percy's ballad to the air Ntinuie O, is just. It
is iiesides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad io
the English language. Hut let ine remark to
you, that, in the sentiment and style of our
Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a
sometliin'^' that one may call the Doric style and
dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our
native ton^rue and manners is particulaily, nay
peculiirly, apposite. For this reason, and, upon
my honour, for this reason alone, 1 am of opi-
nion (but, as I told you before, my opinion is
yi uis, ficely yours, to approve, or reject, as you
please), that my ballad of Nannie O might per-
ha|)s do fur one .set of verses to the tune. Now
don't let it entei- into your head, that y.iu aii;
under any necessity of t.iking my verses. 1 have
long ago made up my mind as to my own re-
putation in the business of authorship ; ami
have iKithmg to be phased or oircndeii at, in
your adaption or rijiction of my verses. Thuu;:h
you should uject one half of what I give you,
I sliall be pleased with your adopting the other
half, and shall cotitiuue to serve \ou with the
same assuluity.
In the printed copy of my Nannie O, the
name of the river is horridly prosaic. 1 will
alter it,
" Behind yon hills wheie Lugar flov.s."
Girvan is the name of the river that suits the
idea uf the stanza best, but Lugar is the must
agreeable moduiatiuii of syllables.
I will soon give yon a great many more re-
marks on tills business ; but 1 have just now
an oppoi tunity of conveying you this scrawl, fiee
et postage, an expense that it is ill able to |!ay :
BO, with my liest comphmeuts to honest Allan,
Good be wi' ye, &c.
J-'ridai/ niyKt.
morn ng before rr.y conveyance go.-s aw.iy, I
will give \ou Niuinie O at len-tli.
{Sifep. 2\S.)
Your remarks on Etre-biKjhtx, Murini.^ are
just : still it has obtainei! a pi. ice mnong oiii
more rl.issical Scottish son^i ; and what with
many licauties in its composition, and more pie-
jiidices in its f.ivour, you will not tiad it easy
to siijjplant it.
In my very eirly years, when I was thin;iing
of going to tiie West Iiiilies, I took the follow-
ing farewell of a dear girl. It u quite trilling,
and has nothing of the merits of Eict-lidi/hts ,
but it will fill up this p.,ge. You must kimw
tl'.at all my earlier love-songs were the breath-
ings of ardent p.is-ion, and though it might have
been easy in after-times to have given them a
polish, yet thit polish, to me, whose tiicy uere,
and who peihaps alone cared foi them, would
have defaced tlie legi nil uf my heart, whicb
was Ro faithfully insciibed on them. Tlieii un-
couth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their
race.
( Will ye ga to the Indies, ni?/ Mary^ p. 24.1.^
Gala Water and Anhi Ri.b If /orris, I think,
will most luibabiy be the iie.xt sub;ect of my
musings. Ihm ever, even on my lerxes, speak
out your criticisms with equal frankne.ss. My
wish is, not to stand aloof, the uucompljin"
bigot of opiniatrete, but i-oidially to join is^uf
with you in the furtherance of the woik.
No. V.
Saturday Mnrning,
Ab J find I have still ar hour to spare thl«
THE POET TO MR THOMSON.
Nimnder Sth, 1792
If you n^ean, my dear Sir, that all the ,s(ings
in your foliection shad be pceTy i)i ti e tiisl
merit, I am afraiil you will find more difiieiiitv
in the umlerlaking than you aie aware otl
There is a jieculiar rh_\ thmiis in many of our
alls, and a necessity of adaptiii:^ syllables to the
emphasis, or what 1 would call \\w finUurt-notes
of the tune, that cramp the jo t, ami lay him
under almo.st iiisuperalle d fticult.es. For i:i-
stance, in the air, JMy wife's a wanton wei>
t/iiny, if a few lines sii:uoth and pietty can be
adapted to it, it is all you can expect. Th.e
following were made extempore to it; and
though, on faither study, I might give you
something moie profound, jet it might not suit
the light-horse galloji uf the air so well as this
raiiduiu cliuk.
(My wifg's a winsome wee thing, p. 214.)
I have just been looking over the CoUiv
394.
BURNS' WORKS.
hnnxy Dodder ; and if tlie following rhapsody,
which 1 compcised the other da)', on a charming
Ayrshire gill, !Miss , as she passed through
this place to Eni;land, will suit your taste bet-
ter than the Collitr Ziassie, fall on and wel-
come.
( O saw ye bonnie I,cssUe, p. 19i.)
I have hitherto deferred the sublinier, more
pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will take,
and deserve, a greater effort. However, they
are all put into your hand«, as clay into the
hands of the potter, to make one vessel to ha-
floui, and another to dishonour. Farewell, See.
No. VI.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
Ye hanks, and braes, and streams around,
The castle o' Montgomery. ( See p. 203.
Mv DEAR jiR, \i(h November, 1792.
I AGREE with you that the song, Kathcrine
Ogle, is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto-
gether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. 1 tried
to mend it, but the awkward sound Qyie recur-
ring so often in the rhyme, spoils every attempt
at introducing sentiment into the piece. The
'oregoing song pleases myself; I think it is in
my ha])piest manner ; you will see at first glance
that it suits the air. The subject of the fong is
one of the most interesting passages of my youth-
ful days ; and, 1 own that I should be much
flattered to see the verses set to an air winch
would insure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, 'tis
the still glowing prejudice of my heart, that
thiows a borrowed lustre over the merits of the
composition.
I have partly taken your idea of Auld Hob
Morris. I have adopted the two first verses,
and am going on with the song on a new plan,
which promises pretty well. I take up one or
another, ju-.t as the bee of the moment buzzes
in my bonnet-lug ; and do you, sans ceremonie,
make what use you choose of the productions.
Adieu ! ki.
No. VII,
MR. TIIOJIPSON TO THE POET.
DEAR SIR, JEdinhurgh, Nov. 1792.
I tVAS just going to wiite to you, that on
meeting with your Nannie I had fallen violeut-
'y in love with her. I thank you, therefore, fur
tending the chaiiiiing rustic to nie, in the dress
you wish her to appear befure the public. She
does you great r! 'dit, and will soon bu admitted
lato the beiit company.
I regret that your song for the Lea-rig is m
short ; the air is easy, soon sung, and very pleas
ing ; so that, if the singer stops at the end ol
two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost ere it is weU
possessed.
Although a dash of our native tongue and
manners is doubtless peculiarly congenial, and
appropriate to our melodies, yet I shall be able
to present a considerable number of the very
Flowers of English Song, well adanted to those
me.ouies, which in England at least will be the
means of recommending them to still greater at-
tention 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 writeia shal.
follow as additional songs, for the choice of the
singer.
What you say of the Ewe-btights is just ; 1
admire it, and never meant to supplant it. All
1 requested was, that you would try your hand
on some of the inferior stanzas, which are ajjpa-
rently no part of the original song; but this 1
do not urge, because the song is of sufiSc'ent
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 he of wi-perla-
tive merit; that were an tinreasonable expecta
tion. 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
amoiotis rhapsody on Sonnie Lesslie ; it is a
thousand times better than the C'ltlier's Lassie.
" The deil he couMnasiaith thee," &c. is an ec-
centric and haj)])y thought. Do you not think,
however, that the names of such old heroes as
Alexander, sound rather queer, unless in pom-
pous or n^re huilesque virse? Instead of the
line " And never made anither," I would hum-
bly suggest, " And ne'er made sic anither ;'
and I would fain have you substitute sonietthiT
line for " Return to Caledonie," in the last
verse, because 1 think this alteration of the or-
thography, and of the sound of Caledonia, dis-
figures the word, and renders it Hudihrastic.
Of the other song, My wijf's a uinso7iic wee
thing, I think the first eight lines very good :
but I do not admire the other eight, because four
of them are a bare repetition of the first veise.
I have been trying to spin a staiiza, but could
make nothing better than the folloiving ; do you
mend it, or, as Yorick did with the love-letter,
whip it up in your own way.
O leeze me on my wee thing,
My bonnie biythsome wee thing ;
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing,
I'll think my lot divine.
Tho' wai Id's care we share o't,
And may see meickle mair o't,
Wi' her I'll biythly bear it,
And ne'er a word repiue.
You percei/e. my dear Sii I avail navsslf of
CORRESPONDENCE.
395
i '
Ae liberty whicb you condcsrend to allow iiic,
by spoaking fieily what I think. Re a-iMirt-d,
it is not my disposition to pick cut the faults tit
any poem or picture I we : my first and chief
olyect is to discover and he delighted with the
Deauties of the piece. If I s-it down to examine
critically, and at leisure, what perhaps you have
written in haste, I may happen to observe care-
less lines, the re-perusal of which might lead
you to improve them. The wren will often sec
what has been overlooked by tlie eagle.
I remain yours faithfully, &c.
P. S. Your vei-ses upon Highland Mary, are
Just come to hand : they breathe the genuine
spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will last lor
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
Wary : you always seem inspired when you write
of her
No. VIII.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
Dumfries, \st December, 1792.
Your alterations of my Nannie O are per-
fectly right. So are those of " My wife's a
wanton wee thing." Your alteratiim of the
second stanza is a positive improvement. Now,
my dear Sir, with the freedom which (har.ic-
terises our correspondence, I must not, cinnot
alter " Bonnie Les-lie." You are right, the
word " Alexander" makes the line a little un-
couth, but I think the thought is pretty. Of
Alexander, beyond all other heroes, it may be
said, in the sublime language of scripture, that
" he went forth conquering and to couquer."
" For nature made her w/iat i,he is,
And never made auither," (such a person as
she is.)
This is in my opinion more poetical than
" Ne'er mule sic auither." However, it is im-
material : Make it either way. " Caledonie,"
1 agree with you, is not so good a word as could
be wished, though it is sasctiimed in three or
four instances liy Allan Ramsay ; but I cannot
help it. In short, that species of stanza is ihe
most difficult that I have ever tried.
Tho "Lea-rig" is as follows. (Here the
poet gives the two fir>t stanzas as before, p. 214,
with the following in addition.)
The hunter loe's the morning sun.
To rouse the mountain deer, niy jo ;
4t noun the fisher scek> the glen,
Aloug the bum to steer, my ju ;
Gie me the hw^r o' gloamin (frcy,
It mak's my he.irt sae cheery, O
To meet thee on the lea- rig,
Jly ain kind dearie, O.
I am interrupted. Yours, &&
No. IX.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
(AiM Rob Morris, p. 192.)
(^Duncan Gray, p. 199.)
4//j December, 1792.
The foregoing I submit, my dear Sir, to yom
better judgment. Acquit thorn or condems
them as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan
Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of aa
air, which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous
is its ruling feature.
No. X.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON
{Ponrtith Could, p. 222.)
(Galta Water, p. 201.)
Jiinnary 1 793.
Manv returns of the season to ycu, niv dear
.Sir. How comes on your publication ? will
these two foregoing be 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.
Ill short, I would wish to give you my opinion
on all the poetry you publish. Yon know it
is my trade, and a man in the way of his trade
may suggest useful hints, that escape men o'
much superior parts and endowments in other
things.
If you meet with my dear ami much valued
C. greet him in my name, with the compliaieuts
of the season.
Yours, &c.
No XI.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET,
WITH A POSTSCKIPT FKO.M THE HON. A. ERSKIKB.
Edinhunjh, Jahuari/ 20t/i, 1 79,'J.
You nvike me ha|i|iy, my dear Sir, ami tliou-
sinds will be happy to >ee the clianiiini;s songs
yuu have sent me. M iny ineriy returns of the
season to you, ami may you lim^' continue Hinong
the sons and daughter^ of Caledonia, to deljgh*
them, and to honour yourself.
S9G
BURNS'S WORKS.
The fojr l.-ist sonfjs with whicn you favoured
me, viz. Aiild Rib Morris, Duncan Gray,
Giilla Water, and Caiild Kail, are admirable.
Dunear. is indeed a l:id iif grace, and his humour
will en<loar him to every body.
The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and the
aappy shepheid.ess in Galla Water, exhibit an
excellent contrast ; they speak from genuine
feelin", and powerfully touch the heart.
The number cf songs which 1 had originally
in view was limited, but I now re^^olve to in-
clude everv Scotch air and song worth sing-
ing, leaving none behind but mere gleanings,
to which the ])ublishers of ov"'(/atiier>im are
ivelcome. I ivould 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
chardcteristic of the pl.iintive, and the other of
the lively songs ; and I have Dr. Beattie's pro-
mise of an essay upon the subject of our na-
tional music, if his health will permit him to
write it. As a number of our songs have doubt-
less been called forth by particular events, or by
the charms of peerless damsels, there must be
manv curious anecdotes lelatiiig to them.
The late Mr. Tytler of Wuodhouselee, I be-
lieve, knew mure of this than any body, for he
iolned to the pursuits of an antiquary, a taste
for poetry, besides being a man of the world,
and possessing an etithusias;ii for music beyond
most of l.is contemporaries. He was quite plea-
sed with this plan of mine, for I may say, it
has been solely manageil by me, and we had se-
veral long conversations about it, when it wa'» in
eml'ryo. If I coulil simply mention the name
of the heroine of each song, ami the incident
which occi^'ined the verses, it would be grati-
fying. l'ra>, wdl yi'u send me any information
of this sort, as well with regard to your own
songs, as the old ones ?
To all the f ivouiite sonas of the plaintive or
uastiiral kind, will I'e joiiien the dilitate accom-
paniments, &c. of Fleyel. To those of the co-
mic or hunioious class, I thii/k accompaniments
scarcely necessary ; they are chiefly fitted for
the conviviality of the festive board, atul a tune-
ful voice, will) a proper delivery of the words,
renders them perfect. Nevertheless, to these I
propose adding ba^s accom|)animents, because
then tlicv are fitted either for singing, or for in
etrunu'tital jierloi mance, when tlieie happens to
be no singer. I mem to em ploy our right
trusty fiieml Mr Claike to set the bass to these,
which he assures me he will do, cnn amnre, and
with much greater attention than he ever l>e-
«t<iwed on any tiling of the kind. Hut for thi»
last class of air», i will not atteutjit to find more
than one set lA verges.
Tliaf eccentric b.ird Peter Pindar, has started
I know not bow m inv dilliciilties, about wri-
ting fur the airs I >ent to liim, liecause of the
peculiarity of their measure, and the trammels
bey impost; on his llying Pegaijux. I subjuiu
for your perusal the only one I have yet got
from him, being for the fine air " Lord Gre-
gory." The Scots verses printed with that air,
are taken from the middle of an old ballad, call-
ed, T/ie Lass of L' cliroi/nn, which I do not
admire. I have set down the air therefore as a
creditor of yours. Many of the Jacobite songs
are replete with wit and humour ; might not
the best of these be included in our volume of
comic songs ?
POSTSCRIPT,
FROM THE HON. A. ERSKINE.
]\Ib. Thomson has been so obliging as to give
me a perusal of your songs. Higliland Mary is
most enchantingly pathetic, and Duncan Gray
possesses 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 mutual friend C., wlio is a most ex-
cellent fellow, and possesses, above all men 1
know, the charm of a most obliging disposition.
You kindly promised me, about a year ago, a
collection of your unpublished producticms, reli-
gious and amorous ; I know from experience
how irksome it is to copy. If you will get any
trusty person in Dumfries to write them over
fair, I wdl give Peter Hill whatever money iie
asks for his trouble ; and I certainly shall not
betray your confidence.
1 am your hearty admirer,
ANDREW ERSKINE.
No, XII.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
2Qth Jinmnr'j, ITM.
I APPROVF greatly, my dear .Sir, of your plans.
Dr. Beattie's Essay will of itself be a treasure.
On my part, I mean to di-aw up an apjiendix to
the Doctor's Essay, containing my stock of an-
ecdotes, &c. of our Scots s(uigs. All tlie late
Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken
down in the course -of my ac(jualotaiice with
j him from his own mouth. 1 am such an en-
thusiast, that in the course of my several pere-
grinations through Scotlrnil. I made a jiilgri-
mage to the individual spot fnmr vvhich every
song took its rise, " Lochaber," and the " Braes
of Balleiiden,'' excepted. .So far as the locality
! either from the title of the irir, or the tenor of
the song, could be ascertained, 1 have pa"d my
devotions at the particular shiiiie of evorv
Scotch muse.
I ilo not doubt but you might make a very
raluable cullectiua of Jacub.te songs — but would
CORRESPONDENCE.
39'
<t ^ive no offence ? In t!it moan time, do not
yon tliiiik that some of tliem, pii t'.cularly " The
So'.v's tail to Gc'ordio," as au air, with other
worJs, might lie well woitli a place in your
colli'ftinn of lively songs ?
If it were possible to proenre songs of merit,
it v.-(iulil he proper to have one set of Scots
wonis to every air, and that the set of words to
which till' notes ought to be set. There is a
nain/e, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight inter-
mi\ture 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 sini]>le pathos, or rustic sprightliness of
our native music, than any English verses what-
ever.
The very name of Peter Pindar, is an acqui-
sition to ytnir work. His " Gregory" is beau-
tiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas
in Scots, on the «ame subject, which are at your
service. Not that 1 intend to enter the lists
with Peter; that would be |)resuniption indeed.
My song, though much iuferior in poetic meiit,
has I thiuk more of the balUd .simplicity in it.
{Lord Gregory* p. 209.)
My most respectful compliments to the ho-
nourable gentleman who favoured me with a
postscript in your last. Me shall hear from rue
and receive his MSS. soon.
No. XIII.
•'HE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
(^Mary Murisnn, p. 211.)
MT DEAR SIR, 20</i March, 1793.
The song prefixed is one of my juvenile
works. I leave it in your hands. I do not
• The song of Dr. Walcott on the same subject is as
folljAs : —
All ojx", Lord Gregory, (hy door,
A nM<liiig(it wanderer si^hs;
Hard rush the raitis., the tempests roar.
And lightiinigs cleave ilie Aies.
Who comes with woe at this drear night—
A pilijrim of ihe gloom ?
If slie wliose love did once deligfct.
My cot shall yield her room.
Alas ! thou hcard'st a pilgrim mourn.
That once was priz'd by thee :
Tliink of the riiiy by yonder burn
Thou gav'st to love and me.
But should'st thou not poor Marian know,
I'll turn iny feet and pait;
And think tlie storms that lound me blow,
Far kinder than thy heart.
It is but doing justice to Pr. Walcott to mention,
that his song is Ihe or'ginal Mr. Hums saw it, liked
it, and immediately wrote the other on the same sul>-
\ki, which is derived from in old bcotlish ballad of
uricertaiu origin.
think it very remaikahle, either for its merit.'v,
or demerits. It is impossible (at least I fee! it
so in my stinted powers), to be always origitiul,
entertaining, and wittv.
What is become of the list, &c. of your s(;ngs ?
I shall be out of all temper with you by and by
I h ive always looked on myself as the prince of
indolent correspondents, and val jed myself ac-
cordingly ; and I will not, cannot bear rivaldiip
from you, nor any body else.
No. XIV.
THE SAME TO THE SAME.
{Wandtring Willie, p. 2i0. 1
March, 1793.
I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine
whether the above, or the old " Through thj
lang Muir," be the best.
No. XV.
THE SAME TO THE SAME.
( Open the Door to Me, O, p. 219.'
I do not know whether this soag be really
mended.
No. XVI.
THE SAME TO THE SAME.
( True-hearted was he, p. aiO.)
i\o. XVII.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET.
EiUiihiir(ih, 2f/ April, 1 79S.
I wii.r. not recognise the title you give your
self, '' the prince of indolent cones|)onilcnts ;'
but if tlie adjective were taken away, I think
the title would then fit you exactly. It gives
me pleasure to find you can furnish anecdotca
with respect to ino-t of the songs : these will
be a liteiary curiosity.
I now send you rny list of the songs, which
I believe will be fund nearly cuniplete. I have
put down the fi'.st hues of all the English songs,
which I propose giving in addition to the Scotch
verses. If any others occur to you, better adapt-
ed to the character of the aLrg pray mentiuc
395
BURNS* WORKS.
them, when you favour me with j riur strictures
upon every thing else relating to the work.
Pleyel his lately sent me a number of the
Bon<js, with his symphonies and accompaniments
tddfd to them. I wish you were here, that I
might serve up some of them to vou with your
own verses, l)y way of dessert after dinner. There
is so much deligl tful fancy in the symphonies,
and such a delicate simplicity in the accom-
paniments : they are indeed beyond all praise.
I am very much pleased with the several last
productions of your muse : your Lord Gregory,
in my estimation, is more interesting than
Petei's, "ueautifu! as his is! Your Here Awa
Willie must undetgo some alterations to suit
the air. Mr. Erskine and I have been conning
it over : he will suggest what is necessary to
aiake th'^m a fit match.*
The gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine
taste you are no stranger to, is so well pleaseu
both with the musicaJ and poetical part of our
work, that he has volunteered his assistance,
and has already written four songs for it, wlncli,
by his own desiiw, I send for your perusal.
No. XVIII.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
( The S.iUier's Return, p. 235.)
{Met/ o' the Milt. p.2\\.)
No. XIX.
THL POET TO MR. THOMSON.
nth April, 1793.
Thank yDu, my dear Sir, for your packet.
You cannot imagine how much tViis business of
composing for your publication has added to my
ciijoyinents. What with my early attachment
to ballads, your book, &c. ballad-making is now
as comjilotely my hobby-horse, as ever fortilica-
tion was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter it
away till I come to the limit of my race, (God
grant that I may take the right siae of the win-
ning-post I ) and then clieei fully looking back
on the honest folks with whom 1 have been hap-
py, I shall say, or sing, " Sae iiieriy as we a'
hae been !" and raising my last looks to the whole
human race, the last words of the voice of L'oi-
la shall be " Good night and joy be wi' you
a'!" So much for my last words : now for a
fevv present rein irks, as they have occurred at
random, on looking over your list.
The first lines of Tlie last time I came o'lr
* The Rcntlcman alluded to was Mr. Andrew Ers-
kine. TIr- iMH't i toptud (art of the altcialiuns, aiul
cigwted Uic- 'Cot.
the moor, and several other lint-s in it, are beau-
tiful : but in my opinion — pardon me, revered
shade of Ramsay !• the song is unworthy of the
divine air. I shall try to make, or mend. For
ever. Fortune wilt thou prove, is a charming
song ; but Logan burn and Logan braes, are
sweetly susceptible of rural imagery : I'll trj
that likewise, and if I succeed, the other song
may class among the F^nglish ones, I remem-
ber the two last last Jines of a verse in some of
the old songs of Logan water, (for I kaow a
good many different ones) which I think pretty :
" Now my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes."
Uly Patie is a lover gay, is unequal. " His
raind 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 Ramsay, or
your hook. My song, Rigs of barley, to the
same tune, does not altogether please me ; but it
I can mend it, and thrash a few loose sentiinenti
out of it, I will submit it to your consideration.
Tlie lass o' Patie's mill 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 Aherdeenshiie, and the other
from Ayrsliire, for ths honour of thi> song'.
The following anecdote, which I h.id from the
present Sir William Cunningham, of Robert-
land, who had it of the late John Earl of Lou-
don, I can on such authorities believe.
Allan Ram>iay was residing at Loudon Castle
with the then Eirl, father to Earl John ; and
one forenoon, riJiug, or walking out tog-.ther,
his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet roman-
tic spot on Irvine water, still called *' Patie's
Mill," where a bonnie lass was " tedding hay,
bareheaded on the green." My Lord observed
to All.in, that it would be a tine theme for a
song Ramsay took the hint, and lingering be-
hind, he composed the first sketch ot t, which
he produced at dinner.
One day I lieard J lury say. Is a fine song;
but for consistency's sake alter the n.inie " Ado-
nis." Was there ever such banns ])ul)lished, <u
a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Ma-
ry'^ I agree with you that my song. There's
noiigld but care on every hand, is much sujieri-
or to Pnortith cnulil. The original song, J'ki
mill, millO, though e.KcuUeiit, is, on account oj
delicacy, inadmissible; still I like the ^itle, and
think a Scottish song would suit the notes best ;
and let your chosen song, which is veiy pretty,
follow, as an English set. Tlie banks oJ the
Dtt is, you know, literacy Lnngotee to slow
time. Tlie song is well enough, bat has some
I false imagery ii it : for instance,
f ,-
CORRESPONDENCE.
^9
And sweef.y the nightingale sung from the
hee.
think we ought not to dinplace or alter it, t»
cept the last stanai.*
In the first place, the nightingale sings in a
ow hu>h, but never from a tree ; and in the
ieo.iul place, there never was a nightingale seen
or heard on the hanks of the Dee, or on the
Viaiiks of any other river in Scotlanch Exotic
rural imagery is always comparatively flat. If
I could hit on another stanza equal to The small
lirdi rejoice, &e. 1 do myself honestly avow
that I think it a superior song. John Ander-
son Hiy>— the song to this tune in Johnson s
Museum, is my composition, and I think it not
my worst ■. II' it suit you, tike it and welcome.
Your collection of sentimental and pathetic
eongs, is, in my opinion, very complete ; Imt not
so your comic ones. Where are TuUochgnruvi,
Lvmps o puddin, Tibbie F.>wler, and sevcra
others, which, in my humblr judgment, are well
worthy of preservation ? There is also one sen-
timental Bong of mine in the Museum, wkich
never was known out of the immediate neigh-
bourhood, until I got it taken down from a
country ghl's singing. It is called CraujubiiTn
wood; and in the opinion of Mr. Clarke, is
one of our sweetest Scottish songs. He is (pnte
an enthusiast about it ; and I would t«ke his
ta-te in Scottish music against the taste of most
connoisseurs.
You are quite right in inserting the last five
in your list, though they are certainly Irish.
Shephads I have lost wij love, is to me a hea-
vcrIv air— what would you think of a set of
Scot'tish verses to it .? I have made one to it a
good while
ladv's song I enclose an altered, not amend
ed copy fo" you, if you choose to set the tuue to
it, and let tlie Irish verses follow.
Mr, Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his
ione i-u/f is diMue. Yours, &c.
Let m.e know just how you like these random
hint^.
1
No. XXI.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
April, 1793,
1 HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this moment,
shall answer it and your former letter, in nij
desultory way of saying whatever comes upper-
most.
The business of many of our tunes wanting
at the beginning what fiddlers call a starting-
note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers.
'< There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow brae*,
That wander thro' the blooming heather '
You may alter to
'< Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
Ye wander," &e.
My song. Here awa, there awo, as amen led
by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve of, and re-
turn vou. .
GiVe me leave to criticise your taste in the
only thing in which it is in my opinion repie
hensible. You know I ought to know some-
thing of my own tra<le. Of pathos, sentimenl,
and point, vou are a complete judge ; but there
rses to it.? I have made one to it a ^^ J ,-;^ ,„„re necessary than either, in a
ago, which I think .... • | ,„j,„ ^^,1 „.i,i^.h is the verv essence of a ballad,
but in its original state is not quite a r ^ ^- Y,,:,,y . now, if I mistake not, this
1 i„o„ or. mUpipH not amend- . ' ■' . ..i ... ,..^r;fi,.o tn
No. XX.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET.
Edinhnrgh, April, 1793.
I REJOICE to find, my dear Sir, that ballad-
making continues to be your hnhhy- horse.
Great pity 'twould be were it otherwise. I
hope vou will aiidjle it away fur many a year,
and '' witch th» world with your horseman-
I know there are a good many livdy songs
of merit that I have not |uit <!own in the list
wnt \ou ; hut I have them all in my eye.
Patie is a lover gay, though a Httle uuecpia
last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to
the foregoing. ,
Ramsay, as every other poet, nas not been
alwavs equally happv in his pieces: still I can-
not a'pprove of taking such liberties with an
ai.tlior as Mr. W. projio-es doing with The lait
time 1 cawe o'er the Moor. Let a poet, if he
chooses, take up the idea of another, and work
it into a ]iiece of his own ; but to mingle the
works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue
is now mute for ever, in the dark and narrow
house— hv Heaven 'twould be sacrilege ! I
grant that Mr. W's version is an improvement ;
but I know .Mr. W. well, and esteem bim much ;
let him mend the song, as the Highlander
mended his gun -.—he gave it a new stock, and
a new lock, and a new birrti.
1 do not, bv this, object to leaving out im-
proper stanzas,' wliere that can be done without
spoiling the whole. One stanza in The loss
o' Palic's mid, must be left out: the song will
be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we
• The nrisimi letter from Mr. Thomson cont«ini
Ml/ many observations on the Scottish songs, anrl on the
• manner of aitajiting the "ords to th. music, wl.icli, at
^atie is a lover gag, inougn a ntnc ui.v.i...... is |,is desire, are suppressed. The sub-tquent ktler of
uatu-il anl very pleasing song, and I humbly Mr. Burns refers to sevcra. of these observations.
BURNS' WOilKS.
ean taxe the snnie liberty with Cam rips are
honnie. Pcrliaps it ini;jlit want the l.ist stanza,
and l)e the bctte- for it. CauU hail in Abtr-
detii, you must leave with nie yet a while, 1
have vowecJ to have a song to that air, on the
laily whom I attempted to celebrate in the
verses, Poortith cautd and rat/ess love. At
any rate, my other song, Green ;;rnw the rash-
es, will cever suit. That song is current in
Scotland under the old title, ai.d to tlie merry
old tune of that name ; which of course would
mar tlie )irogress of your song to celebrity.
Your book will be the standard of Scots songs
for the future : let this idea ever keep your
judjiiuient on the alarm.
1 sei.d a sonir, on a celebrated toast in this
country, to suit Jianuie Dundee. I send you
also a ballad to the Mill, mill O.
Ti.e luit time I came i>\r the moor, I would
fain attempt to n:ake a Scots song for, and let
Ramsay's be the Knglish set. You shdl hear
from me soon. When you go to London on
this busine5<i, can you come by Dumfries? I
have still several MS. Scots airs i)y me which
1 have picked up, mostly fiom -he singing of
country lasses. They please n'.e vastly ; but
your learned lugs would perhaps be displeased
with the very feature for which 1 like them.
I call them simple ; you Viould pronounce them
silly. Do you kuow a fine air called Jackie
II i/me's lament ? I have a song of consider-
able merit to tiiat air. I'll enclose you both the
song and tune, as I had them ready to send to
Juliuson's Museum. I send you likewi-ic, to
me, a beautiful little air, wl ich 1 had taken
down from viva vuce.
Adiea !
No. XXII.
THE POET TO MR. TIIOIMSON.
Mr PEAR SIR, April, 1793.
I HAD scarcely put my last letter into the
post-iffiic, when I took up the subject of The
last time I came (\r the nmor, and ere I slept
drew the outlines of the foregoing. Mow far I
hive succeeded, I leave on this, as on every
other occa>ion, to ynu to decide. I own my
vatiity is flattered, when you give my songs a
plactf in your elegant and superb work ; but to
be of service to the work is my first wish. As
1 ha^c often told you, I do cot in a single in-
Jtance wish you, out of compliment to me, to
itit.ert any thing of mine. One hint let me give
you — whatever Mr. I'leyel does, let him not al-
^•r one iota of the original Scottish airs ; 1 mean,
in the song de))artment ; but let our national
nuisic preserve its native features. They are,
own, frequently wild and irreducible to the
more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri-
city, perhaps, dcj)end3 a great part of their ef
feut
No. XX III.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET.
Edinburgh, 26th April, 1 79Jf.
T HEARTILY thaiik you, my dear Sir, for youi
last two letters, and the songs which acco.-.ia-
nied them. I am always both inslructed in.
entert.iined by your observation^ ; and the Ir^nk
ness w.th which you s])eak out your mind, is t:
me highly agreeable. It is very possibL- I may
not have the true idea of simplicity in comjiosi
tion. I confess there are w cral songs of Allac
Ramsay's, for example, thit I think silly enongk
which another person, mere conver>ant than .
have been with country poople, would perhaps
c«ll simple and natuial. But the lowest scenes
of simple nature will not please generally, if co-
pied precisely as they «.re. The poet, like the
painter, must select what will form an agreeable
as well as a natural picture. On this subject it
were easy to enlarge ; but at present snilice it
to say, that I consider simplicity, rightly uniler-
stood, as a most essential ijiialiiy in conipo--ition,
and the grouud-w&rk of beauty in all the arts.
I will gladly appropriate your most interesting
new ballad, When u-ild tcar^s deadly blu^t, &c.
to the Mdl, nidi, O, us well as the two other
songs to their respective airs ; but the third and
fourth line of the first verse must undergo some
little alteration in order to suit the music. Pleyel
does not alter a single m.te of the Kuigs. Tliat
wo\ild l)e absurd indeed ! With the airs wlii.-h
he introduces into the sonatas, 1 al'ow him to
take such liberties as he pleases ; but that hal
nothing to do with the songs.
P. S.— I wish you would do as you pmposca
with your IUgs o' barley. If the loose senti-
ment* are thrathed out of it, I will find an tii
for it ; but as to this there is no huiry.
No. XXIV.
THE POET TO MR. THOr.ISON.
June, 1793.
When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend
of mine, in whom 1 am much interested, has
fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you
will easily allow that it might unhinge me for
doing any good among ball. ids. ]\ly own loss,
as to jiecuniary matters, is trifling ; but the to-
tal ruin of a much-loved friend, is a loss indeed.
I'ardon my seeming inattention to your last
commands.
I cannot alter the disputed lines in the Mill,
mill, O. What you think a defect I esteem ui
a positive beauty : so you see how doctors dif-
fer. I shall now, with as mjcli alacrity iit<
can lEuster, go on with your wmmauda.
CORRESPONDENCE.
Yon kiinw Fra«er, the hautlidy jihycr in
EilinliurijL — lie i> lioro iiistiiutiii^ a ImiuI of
inu^^ii- for 11 ffiicible cor|is (jiiaitcrcil in tliis
country. Aniuiij; many iit' his ulis that ])1imsi'
me. there is one voll l;iu)wii as a reel by tlic
name of The Quaker's Wife ; ami \vliicl\ I re-
nieinlier a granil uunt of mine usud to sing, by
the name of Liytjeram cos/i, mi/ bonuy tcee lass.
Wr. Fraser ]>\d\s it ^Unl■, and with an expres-
sion th.it quite charms me. 1 became sucii an
enthu>iust about it, that I made a song for it,
which 1 here Milijuin ; and enidose Frascr's set
of tlie tune. If they liit your fani'y, they are
at your service ; if not, return nie the tune,
and I will put it in Johnson's Museum. I
t link the song is not in my worst manner.
{Bli/the hae I been on yon Hill, p. 193.)
I should wish to hear how this pleases you.
This thought is inexpressibly Wa. tiful ; snA
quite, so far as I ksiow, orii^iiiul. it is to*
short for a song, else 1 would forswear you ai-
toijctlur, uii!e>» you pave it i pi. ice. 1 hav?
olteii tiieil to eke a stanza tu it, liut in vuin.
After balancing myself for a muring five mi-
nutes on the hind-legs of my elbow chair, I
jtroiluced the following.
The verses are far inferior to the forer,oing,
I frankly confess ; but if worthy of insL'rt>on at
all, they might be first in p!ace ; as every poet,
who knows any thing of his trade, will husband
his best thoughts fur a concluding stioke.
O were my love yon lilac fair,
^\'i' pur|)le blossoms to the sjiring ;
And 1 a bird to shelter theie,
When wearied on my little wing ;
How I w.ul niniirn, when it was torn
liy aiiluinn wild, and winter rude 5
]5ut I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youtiifu' May its bloom recew'd.
No. XXV.
THE SAME TO THE SAME.
S.^M June, 1793.
Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bo-
»om ready to burst with indignation on reading
or those mighty villains who divide kingdom
against kingdom, desidate provinces, and lay na-
tions waste out of the wantonness of ambition,
ur often from still more ignoble passions ? In a
mood of this kind to-d.iy, I recollected the air
of Lagan water ; and it occurred to me that
its queiulous melody probably had its origin
from the plaintive indignation of some swelling,
suffering heart, tired at the tyrannic strides of
some pubi'ie destroyer ; and overwhelmed with
private distress, the consequence of a country's
ruin. If 1 have dune any thing at all like jus-
tice to my feelings, the following song, com-
posed in three quarters of an hour's meditation
ia uiy elbow chair, ought to have some merit.
{Logan JSraes, p. 209.)
Do you know the following beautiful little
fragment ia V/itherspooii's Collection of Scots
Songs ?
Tune — " Hughie Oraham."
" O pin my love were yon red rose
" That grows upon the castle wa\
" And I mysel' a drap o' dew,
" Into her bonuie breast to fa* !
** Oh, there beyoni! expression bJest^
" I'd least on beauty a' the night ;
^ Seal'd on her sllk-saft fluids to re»t,
" Till tlcv'd awa by Puusbua 'i^iht."
No. XXVI.
MR. THG-AISOX TO THE POET.
ATonday, \st July, 1793
I AM extremely sorry, my good Sir, that any
thing should happen to unhinge yon. The timet
are terribly <:ut of tune, and when harmony will
be restored, heaven knows.
The first book of songs, just pubHthcd, will
be <lespatched to you along with this. Let me
be favoured with your opinion of it frankly and
freely.
1 shall certainly give a place to the song you
have written for the Qnahcr's wife ; it is qm'e
enchanting. Pray, will you return the li.t 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 origiu.d-
ly agreeil to join the speculation having rc-
qiiesteil to be otF. No matter ; a loser 1 cannot
be. The superior excellence of thewoik will
create a general demand fur it, as soon as it i.s
properly known. And were the sale even slowe
than it promises to be, I should be some-
wluit coni|U'iisated for my labour, by the plea-
siii'e I shall receive from the music. I cannot
express how much I am obliged to you fur tl;e
9X()iiisite new songs you are sending me ; hut
thanks, my friend, are a poor rttLrn fur what
you have done : as I shall he benililed by tiie
publication, ymi must suffer me to enclose a
small mark of my gratitude*, and to lepeit it
afterwards wLt'a I find it convenient. Do not
return it, for, by heaven, if you do, our corres.
pondenee is at an end : and thougii this would
be no loss to you, it would mar the jiublicatiuo,
402
which, under your auspices, cannot /ail to be
spectable and interesting.
BURNS' WORKS.
re-
Wednesday IMornxng.
I thank yoj for your delicate additional ver-
ses to the old fragment, and for your excellent
song to Lofjan water : Thomson's truly elegant
one will follow for the English singer. Your
apostrophe to statesmen is admirable, but 1 am
not sure if it is quite suitable to the supposed
gentle character of the fair mourner who speaks
it.
No. XXVII.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
MY DEAR SIR, July 2, 1793.
I HAVE just finished the following ballad, and
as I do think it in my best style, I send it you.
Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air from Jlrs.
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
m.ky keep, as I remember it.
(Bonnie Jean, p. IQi. )
I have some thoughts of inserting in your in-
<lex, 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 in-
genuity may find them out.
The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M.
daughter to Mr. M. of D., one of your subscri-
bers. I have not painted her in the rank which
she holds in life, but in the dress and character
ef a cottager.
No. XXVUI.
THE POET TO MR. TIIO.^ISON.
July, 1793.
I ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that you truly
hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It de-
grades nie in my otvn eyes. However, to rutui n
it would savour of affectation ; but as to any
niore tratlic of that debtor and cieditur kind, 1
swear by that Honour which crowns the up-
right statue of Robert Uurns" Integrity —
on the least motion of it, I will indignantly spurn
the by-past transaction, and fioni that nujiucnt
inmmence entire stranger to you ! IUirns' clia-
racttr for gener;sity of iMotiment and indejjeu-
dence of mind will, 1 trust, long outlive any of
his wants, which the cold unfeeling ore csk
supply : at least, I wdl take care that such i
character he shall deserve.
Thank you for my copy of your publication.
Never did my eyes behold, in any musical work,
such elegance and correctness Your preface,
too, is admirably written ; ordy, your partiality
to me has made you say too much ; however, it
will bind me down to double every effort in the
future progress of the work The following are
a few remarks on the songs in the list you sent
me. I never copy what I write to you, so I
may be often tautological, or perhaps contradic-
tory.
Thcfloicers of the forest is charming as a
poem ; and should be, and must be, set to the
notes ; but, though out of your rule, the thre«
stanzas, beginning,
" I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling,"
are worthy of a place, were it but to immorta-
lize the author of them, who is an old lady of
my acquaintance, and at this moment living in
Edinburgh. She is a Jlrs. Cockburn : I for-
get of what place ; but from Roiburghshire.
What a charming 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 contemptihility *. My alteration of it,
in Johnson's, is not much better. Mr. Pinker-
ton, in his, what he calls. Ancient Ballads
(many of them notorious, though beautiful
enough forgeries) has the best set. It is full of
his own intei'polations — hut no matter.
In my next, I will suggest to your considera-
tion, a few songs which may have escaped jout
hurri-ed notice. In the meantime, allow me to
congratulate you now, as a brother of the quill.
You have committed your character and fame ;
which will now be tried, for ages to come, by
the illustrious jury of the Sons and Daughters
of Taste — all whom poesy can please, or music
charm.
Being a bard of nature, I have some preten-
sions to secoiid sight ; and I am warranted by
the spirit to foretel and affirm, that your great^
grandchild will hold up your volumes, and say,
with honest pride, " This so much admired se-
lection was the work of my ancestor."
• There is a popv of this Iwllail pivcn in the iiccount
ol'tlic iL-irish of Kirkp.itriek-Kkmiiif', (nh>ch contains
the touil) of K.iir flilcn Irvine,) in the statist:?' of Sir
John Sinclair, Vol XIII. p. "75, to tthict this chw^ic
tcr js ccrtiuniy not applicable.
CORRESPONDENCE.
403
No. XXIX.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET.
DKAR SIR, Edinhurc;h, \st Aiirjust, 1793.
I HAD the pleasure of receiving your last two
.etters, and am happy to find y'.m are quite
I-leased with the appearance of the fiist iKiuk.
When you come to hear the soni^s »ung and ac
oompinied, you will he charmed with "them.
T/ie honnie bruc/tet Lassie, certainly deserves
hetter verses, and I hope you will match her.
Cuulil kail in Aberdeen, Let me in this ae night,
and several of the livelier airs, wait the muse's
leisure : these are peculiarly worthy of her
choice gifts : besides, you'll notice that in airs
of this sort, the singer can always do gieater
justice to the poet, than in the slower airs of
The Bush aboon Traqnair, Lord Greqnry,
and the like; for in the manner the latter are
frequently sung, you must be contented with
the sound, without the sense. Indeed both
the airs and words are disguised by the very
slow, languid, psalm-singing style 'in which
they are too often performed : they lose anima-
tion and expression altogether, atid instead of
speaking to the mind, or touching the heart,
they cloy upon the ear, and set us a yawn-
ing !
Your ballad, There was a lass and she ti-ns
fair, is simple and beautiful, and shall undoubt-
edly grace my collection.
I will. The other passage you object to does
r.ot appear in the same light to me.
I have tried my h md on Rubin Adair, and
you will pmbably think, with little success;
but it is such a cursed, cramp, out of the way
measure, that 1 de>j)air of doing any thing bet-
ter to it.
(Phillis the fair, p. 222.)
So much for namby-pamby. I may, tfter
a'!, try my hand on it iu Scots verse. There I
always find my-eif most at home.
I have j'lst put the last hand to tJie song I
meant for Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. U it suits
you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the hero-
ine is a favourite of mine : if not, I shall also
be pleased ; because I wish, and will be {;lad,
to see you act decidedly on the business. 'Tis
a tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor
which you owe yourself.
No. XXX.
THE POET TO MR. TIIO^ISON.
My DEAR THOMSON, Aupnst, 1793.
I HOLD the pen for our friend Cliike, who
at present is studying the music of the spheres
at my elbow. The (jtorffiuin SIdus he thinks
)s rather out of tune; so until he rectify that
matter, he cannot stoop to tenestriil affairs.
He sends you six of the Rondeau subjects,
ind if more are wanted, lie says you shall have
kem.
Confound ysur long stairs i
S. CL.\RKE.
No. XXXI.
THE SAME TO THE S.^ME.
August, 1793.
Your objection, my dear sir, to the passages
ia my song of Logan Water, is right in one in-
•tance ; but it is difficult to mend it : If I can.
No. XXXII.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET.
MY Goon SIR, August, 1793.
I CONSIDER it one of the most agreeable cir-
cumstances attending this publication of mine,
that it has procured me so many of your much
valued epistles. Pray makii my acknowledg-
ments to St. Stephen for the tunes ; tell him"l
admit the justness of his coinj)lalnt on my stair-
case, conveyed in his laconic postscript to jour
jeu d'esprit ; which I perused more than dnce,
without discovering exactly whether your discus-
sion was music, astronomy, or politics; though
a sagacious friend, acipi jintcd 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 w:ls the
only thing that would deeply atTect you, and the
only matter you could then study how to re-
medy !
I shall be glad to see you give Rohin Adair
a Scottish dre-s. Peter is furnishing him with
an English suit for a change, and you are well
matched together. Robin's air is excellent,
though he ceitainly has an out of the wav mea-
sure as ever jxior Parnassian wight was plagued
with. I wish you would invoke the muse for a
single elegimt stanza to be substituted for the
concluding objectionable verses of D.>wn the
burn Davie, so that this most exquisite song
m-iy no longer be excluded from good company.
iMr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing
from your John Anderson my Jo, which I acC
to have engraved, as a frontispiece to the hu-
morous class of songs; you will be quite charm-
ed with it, I promise you. The old couple are
seated by the fireside. Mrs. Anderson, in great
404
BURNS' WORKS.
good liumniir, is clapping John's shoulders,
while he smiles and looks at her with such glee,
as to sh<i\v that he Jnlty rciiillects the pleasant
days and nights when they were first acqvent.
The drawing would do honour to the peniiil of
Teniers.
No. XXXIII.
THE POET TO MR. THOiMSON.
August, 1793.
That crinkum-crankum tune, Jiobin Adair,
».as run so in my head, and I suceeeiled 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 C. 's story, which happened
about three years ago. That struck my fancy,
and I endeavoured to do the idea justice, as
follows.
{Had la cave, p. 203.)
By the way, I have met with a musical High-
lander, in lireadalbane's fencildes, which are
quartered heie, who assures me that he well
reineniliers his niotlier's singing Gaelic songs to
both Rubin Adair and Gramiiclirie. They
certainly have more of the Scotch than Irish
taste in them.
This man comes from tlie vicinity of Inver-
ness ; so it could not be any intercourse with
Ireland that could bring them ; — except, what
I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wander-
ing minstrels, harpers, and pijiers, used to go
frequently errant through the wilds both of
Scotland and Ireland, and so some favourite airs
might be common to both. — A case in point —
Tbey have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish
air, as they say, called Cnun du dtlish. The
fact is, in a publication of Coiri's, a great v.hile
ago, you will find the same air, called a High-
land one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its
Dame there, I think, is Oran Guoil, and a
fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or the l?ev.
Gaelic parson, about these matters.
No. XXXIV.
THE SAME TO THE SAME.
MT DEAR SItt, August, 1793.
JLet me in this ae night, I uill rccoi'sider.
I am glad you are pleasiii with i«y song. Had
I a cave, &c. as I bkeil it myself.
I walked out yesterday evening with a vo-
lume of tlie Musiiiin in niy hand ; vlien, turn-
ing up AlUn Uti/ir, " \Miat num/iers shall
the muse repeat," &g »s the words appeared t<i
me rather unworthy of so fine an air ; and re-
collecting that it is on your list, 1 sat and raved
under the shade of an old thorn, till I wiott
out one to suit the measure. I may be wrong •
but I think it not in my worst style. Yof
must know, that in Ramsay's Tea-tai)le, where
the modern song first appeared, the ancient
name of the tune, Allan says, is Allan Watei,
or. Ml/ love Annie's very bon7iie. This
last has certainly been a line ot the origina.
song ; so I took up the idea, and, as you w'.U
see, have introduced the line in its place, which
I presume it formerly occupied ; though I like-
wisie give you a chousing li7ie, if it should not
hit t'.e cut of your fancy.
(Sg Allan streams I chanced to rove,
Mhile Phmbus sank beyond Berdtddi, p. 190 1
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 ot'her follow as En^lisu
verses.
Autumn is my propitious season. I make
more veises in it than in all the year else.
God bless yoti !
No. XXXV.
THE SAME TO THE SAME.
August, 1793.
Is Whistle and Til cnme to ynu, my lad,
one of your airs ? I admire it much ; and yes-
terday I set tlie following verses to it. Urban:,
w horn I met with here, begged them of me, as
he admires the air much ; but as I uuderstand
that he looks with rather an evil eye on your
work, I did not choose to comply. However,
if tlie song docs not suit your t.iste, I mav pos-
sibly Send it him. The set of the air which
I had in my eye, is in Johnson's Museum.
( O whistle and Fll come to you, my lad,
p. Sit-'.)
Another favourite air of mine is. The mvckin
o' (ieurdie's byre. When sung slow, with ex-
pression, I have wished that it hail had bett'T
p<ictry : that I have endeavoured to supply, at
follows : —
(Phillis the Fair, p. 222.)
Mr. Cla-ke begs you to give Miss Phillis a
corner in your book, as she is ajiaiticular llaiTH
of liis. She is a Miss P. M., sister to bonme
Jean. 1 hey ale both pupils of his. You shall
hear from me, the very first grist I get fronr
va^ ihyming mill.
COIIRESPONDEXCE.
4C5
No. XXXVI.
THE S.\ME TO THE S.VME.
Aiigunt, 170.3.
That time, diiihi Kail, is such a favourite
of yours, that I once more roved out jesteiday
kn- a fjloamin-shot at tlio uitises ; • when the
nuisc tliat presides o'er the sliores of Nith, or
r.ither my o!d inspiriiiE; dearest nyinpli Coila,
whisperer! me the foliowiiij;. I have two rea-
sons for thinking that it was my early, sweet,
simple insplrer that wdt- hy my e!l;ow, " smooth
giidintr without step," and pouring the song on
.iiy plowing faney. In the first place, since I
left Coila's native haunts, not a fragment of a
I'oet has arisen to cheer her solitaiy Uiusings, hv
catcliing inspiration fiotn her ; so I more tiian
suspect that she has followed me hither, or at
least makes me occasional visits ; secondly, the
last stanza of this song I send you in the very
Words that Coila taught me many years ago,
anil which I set to au old Scots reel in John-
son's Museum.
( Come let me take thee to my breast, p. 197.)
If you think the ahove will suit your idea of
your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased.
7/(e lust time I came o'lr the Muiir,' I cannot
niedd e with, as to mendiMg it : and tlie musi-
cal wor^d have heen so long accustomed to Ram-
say's words, that a <lilfereiit song, though posi-
lively superior, would not be .so well received.
I an not fund of choruses to songs, so I have
BO* xade one for the foregoing.
No. XXXVII.
THE SA.ME TO THE SAME.
{Dainty Davie, p. I9S.)
Avpust, 170.3.
So much for Davie. The chorus, you kuo«,
s to the low pirt of the tune. See Clarke's
get of it in the Museum.
N. 15, In the IMuaeum they hai'e drawled out
the tune to twelve lines of poetry, w hicl. is
nonseiise. Four lines of song, and four
of chorus, is the way.
• Clo.nmip— twilight, properly from plonminfj. A
roajiifiil !<>. tic.il word wli:ch oi'iglit to bo adoptevl in
tr.gland. \ fliiamiu-iliot, a twilij^hl iiUeniew.
No. XXXVIII.
MR. THO.MSON TO THE POET.
MV nEAR SIR, Edinbtirgh, ]st Sijit. 1793.
Since writing you last, 1 have received haW
.1 dozen songs, with which I am lielighted l)ey(ind
expression. The humour and f.incy of M'/iiitU
anil I'll cimie to ymi, my lad, will render it
nearly as great a f.ivourite as Duncan Gray,
CiiniK lit me tukt thte to my breast, Adown
vindniy Nith, and J>y Altiiri ilruun, &c. are
full of imagination and feeling, and swtetlv suit
the airs for which they are intended. JJail 1
a cave on stime wild distaid shore, is a strik-
ing and affecting composition. Our friend, to
whose story it refers, read it with a swe ling
heart, I assiiie you. The union we are now
forming, 1 thirds, can never be bioken ; tliese
songs of yours will descend with the music to
the latest posterity, and will be fuidly cherished
so long as genius, taste, aud sensibility exist in
our isi.ind.
While the muse seems so propitious, I tliink
it right to enclose a list of all the favouis I have
to ask of her, no fewer tliati twenty and three !
I have burdened the pleasant Peter with as many
as it is jirobable lie 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 familiar to him
who writes for them.
No. XXXIX.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
Se,.f. 1703.
Yoi; may readily trust, my dear Sir, tiiat any
exei tion in my power is heartily at vour sc.--
vice. Rut one thing I must hint to you ; the
very name of Peter Pindar is of great service
to your pidilicatiim, so (let a verse from him
now and then ; though ! have no ohjectlon, as
well as I can, to hear the burdeu of the busi-
ness.
Vou know that my pretensions to musical
taste are merely a (i:\v of nature's instincts, un-
taught and untutored by art. For this reason,
many niu«ical compositions, particularly where
much of the merit lies in counterpoint ; how-
ever they may transpurt and ravish the eais of
you connisseors, alFect my sim|de lug no other-
wise than merely as melodious din. On the
other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted
with many little mehid es, whiih the learned
musiciin despises as silly and insipid. I do not
know whether the old air Jley titilie taitie
may rank among this number ; but well 1 know
that, with Fraser's i.authoy, it has often tilled
my eyes with te.irs. There is a tradition, which
I have met with in n: my places of .Scotlan.i,
that it was Robert Bruces inarch ut the battle
406
BURNS' WORKS.
of BannocVburn. Tliis thought, in my solitary
wanderings, warmed me to a pitch jf enthu-
siasm on the theme of Liberty and Indepen-
dence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish
ode, fitted to the air that one might suppose to
be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his he-
roic followers on that eveutful morninsr
{Scots wha hue tut' Wallace hied, p. 195.)
So may God ever defend the cause of Truth
and Liberty, as he did tli.it day ! — Amen.
P. S. — I showed the air to Urbani, who was
highly pleased with it, and begged me to make
soft verses for it ; but I had no idea of giving
myself any trouble on the subject, till the acci-
dental recollection of that glorious struggle for
freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of
some other struggles of the same nature, not
quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania.
Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you will
find in the Museum ; though I am afraid that
the air is not what will entitle it, to a place in
your elegant selectioa
No. XL.
THE SAME TO THE SAME.
Sfpt. 1793.
I DARE say, my dear S'r, that you will begirt
to tliinlv my correspondence is persecution. IS'o
matter, I can't help it ; a hallrid is my hobby-
horse ; which, though otherwise a simple sort
of harmless, idioticil beast enow.;!!, has yet this
blessed headstrong property, that when once it
has fairly maile otf witli a b ijiless wight, it gets
BO enamoured with the tiukle-giugle, tinkle-
gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run
poor ))dgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite be-
yond any useful point or post in the common
race of man.
Tbe following song I have composed for
Onin-ijuiiil, the Higlilinil air that, you tell me
in your la>t, you have loolved to give a place
to in )()ur book. 1 have this moment finislied
tie Sung ; so you have it glowing fioin the mint.
II it suit you, well ! if not, 'tis also well !
Behold Ihe hour the boat arrives, p. 193.)
No. XLI.
MR. THO.MSON TO THE POET.
Kilhihunih, bill Sr;it. 1793.
I aiLlKVK it is gLiieially alloucd that thej
greatest modesty is the sure attenilant of thi
greatest merit. While you are sending me verses
that even Shakspeare might be proud to own
you speak of them as if they were ordinary pro
ductions ! Your heroic ode is to me the noblest
composition of the kind in the Scottish Ian-
guage. I happened to dine yesterday with a
party of your friends, to whom I read it. They
were all charmed with it, entreated me to find
out a suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea
of giving it a tune so totally devoid of interest
or grandeur as He;/ tuttit taitie. Assuredly
your partiality 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 conversed again and again with the
greatest enthusiasts for Scottish airs, — I sav I
never heard any one speak of it as worthy olf
notice.
I have been running over the whole hundred
airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; and 1
think Lewie Gordon is most happily ada])ted
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 Gnrdon
more of the grand than the plaintive, particu-
larly when it is sung with a degree of spirit,
which your words would oblige the singer to
give it. I would have no scruple about substi-
tuting your ode in the room of Letcie (iordon,
which has neither the interest, the grandeur,
nor the jioetry that characterise your verses.
Now, the variation I have to suggest upon the
last line of each verse, the only line too short
tor the air, is as follows : —
Verse \st, Or to glnriotts victorie.
2f/, Chains — chains and slaverie.
Sil, Let him, let him turn and flie.
Ath, Let him bravely follow me.
bth, But theij sh(dl, they shall be free.
6th, Let us, let us do, or die !
If you connect each line with its own verse, I
do n t think you will find that either the senti
iiuiit or the expression loses any of its energy
The only line which I ilislike in the whole ol
the song is, " Welcome to your gory I ed.'
Would not another word be preferable to «-t/-
come ? In your next I « ill expect to be in
formed whether you agrtn to what I hive pro-
posed. These little- alterations I submit with
the greatest deference.
The beauty of the verses you have made for
Oran-ffuoil will insure celebrity to tte »ir.
CORRESPONDENCE.
407
No. XLII.
THE TOET TO JIR. THOMSON.
September, 1793.
T HAVE rcccivcil your list, my dear Sir, and
bcre no iin olisorvatioiis on it.*
IX'wn t.'ie burn Davie. I have this nio-
meiit tried an alteration, leavine; out the '.a-.t
half of the third stanza, and the tirst hall of the
last stanza, thus : —
Ab down the burn they took their way,
And thro' the flowery dale ;
His rheik to liers he att ilid lay.
And love was aye the tale.
M'ith " Miry, when shall we return,
Sic ])li'asiiie to renew ?'
Quoth »Mary, " Love, I like the bum.
And aye s>hall lollow you."-j-
Thro' the wood laddie — I am deridedly of
opinion, that lioth in this, ami There U ruver be
peurc till Jamie ciiiiiei> haine, the second or hiijh
put of the tune being a repetition of the tirst
p.irt an oi-tave hij^her, is only for iiistrumeiital
music, and would be niucii better omitted in
siii<;inj;.
Qncden-hiowes. Remember in your index
that the soui'- in uure English to this tune, be-
ginning
" When summer comes, the swains on Tweed,"
IS th'i production of Crawford : Robert was his
Chrwtian name.
Laddie lie near me, mu«t lie hi/ me for some
time. I do not know the air; and until I am
coni|ilLte master of a tune, in my own singing,
(such as It is), I can never compose for it.
My way is : I consider the poetic sentiment
coi respondent to my idea of the musical expris-
fcion ; then choose niy theme ; begin one stan-
za ; when th.it is composed, which is generally
the most difficult part of the business, I walk
out, sit dou n, and then look out for objects in
nature aioiuid me, that are in unison or har-
moriv with the cogitations of my fancy, and
workings of my bosom ; humming every now
and then the air. with the verses I have fra-
med. \Vhen I feel my tnuse beginning to jade,
1 retire to the solitary liieside of my study, and
there commit my etfusions to paper ; swinging
at intervals on the bind legs of my eliiow-chair,
by way of calling foiili my own critical stric-
tures, as my ];en goes im. Seriously, this, at
home, is almost invariably my way.
What curse<l egotism I
• Mr. 'I'honisiio's list of songs for liis publication.
In h:s remarks, ihe liav.l proceeds in onlcr, aiul t;oe»
ll.Tougli ttie whole: but on iii;iiiv of thcin he merely
si.niiJies bis ap'.iroh.itmn. All bis remarks of any im-
portaiH'C a'-e piesen'dl to the reailer.
t rlus alteration Mr. I'lionwiii bas .idoptcd, (CT at
least iiiteuteil loailopi), iiistcail of llie last stanza of
the original song, w» ich U objttioimbJe in jioiut uf
tlcliincv.
Gill Morice I am for letiving out. t is a
|)ligiiey length; the air itself is never sung ;
and its jilacc can well be supplied by one or two
songs for fiiit .lirs that are not in your list. For
instance, Cr<ii<;ieburn-u-i)Oil and lini/'s Wife.
The first, beside its intrinsic iiiei it, has novelty ;
and the last has high merit, as well as great ce.
lebrity. I have the original words of a song
for the last air, in the band-writing of the iady
who coni])osed it ; and they are superior to any
edition of the song whic.i the public has yet
seen.
Iliphland Laddie. The old set will ple.ise a
mere Scotch ear best ; and the new an Ital-
ianized one. There is a third, ami what Os-
wald calls the old Ilii/ldand Litddie, which
])ieases me more than either tif thein. It is
sometimes called (ii/ij/lan Jnhnttie ,- it being
the air of an old humorous tawdry song of that
name. You will find it in the Museum, / hat
been at Craokii-den, fee. I would advise you.
in this musical fjuandiiy, to offei up your pray-
ers to the muses for inspiring direction ; and in
the meantime, waiting for this d;iection, bestow
a libation to Bacchus ; and there is not a dmibt
but you will liit on a judicious choice. I'lO-
batiiin est.
Aitld Sir Siinon, I must beg you to leave
out, and put in its place. The Qmi/ter'.i u-ife.
IHl/the h(te I hieii o'er ilie hill, is one of the
finest songs ever I made in my life ; and besides,
is composed on a young l.i<ly, positively the
most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. .\s
I purpose giving you the names and designa-
tions of all my heroines, to appear in some fu-
ture edition of your work, pcihaps halt a cen-
tury hence, you must certainly include the b(in~
niest lass in a' the nuirld in \oiir collection.
Daiiitie Davie, I have bearil >ung, nineteen
thousand nine bundled and iiinety-iiiQe times
and always with the chorus to the low jiart ol
the tune ; and nothing has surprised me so much
as your opinion on this subject. If it will not
suit, as I proposed, we will lay two of the stan-
zas together, and then make the chorus follow.
Fee hivi fither — I enclose you Fraser's set
of this tune when be plays it slow ; in fact,
be makes it the language of despaif. I shall
here give you two stanzas in that style ; merely
to try if it will be any improvement. Were it
possible, in singing, to give it half the (.athos
which Fraser gives it in ]ilaying, it would make
an admiiabie pathetic song. 1 do not give these
verses for anv merit they have. I composeil
them at the time in which I'atie Allnn's wi-
ther died, that was about the back o' iniduiyUt ;
and by the leeside of a bowl of ]>unch, which
hail overset every mortal in company, txcei>
the liautbuis and the muse.
( Thou hail left me ever Jamie, p. 239.)
Jackie and Jenny I would disciid, and iia
its place wouid put There's nae luck about
108
■ he house, wnich lias a very pioa'^.int air ; ami
wliiili is positively the finest luve-liall.id in tliat
style in the Scotti^li, or peihaps in any othei
.angiiiige. When she cum ben sfie hohhit, as an
sir, is more heautifiil than either, and in the an-
dante wiiv, would unite with a charming senti-
mental hallad.
S(iw ye my father, is one of my greatest fa-
vourites. The evening hefore last, 1 wandered
out, and hegan a tender song ; in what I think
is its native style. I must premise, that the
old wav, and the way to give mo-t effect, is to
iiave no starting note, as the fiddlers call it,
but to *iurst at once into tl;o pathos. Every
counfrs girl sings — Saw ye my fntlier, &fc.
Mv song is but just begun; and I shouli!
like, before I proceed, to know your ojtinion of
it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottisli dia-
ect, but it may be easily tuineJ into correct
linglish.— (;*. ii-Z.)
ToJlin hiime. Urliani mentioned an idea
of hiM, which has long been n:::!e ; that this air
is highly susce|.tible of pathos ; accordingly,
you will soon hear him, at your concert, try it
to a song of mine in the Museum, Ye banks
anil Irties o' bunnie Doon. — One song more
ai:d I liave done : Auld In ng syne. The air
is but ntcili'jcre ; but the following song, the
oid si.ng of the olden times, and which has
never been in print, nor even in m.inuscri|)t, un-
til I took it down from an old man's singing, is
enough to recommend any aii.
(Auld lung syne, p. 191.)
Now, I suppose I have tired your patience
fahiy. You must, after all is over, have a num-
ber of ballads, properly so called. Gill Moricc,
'J'ruuc-it Muir, iM' I'hersun's Farcwtll, liat-
t/e of Sheri^-nivir, or Me ran anil thry ran,
( I kaow the author of this charming b.illad,
and his history), Ilarilyhniite, liarbura Ailun,
(I can furnish a finer set of this tune than
any thing that has yet appeared); and besides,
do \(iu know that I really have the old tune to
which The Cher"! and the .S7«e w.is sung ;
anil which is mentioned as a well known air in
Scotlaiiil's Com|daint, a book jiublished before
poor Mary's days. It was then callvd 'J he
bunks </ lielicnn ; an old poem which I'uiker-
ton has brought to light. You will see ail this
in Tytlei's History of Scottish Music. The
tunc, to a learned car, may have no great merit ;
Jiiil it is a g'-eat cnriovily. I have .1 good many
OrigLlal tilings of this kind.
No. XL- II.
THE rOET TO MR. THOMSON
Sepletnher, 179:?.
I AM happy, my dear sir, that my ode ple;L<!si
you so nuuli. Your ide;i, " Viciiour"s be)l," is,
though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea ; so, if you
please, we will let the line stand as it is. 1
have altered the song as follows : —
(^Cannoch-burn, p. lOJ.)
N. B. — I have borrowed the last stanza fron
the common stall edition of Wallace.
" A false usurper sinks in every foe,
And liberty returns with evtry blow.*'
A couplet woi thy of Homer. Yesterday you
had enough of my corres]iondcnce. The post
goes, and my head aches miserably. One corn-
fort ; I suffer so much, just now, in this world,
for last night'sjoviality, that I shall escape scot-
free for it in the world to come. Aaien !
No. XL IV.
MR. TIIO.MSON TO THE POET.
\2th September, 1793.
A THOUSAND thanks to you, my dear SirJ fur
your observations on the list of my songs. I
am happy to find your ideas so much in unison
with my own respecting tlie generality of tl:e
airs, as well as the verses. About some of them
we differ, but there is no disputing about hi'bbv
horses. I sh.ill not fail to profit by the remarks
you make ; and to le- consider the whole with
atteiitioM.
Diiinlie Davie must be sung, two stanzas
together, and then the chorus — 'lis the proper
way. I agree with you, that there may I.e
something of pathos, or tenderness at least, in
the air of I-\e Iiiiii, fuiher, when performed
with feeling ; but a tender cast may be given
almost to any livtly air, if you sing it very slow.
1\, expressively, and v.ilh serious words. I am,
however, c!ea". ly iiiid invanaldy fijr retaining the
cheerful tunes joined to their uwii hiiniuroiM
verses, wherever the versus are passuble. But
the sweet song for let him, futher, which you
began about the back of midnighl, I will pub-
lish as an additional <uie. I\li. Jjiiies lialli or,
the king of fjood fi Hows, and the best singer
of the lively Scottish balLids that ever existed,
his charmed thou-auds of conijiinics With I'le
him, father, and with ToiUm Jiame ■d]^o, to the
old wolds, whiidi never should beiiisamted from
either of tliese airs. Some BaiclianaU I would
wish to discard. I'y let us a' to the bndal, for
instance, is so coarse and vuluiii, that I think it
tit only tr be sung in a company of dninkeu cul
CORRESPONDENCE.
/ier'» ; ami Saw t/e mt/ father appears to me
both iiidoiiiMtu 1111(1 silly.
Ont- Wind more with rcjjaril to your heroic
0'!c. I tliiiik, with great defereiire to the |)oet,
tl'.it a piiiileiit treneral would avoid s-avini; any
thiiii; to his soldiers whu'h might tend to make
deith iiioio liii;litfiil th.in it is. Gory presents a
disa.neealile image tu the mind ; anil to tell tliem,
" \Se!conie to your fjory hed," seems rather a
discouraging address, uotwithsfanding the alter-
native which follows. I have shown the sonir
1 • ■
to three trienils of excellent taste, and each of
them uhjected to this line, which eiuholdens me
to use tiie fre 'doni of hringing it again undea' your
Dotice. I would suggest,
" Now prepare for honour's bed.
Or for glorious victorie."
( Where are the jni/s I hne mcl in the morning
p. 2 12.)
Adieu, my dear Sir ! The post goe<, sn I sIjlQ
defer Mime other lemaiks unti! mon leisure.
No. XLV.
TIIE POET TO MR. TIIO.\IS0N.
September, 1 793.
" AViio shall decide when doetois disagree .?"
Aly oile jiieases me so much that 1 cam.ot alter
it. Yt tir proposed alteiations would, in my o-
pinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly oblig-
ed to you for putting me on re-considering it ;
us 1 tliink I have nuich improved it. Instead
of " sodger ! hero!" I will have it " Caledo-
oian ! on wi' me !"
I have scrutinized it over and over; and to
.he world some Way or other it shall g<o as it is.
At the Siine time it will not iu the least hurt
me slmuld you leave it out altogether and adhere
toyour riisi intention of adopting Logan's verses. •
I hive tiiiished my song to Hiiiv ye vii/ fa-
ther ; and in English, as you will see. That
there is a syllable too much for the expressinn of
the air, is true ; but allow me to siv, that the
Bieie dividing of a dotted crotchet into a <rot-
.•liet and a ipiaver, is not a great matter: how-
ever, in that I have no preten-ions to cope in
)uilgiiient with you. Of the poetiy I speak with
(xintidtnce ; but the music is a business where 1
hint my ideas with the utmost d.lfidence.
The old verses Lave merit, though unequal,
and are pojuilir; my advice is to set the air to
the old words, and let mine follow as English
verses. Here they ain —
• Mr. liomsnn lias very projiprly adopted Itiis sting
(if It u.ay lie so ealleil) as llii lianl ),'rcseiileil it l.i liiiii.
lie liah at'.ueliecl il to the air uf l.rwv l!ii dim, anil per
ha|is aiuiiii^ ilie exist: iig airs lie .•on i not fiml a belter:
bin llie poetry is suiiiil to a nioeli higher strain of imi-
tie, aiul iiiav employ the qeiiiu* of some beottish llail-
del, I aii\ Mu 11 shoulil ill futiire arise. 'Ihe reailiT
Kill lia>e o!fr.eiveil, il.al liiiriis aitopied the alleralions
piopoai-il b> Ins friciiil aiiilenriesi otiileiit m former in-
>iai/ei s »illl great leailiiiess ; perh ins, m 'ee,l, on all
inil<ttetei:t oe« as.ons. hi (ht- present mslanep, however,
he rrjeeUil li.eiii, tlio'j.^.li tepeaieilly unjed, Willi ilcter-
Ulilitii feMilutloll. v"
No. XLV I.
THE same' TO TIIE SAME.
St/>fimicr, 1 r93.
I HAVE been turning over some volnrnes of
songs, to lind verses whose measures would suit
the airs fur which you have allotted me to find
English soni;s.
For JMiiirland Willie, you have, in Ramsav'f
Tea-table, an excellent »<ing, beginning " Ah,
why those tears in Nelly's eyes?" \^ f.ir The
Collier's Docliler, take the following iW Eac-
chaDal.
(Dclwled Swain, p. 19S.)
The faulty line in Logan- water, I mend thus:
" How can your (linty lieaits enjoy
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?"
The song, otherwise, will pass. As to M'-
Greguira-Hna-Huth. you will see a song of
mine to it, with a set of the air sujierior to voiirs,
in the IMuseuni, Vol. ii. p. 181. The sung he-
gins,
" Raving winds around her blowing."
Your Irish airs are prettv but they are down-
right Irish. If they were like the Banks of
liannn, for instance, though really Irish, vet in
the Scottish t iste. yon might adopt tliein. Since
you are so fond of Iri^h iiiusii-, what say vou to
twenty-five of them in an ;.d I tional numlier ?
We could easily lind this quantity of charmin"
airs ; I will take care that you shall not want
songs ; and I assure you that you will find it
the most sa cable of the whole. If you do not
approve of /?'>//'« wife, for the music's sake, we
~ha'l not insert it. Deil Ink' the wars, is a
charming song; so is, Saw ye tn;/ l\(jcjyf
'I'here'i nae lack tdymt the himse, well desirves
a pl.ice ; I cannot say that O'er the hills niid
far awu strikes me as equal to your selection.
This is no my ain house is a great favourite air
of mjie ; and if \,iu send n.e your set of it, I
ivill task my muse to her Lighe-t etfort. What
IS your opinion of I hue laid a hirrin ia sawtf
1 like it mueh. Your Jacobite airs are prettv ;
iiid tlieie are m my others of the s.iii.e kind,
pietiy — but you ha>e i.ot room fir them. You
cannot, I (JKiik, insert, I y let us u tu tie Lrtdla,
to any other words than us own.
flO
BURNS' WORKS.
What pleaws me, as simple and naive, dis-
trusts you a.s ludicrous and low. For this reason,
Fye, pie me wy cngyie, sirs — Fi^e, let us a' to
the briddl, with sevtral others cf that cast, are,
to nie, highly pleasing ; while, Saw ye my father,
cr saw ye my Muilier, delights me with its dis-
criptive sim|)le pathos. Thus, my song. Ken
ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten ? pleases
jnyselt' 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 mau wears his belt his ain gait."
No. XLVIL
THE SAJIE TO THE SAME.
October, 179.'}.
Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was in-
deed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Ers-
Kine !* The recollection that he was a coadju-
tor in your publication, has, till now, scared me
from writing to you, or turning my thoughts on
com])osiiig for you.
1 am pleased that you are reconciled to the
air of the Quaker's Wife, though, by the bye,
an old Highland gentleman, and a deep antiqua-
rian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by
the name cf Leiger 'm choss. The fo lowing
verses I hope will plea.se you, as an English song
to the air t
Thine am T, my faithful fair,
Thine, my lovely Nancy, (p. 214.)
The rest of your letter I shall answer f.t some
other opportunity.
No. XL Via
BIR. THOJISON TO THE POET.
ify GOOD SIR, 7th November, 1793.
After so long a silence, it gives me peculiar
pleasure to recognize your well known hand,
for I liiid begun to be apjtrehensive that all was
not well with you. I am happy to find however,
that fwur 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
Leii,er 'in chnss, which I think rxtremly good,
althiiigh the colouring in warm. Your friend
Mr. Turnbull's songs liave doubtless consider-
able merit ; and us you have the command of
his manuscripts, I hope ycu may find otfi; some
that will answer as English songs to the airs yel
unprovided.
No. XLIX.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
December, 1793.
Tell me how you like the following verse*
to the tune of Jo Janet.
( Husband, husband, cease your strife, p, 213.)
( Wilt thou be my dearie ? p. 242.)
NoL.
•'Hip lloni>iirable A. rr<;kinc, brothcrto I.otd Kcl-
]y, wti'tir in;!;iiirlinly (Um'Ii Mr i'himisnii h.iil coinniu-
Qiiateil II an ixcL-iljnl IcIlct, wiiicli liu lias tujiprcsicU.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET.
JIY DEAH SIR, Edinburgh, \1th April, 1794.
Owing to the distress of our fiiend fur the
loss of his child, at the time of his receiving
your admirable but melancholy lettei, I had
not an oppoitunity 'till lately (jf ])eruhing it.*
How sorry am I to find Burns saying, " Car-st
thou not minister to a mind diseased ?" wh-''?
he is delighting others from one end of the
island to the other. Like the hypochondiiae
who went to consult a physician upon his case:
Go, says the doctor, and see the famous Carlini,
who keeps all Paris in good humour. Alas !
Sir, replied the patient, 1 am that unhappy
Carlini !
Your plan for our meeting together pleases
me greatly, and I trust that by some means or
other it will soon take jdace ; but your Bac-
chanalian challengt! almost frightens me, for I
am a miserable weak Irinker !
Allan is much gratified by your good opinion
of his talents. He has just begun a sketch
from ycur Cotter's Saturday Night, and if it
pleases himself in the desii;n, be will piobably
etch or engrave it. In subjects of the pa>t(iral
or humorous kind, he is perhajis unrivalled by
any artist living. He fails a little in giving
beauty and grace to his females, and his colour-
ing is sombre, otherwise his paintings anil draw-
ings would be in greater request.
I like the music of the Sutnr's Dochter,
and will consider whether it shall be added to
tlie last volume ; yeur verses to it are prettv ;
but your bimiormi'* Engii-h song, to suit Jo
Janet, is inimitable. What think you of the air,
" Within a mile of Edinburgh ?" It has alwavi
struck me as a modern luigliih imitation ; but
is said to be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that
I believe I must include it. The verses arc lit-
• A letter to Mr. Cunningluim, to be tounc
in p. oTJ.
CORRESPONDENCE.
411
tie better tha'i namhy pnmhy. Do you ton
tider it worth a stinza or two ?
N >. LI.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
MY DEAH SIR, ]\l(tlj, n9k
I iiETUKN you tlie i)l,ites, with ivliich I am
his^hly pleased ; I would liunihly prjpose, in-
stead of the younker knittinc: stockings, to put
a stOfk and horn into his hands. A friend of
mine, who is positively the ablest judije on the
suliject I have ever met with, and though an
unknown, is yet a superior artist with the Uu-
rin, is cjuite charmi'd with Allan's manner. I
^ot hii'i a peop of the Gentle Shepherd; and
he pronounces Allan a most original artist of
great excellence.
For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing
my fivoiirite poem for his subject, to hi; one
of the highest compliments I have ever re-
ceive<l.
I am quite vexed at Pleyel's heing conperl up
in France, as it will put an entire stop to our
work. Now, and for sis or seven months, /
shall be quite in song, as you shall see by anil
by. I got an air, pretty enough, composed by
Lady Elizabeth Heron of Heron, which she
calls The Hanks of Cree. Cree is a beautiful
lomantic stream : and as her Ladyship is a pir-
Vcuiit friend of nr.ine, 1 have written the fol-
jw ing song to it.
( The Banks of Cree, p. 226.)
No. LIL
THE SAME TO THE SAME.
July 1794.
Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your
work to be at a dead stop, uiitil the allirs set
3ur modern Orpheus at liberty from the sa-
vage thraldom of democratic iliscords ? Alas
the day ! And wih-'s me ! That auspicious
period, pregnant with the happiness uf mil-
lion?. * —
I have presented a copy of your songs to the
daughter of a much-valued, and much-lmnoured
friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintry. I wrote,
•c the I/lank >ide of the title page, the following
address *,o the young lady.
Here, where the Scottish muse immortal live*.
In sacred strains anil tiuielnl numbers join d,
Accept the gift ; though humble he who gives.
Rich is the tribute uf the grateful mind.
So may no ruflfian feeling in thy breast.
Discordant jar thy bosiiin-chtirds among ;
But peace attune th) gentle soul to rent,
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph sung.
Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears.
As modest want the tale of woe reveals ;
While conscious virtue all the strain endears,
And heaven-burn piety her sanction seals.
No. LIIL
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET.
MV DEAR sm, E'lhibnrqh, lOM Ang.-\79l.
I OWE you an apology for having ^o long de-
layed to ackiiiiwledge the favour of your hue.
I fear it will be as yon say, I Nhall have nc
more songs from Pleyel till France and wc are
friends; but, neveitheless, I am very desirous
to be prepared with the poetry, and as the sea-
son approaches in which your muse of Coila vi-
sits you, I trusr I shall, as formerly, be freijuent-
!y gratified with the result of yuur amorous and
tender interviews !
No. LIV.
• A portion of thi-; le ter ha- been left out, fot it
ons (IliI will u- easily iin.it;iiied.— Clhuie.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
SO//i Airjust. 179i.
The last evening, as I w is straying out mid
thinking of, 0\r the hills imd Jar aim, I
spun the following stanza for it ; but whether
my s|)inning will deserve to be laid iij) in ^to|•e
like the piecious thread of the silk-worin, or
brushed to tlie devil, like the vile manutactuie
of the sjiidei. I leave, my dear Sir, to your usuu
candid critiii'^in I was pleased wiih several
lines in it at tir^t ; but I own, that now, it up-
pearN rather a flimsy business
This is ju>t a hasty sketch, until I see whe
thcr it be woith a critiijue. We have many
sailor songs ; but, as far as I at present recol-
lect, they are mostly the ilTii-ions of the jo.'ia!
sailor, not the waiiing-« of his love-lnrn mis-
tress. I n:ii-t here make one sweet exception
— Swett Annie J'rue the Seu-Oeuch caint
Now lor the song.
( On the seas and Jar awai/, p, 219.)
412
BURNS'S WORliS
I give y«;i le.iVo -o abuse this song, but do it
in the spirit of christian nittkness.
No. LV.
MR. THO.AISON TO THE POET.
•IT DEAR ?IR, Edinburgh, \&th Sept, 179i.
You have anticipati-d my opinion of, On the
seas atu/ fur away; I do not tliink it one of
yiiiir very happy product, ons, though it cer-
titinly ciiiitaiiis stanzas that are worthy of all ac-
CeiJtation.
TliH second Is the least to my liking, ptrti-
cuiurly " nidlets, spare my only joy." Con-
found'the huilets! It might jieriiaps be object-
ed to the third verse, " At the starless mid-
night hour," that it has too much granileur of
iniagery, and that greater simplicity of thought
would have better tinted the character of a sai-
lor's sweetheart. The tune, it must be re-
membered, is of the brisk, cheerful k:nd. Upon
the whole, therefore, ni my humble opinion, the
song would be b< tter adapted to the tune, if it
consisted only of the first and last verjes, with
the chorusses.
( Ca the yiiwes to the knowes, p. 196
1 shall give you my opinion of your o&et
newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit.
No. LVI.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
Sept. 179i.
I SHALL withdraw my, On the seas and fur
•in-iii/, altogether: it is unt(juil. anil uiiw(uthy
the work. .Making a poem is like begetting a
son : you cannot know whether you have a wise
man or a piol, until you produce him to the
woild and tiy him.
Fcjr that reason I H'nd you the offspring of
niv brain, ab rtinns and all ; and, as such, pray
luok over them, and fmgive them, and burn
tlieiu.* 1 am flattered at your ai.o]iting, Ca
the i/otces to the kiiim-es, as it was owing to me
that ever it saw the light. A!)out seven years
Ego I was well acquainted with a worthy little
foiluw of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sung
it eliarmingiy ; and, at my lequest, Mr. Clarke
took it down from his sing ng. When I gave
it to JoliMM>n, i added some stanzas to the song,
and mended oti.ers, but stdl it wdl not do lor
you. In a sobtary stroll wliieh I took to-ilay,
I tried my I and on u few pa-toral lines, fullow-
i.ng up the idea of the cboru^, which I would
|)r<'seive. Here it is, with all its crudities and
imperlections on its head.
• Ihis Virpill.nn onlerof the poet should, I think,
b> (li«)lif\eil with respect to the sou^; in (luetction,
th»' keei.oil hlaiiita exii iiie.l.— .W/f t-ii Mi. T'limtun.
Doeiois (l.lli r. The ulijueiiiii lo the ttcuinl stanza
iuLk not ktrike the Ktiilur — Ct/itiiit:..
No. Lvn.
THE SA:^IE to THE SAME. •
SepteTiiher, 1794.
Do you know a blackguard Iiish song, called
Onayh's Water-fall? The air is charming,
and i have often regretted the want of decent
verses to it. It is too much, at least for my
humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort
of hers shall have merit ; still I think that it is
better to have mediocre verses to a favourite
air. than none at all. On thi- principle I have
all along proceeded in the Scots Mu-ical Mu-
seum, and as that publication is in its last vo-
lume, I intend the following song, to the air
above mentioned, for that work.
If it does i:i>t suit you as an editor, you may
be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing
before ladies.
(Saefaxsn were her ringlets, p. 223.)
Not to compare small things with great, my
taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of
i'rus^ia's taste in painting: we are told that he
fie.pientiv admired what the connoisseurs de-
cked, and always without any hypocrisy con-
h-.-sed his admiration. I am sensible that my
taste in music mu>t be inelegant and vulgar,
iKcause people of undisputed anil cultivated taste
can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Sti..,
because I am cheaply pleased, is that any rea-
son why I shouM deny myself that pleasure ?
Many <i'f our strathspeys, ancient and modern,
give me the most exipiisite enjoyment, where
yiiu and other judges would probably be show-
ing disgust. For instatice, I am just now mak-
in"' verses for Rolliemnrche's Rant, an a\l
wiiich |"its me in raptures ; and in fact, unless
I be pleased with the tune, I never can make
verses to it. Here I have Clarke on my side,
who is a judge that I will pit against any oi
von. " Rotlamiirehe," he says, " is an air
'both original and beautiful ;" and on his recom-
mendation I have taken the fitst put of the
tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last part
for the song. I am but two stanzas deep in thu
work, and po-sibly yon may think, and ju-tly,
that the poetry is as little worth your .rUention
as the music*
I have begun anew. Let me in this ae night.
Do you thlilk that we ought to retain the old
choi'us? I think we must letain both the old
• In the orii;in»l follow here two stanzas ol the totig
" l.u^ie wi' the hiiuwhile ioeki."
CORRESPONDENCE.
413
elionis ami the first Rfanza of the o!il sonj; 1 1
do not :ilto<rethcr like the third lino of the first
stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I
Rni just three star.zis deep in it. Would you
have the rlcnnucmfiit to he successful or other-
wise ? — should she " let him in" or not.
Did vou not once propose The Snw's tail to
Ge.ordie. as an air for your work ? I am quite
d»;!iglited with it ; but I acknowledge that is
no niaik of its real excellence. I once set uhoui
verses for it, which I meant to he in the alter-
nate way of a lover and his mistress chanting
together. 1 have not the pleasure of knowing
Jlrs. Thomson'^ Christian name, and yours, I
am afraiil, is rather burles(|iie for sentiment,
el-e I had meant to have made you the hero
and heroine of the little ])iece.
How do yon like the f.iilowing epigram,
which I wrirte the other d ly on a lovely young
girl's recovery from a fever .' Doctor ftl.ixwell
was the physician who seemingly saved her
from the grave ; and to him I address the fol-
lowing: —
TO DR. MAXWELL,
ON MISS JESSV STAIg's RECOVERY.
ALwwELi,, if merit here you crave,
That met it I deny :
You save fair Jessy from the grave !
An angel could not die I
God grant you patience with this stupid
epistle I
No. LVIIL
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET.
I PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is now at-
tendant upon her favourite poet, whose wonil-
notes wild are become as enchanting as ever.
She sai/s she h'es me best o' a, is one of the
ple.isantest t.ihle songs I have seen, and hence-
forth shall be mine when the song is going
round. I'll give Cunningham a copy ; he can
more powerfully proclaim its merit. I am far
fiom undervaluing your taste for the straths, ley
music ; on the contrary, I think it highly ani-
mating and agreeable, 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
»ad softened by lovely woman, without whom,
jrou know, they hid been brutes.
I am c ear for having the Sow's tall, parti-
cularly as you proposed verses to it are so ex-
tremely promising. Geordie, as you observe,
is a name oniv tit for burlesque composition.
Mj». Thomson's name (Katharine) it not at
all j)octical. Retain Jeanie, thcrrfo.e, anc
make the other Jamie, or any other that sound*
agreeably.
Your Cn' the yeires, is a precious little mor
ceau. Indeed I am perfectly vtonislied and
charmed with the endl -ss variety of your fancy.
Here let me ask you. v, nether you never s<'riiius-
ly turned your thoughts upon dramat.c writing ?
That is a tield worthy of your genius, in which
it might shine foith in all its splendour. On«
or two successful pieces upon the Loudon stage
would make your fortune. The rage at piesent
is for musical dramas ; few or nune of tho-e
which have appeared since the Duenna, pos-
sess much poetical merit : there is little in the
conduct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to inter-
est the audience. They are chiefly vehicles for
music and pageantry. 1 tliinkyou might produce
a comic opera in three acts, which wouM live
by the poetry, at the same time that it would be
proper to take every assistance fnnn her tune-
ful sister. Part of the simgs of couise would
be to our favourite Sfotti.^h airs ; the rest might
be left with the London comi'oser — Storace for
Drury-lane, or Shield tor Covent-g iiden ; both
of them veiy able and popular nius:cians. I be-
lieve that interest and manuiuvring are often ne-
cessary to have a d-iima brought oii : so it ir«v
be with the iiamby inimby tribe of flow cry
sciinblers; but were you to address Mr. Sheri-
dan himself by lettei-, and send him a dramatic
piece, I am jjersuaded l.e would, for the honour
of genius, give it a fair and candid trial. Ex-
cuse nie for obtruding these hints upon your con-
sideration. •
No. LIX.
THE SAME TO THE SAME.
Edhihiiriih, \^th October, 179+.
The last eight days have been devoteil to the
re-examination of the Scottish collections. ]
have read, and sung, and tiddleri, ami consider-
ed, till I am half Id ml and wholly stupid. The
few aits I have added, are ericlo-cd.
Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the
songs I expected from him, which are in gener-
al elegant and beautiful. \\,i\>i you heard of a
London collection of Scottish airs and son^'s,
just i)ublished by i\Ir. Uitson, an Englishman.
I shall send you a copy. His introductory es-
say on the subject is curious, and evince* gieat
reading and research, but does not decide the
question as to the oiigiii of our melodies;
thou^'h he shows clearly that Mr. 'I'ytler, in his
ingenious dissertation, has aihlncel no sort of
proof of the hypothesis he v/ishcd to establish;
and that hi^ classilication of the airs, accurding
• Our bird hait before received ihe same advice, .inij
certainly took it so far into eooMdeialion, as to liave
c^l about for a sv.UJeet.
il4
BURNS WORKS.
to the eras when they were composed, is mere
fancy and conjecture. On Jolin Pinkerton, Esq.
he has no ninrcy ; but consigns him to damna-
tion ! He sn:irls at my public;i*on, on the score
of Pindar being engasred to write songs fir it;
uncandidly and unjustly leaving it to be inferred,
that the songs of Scottish writers had been sent
a-packintr to make room for Peter's ! Of you he
Bjitaks with some respect, but gives you a pass-
ing hit or two, for daring to dre^s up a little
sume old foolish songs for the Museum. His
sets of the Scottish airs are taken, he says, from
the oldest collections and the Viest authorities :
many of them, however, have such a strange as-
pect, and are so unlike the sets which are sung
by every persim of taste, old or young, in town
or cnuntiy, that we can scarcely recognize the
features of our favourites. By going to the oldest
collections of our music, it does not follow that
we find the melodies in their original state.
The'^e melodies had been preserved, we know
not how long, by oral conimunicat on, befiie be-
ing collected and printed ; and as different per-
sons sing the same air very differently, accord-
ing to their accurate or confused recollection of
it, so even suppof-ing the first collectors to have
possessed the ind'istry, the taste and discernment
to choose the best tliey could hear, (which is far
from certain), still it must evidently be a chance,
whether the collections exhibit any of the me-
lodies in the stite they were first coniposed.
In selecting the melodies for my own coUectidn,
I have been as much guided by the living as bj
the dead. Where these differed, I preferred the
sets that appeared to me the most simple and
beautiful, and the most generally ajiproved ;
and, without meaning any compliment to n'y
own capability of choosing, or speaking of the
pains I have taken, I flatter myself that my sets
will be four>d equally freed from vulgar errors on
the one hand, and affected graces on the other.
No. LX.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
MY DJAR FRIEND, IQth Octohef, 1794-.
By this morning's post I have your list, and,
in general, I highly approve of it. 1 shall, at
more leisure, give you a critique on the whole.
Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and
I wish you wiiuld call on him and take his opi-
nion in geiieril : you know his taste is a stand-
jrd. He will return here again in a week or
two ; so, please do not miss asking for him. One
thing I lio|)e he will do, persuade you to a-
dopt my favourite, Craigie-burn-wooil, in your
•election : It is as great a favourite of his as of
mine. The lady on whom it was made is one
iif the finest women in Scotland ; and, in fact,
(eiilre nims) is in a >iianner to me what Sterne*«
Cllz.i was to him — a mistress, a friend, or what
vou wdl, in the guileless bimplicity of I'latuuic
love. (Now ion t put any of -out sfji.inting
constructions on this, or have an- disiimaclaivei
about it among our acquaintances.) I assure
you that to my lovely friend you are irxiebted 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 liiin with enthusiasm, or melt him
with pathos, equal to the genius of your book ?
— No ! no ! — Whenever I want to be more than
ordinary in song : to be in some degree equal
to your diviner airs — do you imagine I fast and
pray for the celestial emanation ? Tout au
col.traire ! I have a glorious recipe ; the very
one that for his own use was invented by the di-
vinity of healing and poetry, when eist he piped
to the flocks of Admttus. I put myself in a re-
gimen of admirmg a fiae woman ; and in ]iropor-
tion to the adorability of her charms, in propor-
tion you are delighted with my verses. The light-
ning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and
the witchery of her smile the divinity of Heli-
con !
To descend to business ; if you like my idea
of, Wlien she cam hen she hohbit, the following
stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they
were form.erly when set to another air, may per
haps do instead of worse stanzas.
SAW YE MY PHELY.
( Quasi dical PldlUs.)
Tune—" When she came ben she bobbit."
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ?
O saw ye mv dear, my Pliely .'
She's down i' the grove, wi' a new love,
She winna come hame to her Wilhe.
What says she, n t dearest, my Phely ?
What says she, my dearest, my Phely ?
She lets thee to w.t that she has thee forgot,
And for ever disowns thee her Willie.
O had I ne'er seen thee, ir.y Pliely !
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely !
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair,
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willie.
Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. Tl.t
Posie (in the Museum), is my c('.iii))ositinn :
the air was taken down from Mis. Bums
voice. It is well known in the West Cnuii-
try, but the old words are trash. By tli« bye,
take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you
do not think it is the original from which Ii:>s-
I Itn Castle is composed. The second part, in
I jiarticular, for the first two or three bars, is ex-
actly the old air. Strathallan' s Lumiut is
mine ; the mii^ic is by our right-trusty ai\ii de-
servedly well-beloved, Allan Masterton. J)o-
noclit-liead, is not mine : I would give ten
pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edin-
CORRESPONDENICE.
415
Sjrph Herald ; and came to the Editor of that
pn!)er with tlie Newcastle post-mark on it.*
Whistle o'er the lave o't is mine ; the music
said to he by a Johu Bruce, a celebrated violin
player in Dumfries, about the be;;inriing of this
century. This I know, Bruce, who was an
honest man, though a red-wud Iliijhlandman,
constantly claimed it ; and by all the old musi-
cal people heie, is believed to be the author of it.
Aiidretu and his cutty gun. The sonjj to
which this is set in the iMuseum, is mine ; and
was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of
Linttose, commonly and deservedly called the
Flower of Stratlimore.
How long and drcarg is the night. I met
with some such words in a collection of soni,'s
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 ai ranged it anew, as you will find on the
other page.
(How long and dreary is the night, p. 205.)
Tell me how you like this. 1 differ from
your idea of the expression of the tune. There
is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You
cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to
your addenda airs. A lady of my acquaintance,
a n(ted performer, plays and sings at the same
time so charmingly, that 1 shall never bear to
see any of her songs sent into the world as na-
kw* as Mv. What-d'ye-call-um has done in his
Lundon collection.f
These English songs gravel me to death. I
have not that command of the language that I
h;ive of my native tongue. I have been at
Duncan (jrag, to diess it in English, but all I
can do is deplorably stupid. For instance :
(Let not woman e'er complain, p. 209.)
Since the above, I have been out in the coun-
try t, iking a dinner with a fi iend, whore I met
with the lady whom I mentioned in the second
page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usu-
al, I got into song ; and returning home, I com-
posed the following.
(Sleep\t thou, or wak' st thou, fairest creature,
p. 235.)
If you honour my verses by setting the air to
them, I will vamp up the old song, and make
it English enoiigh to be understood.
I enclose you a musical ctr.osity, an East
Indian air, which you wool., swear was a Scot-
tish one. I know the authenticity of it, as the
gentleman who brought it over is a particular
acquaintar >-e 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 ir.tcnd p^ b.
ting it into the Musical Museum. Here fol-
low the verses I intend fur it.
( The auld man, p. 225.^
I would he obliged to you if you would pro-
cure me a sight of Ritson's collection 'of Eng-
lish songs, which you mention in your letter.
I will thank you for another irifurniation, and
that as speedily as you please • whether this
miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not
completely tired you of my correspondence ?
• The reader will \)e curious to see this poem to
V^' ~ rrtilMil Ijy Uarn» See p. 151.
t Ml. Riuon.
No. LXI.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET
Edinburgh, 27 th October, 1794..
I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a genuini
poet can tio more exist without his mistress than
liis meat. I wish 1 knew the adorable slie,
whose bright eyes and witching smiles have so
often enraptured the Scottish b nil ! that I might
drink her sweet health when the toast is going
round. Craigie-burn-wood, must certainly be
adopted into my family, since she is the object
of the song ; hut in the name of decency, I must
beg a new chorus verse from you. O to be ly-
ing beyond thee, dearie, is perhaps a consum-
mation to be wished, but will not do for singing
in the company of ladies. The songs in youi
last will do you lasting cicdit, and suit the re-
spective airs charmingly. Iain j)erfectly of your
opinion with respect to the additional airs. The
idea of sending them into the world nakerl as
they were born was ungenerous. They must all
be clothed and made decent by our fiiend Clarke.
I find 1 am anticipated by the friendly Cun-
ningham, in sending your Ritson's Scottish col-
lection. Permit me, therefore, to present you
with his English collection, which you will re-
ceive by the coach. I do not finil his historica
essay on Scottish song interesting. Your anec-
liiites and miscellaneous remarks will, I am sure,
be much more so. Allan has just sketched a
charming design from Maggie Lauder. She is
ilancing with such spirit as to electrify the Jjiper,
who seiiiis almost dancing too, while he is play-
ing with the most exquisite glee.
I am much inclined to get a small copv, and
to have it engraved in the style of Ritson's
prints.
P. S. — Pray, what do your anecdotes say
concerning Maggie Lauder ? was she a rea.
personage, and of what rank ? You would sure*
ly sjiier for Iter if you ca'd at .^ustrutJta
'■jwn.
4i5
BURNS* WORKS.
No. LXII.
TflE POET T{) MR. THOMSON.
November, 1791.
Many thanks to yoti, aiy dear Sir, for your
present : it is a book of the utinos-t importance
to nil'. I have yesterday l)e<ruu my anecdotes,
&c. for your work. I intend drawing it up in
the fi>rin of a letter to you, which wiil save me
fr(Mii the tedious dull business of systematic ar-
rangement. Indeed, as all I have to say con-
sists of uriconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps
of old snn!;s, &c. it would be impnssible to give
th-> work a beijinninp;, a middle, and an end ;
which the critii-s insist to be ab>(ilutely neces-
sary in a work. In my last, I told you my
objections to the sono; you had selected for Mil
ledijing is on (lie cold grovnil. On my visit
the other day to my fiir (,'hluris, (that is the
poetic name of the lovely j^oddess of my inspi-
ration), she sup;ijeNted an idea, which I, in my
return from the visit, wrought into the follow-
IDSJ son" ; —
{Chloris,p. 197.)
How do you like the sim])licity and tenderness
of this pastoral ? I think it pietty well.
I like you for enteiing so candidly and so
kindly into the story of Md there Amis. I as-
sure vou, I was never more in earnest in my
life, than in the account of th.it alTair wliich I
sent vou in niv last. Conjut^al love is a passion
whii-li I deeply feel and lii;;hly venerate ; but,
soniehiiw, it does not ma-ke such a figure in
poesy as that other species of the passion,
*' Where Love is liberty, and Nature law."
Musically speaking, the first is an instrument
of wliich the gamut is scanty and conhned, but
the tones inexpiessioly sweet ; while the last
has powers equal to all the intellectual modula-
tions of the human soul. Still, I am a very
poet in mv enth.usiisn: of the pas>ioD. The
welfare and hapi)iness of the beloved object is
the fust and inviolate sentiment that jurvades
mv soul ; and whatever pleasures I might wish
for, or whatever might be the raptures they
woulil give me, yet, if they iuterfrre with that
first principle, it is having these pleasures at a
disli(uiest price ; and justice forbids, and gene-
rosity diMi.iins the purchase!
Despairing of my owu powers to give you
variety enough in Knglish songs, I have been
turning over old collections, to pick out songs
ol which the me isure is something similar to
what I want ; and with a little alteration, so as
\.o suit the rhyme of the air exactly, to give you
Jiein for your work, ^\'hl're the songs have
Jiitheito been but little noticed, tjor have ever
been set to music, I think the sliift .1 fair o»«s.
A song, which, under the same iist verse, yor
will find in Ramsay's Tea- Tab' ; Miscellany, I
have cut down fur an EnglisL dtess to your
Dainty Davie, as follows . —
{Cliloe,p. 19G )
You may think meanly of this, bul take a
look at the bombast original, and you will be
surprised that I have maile so much of it. I
have finished my song to Rotlieniurche's Runt;
and you have Clarke to consult, as to the set ot
the air fcr singing.
(Lassie u-i' the lint-white lochs, p. 203.)
This ])iece has at least the merit of being a
regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer
nonn, the autumnal evening, and the winter
night, ate regularly rounded. If ycm like it,
well: if not, I will insert it in the .Museum.
1 am out of temper that yon should set so
sweet, so tender an air, as Deil tali the wars,
to the foolish old verses. Yuu talk of the silli-
ness of Saw i/e nil/ father ; by heavens, the
odds is, gold to brass ! Besides, the old song,
though now pretty well model nlzed into the
Scottish l.mguage, is oiiginally, atnl in the ear-
Iv editions, a bungling low imitatum of the
Scottish manner, by that genius Tom D'Urfey ;
so has no pretensions to be a Scotti-h produc-
tion. There is a juetty English song by She-
ridan in the Duenna, to this air, which is out
of sight superior to D'Urfey 's. It begins,
" When sable night each drooping plant re-
storing."
The air, if I understand the expression of it
properly, is the very native language of simpli-
city, tenderness, and love. I have again gone
over my song to the tune as fiiliows.*
Now for my English song to iVa/icy'ji to the
Greenwood, &c.
(Maria's Dwell. ur,, p. 250.)
There is an air, The Caledonian Hunt's de-
light, to which I wrote a song tint you wii
find in Johnson. Ye b'lnhs and braes o' Ifinnn
Dnon ; this air, I think, might find a place a-
mong your hundred, as Lear says of his knights.
Do you know the history of the air ? It is cu-
rious enough. A good many years ago, Mr
James Miller, writer in your good town, a gen-
tleman whom possibly you know, was in coin,
pany with our friend Clarke ; and talking o.
Scottish music. Miller expressed an ardent am-
bition to be able to comj)Osc a Scots air, Mr
* See the sonj: in its first and best dress iu p Hi
4 IV
Clarke, parti/ by way of joke, toM him tn keep ' more nacclian.il i.in than amorous in its n.itute,
to tlie black keys of tlie liarpsii-liord, and jire- i anrj rei-iminii'mls it to you to ni.iti-li tiit liir ae-
lerve s.ome kind of rhyme ; and he would in- ' coniinjjiy. I'ray did it ever (pci-nr to you how
fcillilily i-oinpose a .Scot" n\r. Cert.iiu it is that, ! peculiarly well the Scott;^h airs are ail.ipted for
in a frw days, Mr. Miller proiluced the rinli
nients of an air, which iMr. Clarke, with some
to'jches and corrections, fashioned into the tune
in question. Ritson, you know, has the same
story of the lilack htys ; hut this account
which I liave ju>t ijiven you, Mr. Clarke in-
formed me of, several years at;o. Ni.w to show
you how difficult it is to trace the origin of our
airs, I have heard it rei)cateiily asserted that this
was an Irish air ; nay, 1 met with an Irish gen-
tleman who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland
among the old women ; while, on the uther
Land, a Countess informed me, that the first
person who introduced the air info this country,
WHS a baronet's lady of her acquaititance, who
took down the notes from an itinerant jiiper in
the Isle of Man. How difficult then to ascer-
tain the truth respecting our poesy and music '
I, myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads
Buug thiough the streets of Dimifties, with
my name at the head of them as the author,
though jt was the first time I had ever seen
them.
I thank you for admitting Craiyie-burn-
U'ood ; and I shall take cjre to furnish you with
a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my
%vork, but a part of some old verses to the air.
If I can catch mvself in a more than ordinarily
prooitious moment, I shall write a new Craigie-
burn-woiid altogether. My heart is much in
the theme.
I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the
request ; 'tis dunning your generosity ; but in
a moment, when I had forgotten whether I was
rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your
songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you
this ; but an ungracious request is doubly so
by a tedious apology. To make you some a-
menils, as soon as I have extracted the neces-
sary information out of theui, I will return you
Ritson's volumes.
The la<ly is not a little proud that she is to
make so distinguished a figure in your collection,
and I aiK not a little proud that I have it in
my power to please her so muih. Lucky it is
for yeur pat:;;:;ce that my paper is done, for
when 1 am m a scribbling humour, 1 know not
when to ffive over.
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 in-
stances cannot be sung, at concert pitch, but by
a female voice. A song thus |>erfurmeil makes
an agreeable variety, but few of our'* are .writ-
ten in this form : I wi«h you would think of it
in some of those that remain. The only one of
the kind you have sent me, is admltable, and
will be an universal favourite.
Your verses for liut/ienuirc/ie are so sweetly
pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, for JJtd
tali the ivars, so passionately tender, that I have
sung myself into rajitures with theui. Your
song for Ml/ hilginij is on tlie culil ijnninil, is
likewise a diamond of the first water ; I am
quite dazzled and delighted by it. Some of your
Chlorises I suppose have flaxen hair, from your
jwrtiality for tliis colour ; else we dilTer about
it; for I should scarcely conceive a woman to
be a beauty, on reading that she bad lint-whtc
locks !
Farewell thou stream that tclnding flows, I
think exceileiit, but it is mux'h too serious to
come after Nancy : at least it would seem an
incongruity to provide the same air with merry
Scottish and melancholy English verses ! The
moie 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
any thing from your pen can be tedious. Let
me beseech you not to use ceremony in telling
me wlieu you wish to present any of your friends
with the songs: the next carrier will bring you
three copies, and you are as welcoiiie lo twenty
as to a iiiuch of snutL
No. LXIII.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET.
MT GOOD SIR,
]5//j Noremlier, 1794.
Slsc'E receiving your last, I have had ano-
ther mtervlew with Mr. Clarke, and a loag con-
iulcation. lie thinks the (Jaltdoniun. Hunt is
No. LXIV.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
19/A NiivemhLr, 1791.
Yoi; see, my dear Sir, what a punctual cor-
respondent I am ; though indeed you may thank
yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you
liave so fl ittertd me on my horsemanship with
mv favouriie hobby, and have praised the
grace of his ambling so much, that 1 am ncirce-
iy ever olT his back. For instance, this mor-
ning, though a keen blowing frost, in my "a'.k
before breakfast, 1 finished my duet wliicii you
were pleased to praise so much. Whether I
have uniformly succeeded, 1 will not say ; but
here it ii for you, though It is nut an Lour old.
418
BURNS' WORKS.
( OPhilly, happy he tliat day, p. 220.)
Tell me honestly liow you like it ; and point
out whatever you think faulty.
I am much pleased with your idea of singing
our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that
you did nut hint it to me sooner. In those that
remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember
vour objections to the name Philly ; hut it is
the common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the
only other name that suits, has, to my ear, a.
vulgarity about it, which unfits it for any thing
except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poe-
tasters of the day, whom your brother editor,
Mr. Ritson, ranks with me, as my coevals, have
always mistaken vulgarity for simplicity ; where-
as, simplicity is as vnwcn. eloigns e from vulgarity
on the one hand, as from affected point and puer-
ile, conceit on the other.
I agree with you as to the air, Craigie-hurn-
wood, that a chorus would in some degree spoil
the effect, and shall certainly have none in my
projected song to it. It is not however a case
in point with Rothieinui'chie ; there, as in Ruy^s
Wife of Aldivalloch, a chorus goes, to my taste,
well enough. As to the chorus going first, that
is the case with liny's Wife, as well as Itnthie-
murcliie. In fact, in the first part of both tunes,
the rhyme is so peculiar and irregular, and on
that irregularity depends so much of their beau-
ty, that we must e'en take them with all their
wilHness, and humour the verse accordingly.
Leaving out the starting note, in both tunes, has,
I think, an effect that no regularity could coun-
terbalance the want of.
Try
and
Cmiipare
uil/i
{'o
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch.
lassie wi' the lint-white lucks.
{ Roy's wife of Aldivalloch.
\ Lassie wi' the lint-white locks.
Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable
strike you ? In the last case, with the true
furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild
originality of the air ; whereas in the first insi-
pid nieHujd, 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 paidun of the
eogiinsceiiti.
The Caledonian Hunt is so charming, that
It woulil make any subject in a song go down ;
but p.ithos is ceitairily its native tongue. Scot-
ti-li Uacclianalians we certainly want, though the
few we have are excellent. For instance, Tud-
lir. Ituvic is, for wit and humour, an unpaialleled
composition ; and Andrew and his ciitty t/un is
ttie work of a master. 13y the way, are you not
quite vexed to think that those men of genius,
fur Kuch they certainly were, who composed our
fine .Scottish lyrics, should be unknown ! It has
given ine many a l:eart-ache. Apropos to IJac-
clianalian songs in Scottish ; I composed one
yi sierdjy for an a.r I like much — J^uiiips o' puj
( Contented wi' little, ond cantie wt tnair, 9
197.)
Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framea
a couple of English Stanzas, by way of an Eng
lish song to Roys wife. You will allov/ raa
that in this instance, my English corresponds in
sentiment with the Scottish.
( Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? p. 196.)
Well ! I think this, to be done in two or three
turns across my room, and with two or three
pinches of Irish Blackguard, is not so far amiss.
You see I am determined to have my quantum
of applause from somebody.
Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we
only want the trifling circumstance of being
known to one another, to be the best friends on
earth), that I much suspect he has, in his jifctes,
nnstaken the figure of the stock and horn. I
have, at last, gotten one ; but it is a very rude
instrument. It is composed of three parts ; the
stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a sheep,
such as you see in a mutton-ham ; the horn,
which is a common Highland cow's horn, cut
off at the smalltTend, until the aperture be large
enough to admit the stock to be pushed up
through the horn, until it be-held by the thicker
end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, an oaten
reed exactly cut and notched like that wliicb
you see every shepherd- boy have, when the
corn stems are green and full-grown. The reed
is not made fast in the bone, but is held by the
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 play-
ing. The stock has six or seven vcntiges on the
upper side, and one back-ventige, like the com-
mon flute. This of mine was made bya man
from the braes of Athole, and is exactly what
the shepherds wont to use in that country.
However, either it is not quite properly bored
in the holes, or else we have not the art of blow-
ing it rightly ; for we can make little of it. H
IMr. Allan chooses, I will semi him a sight oS
mine ; as I look on myself to be a kind of bro-
ther-brush with him. " Priile in Poets is nae
sin," and, I will say it, that I look on Mr. Al-
lan and Mr. ]5urns to be the only genuine and
real painters of Scottish costume in the worU
No. LXV.
MF THOMSON TO THE POET.
2Sth Noremher, 1794.
I ACKNowi.EncE, niv dear Sir, you are not
oidy 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 ul my iinpudencc.
CORRESPONDENCE.
419
in RO h-0]U€ntl_v nibbling at lines and couplets
»f your ineomparable lyrics, for which, perhajis.
if you hud served me right, you would have
cat me to the devil. On the contrary, how-
ever, you have ail 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 chief d'ceuvre.
Lumps of pudding shall certainly make one of
my family dishes; you have cooked it so capi-
tally, that it will please all palates. Do give
U8 a few more of this cast, when you find your-
self in good spirits : these convivial songs are
more wanted than those of the amorous kind,
of vvhich we have great choice. Besides, one
does not often meet with a singer capable of
giving the proper effect to the latter, while the
former are easily sung, and acceptable to every
body. I participate in your regret that the au-
thors of some of our best songs are unknown ; it
is provoking to every admirer of genius.
I mean to have a picture painted from your
beautiful ballad, The Soldier's return, to be en-
graved for one of my frontispieces. The most
interesting point of time appeai-s to me, when
she first recognizes her ain dear Willy, " She
giiz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The three lines
immediately following, are no doubt more im-
pressive 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 he could only represent her fainting
iu the soldier's arms. But I sulunit the matter
to you, and beg your opinion.
.'^llan desires me to thank you for your ac-
curate description of the stock and horn, and
for the very gratifying compliment you pay liiui
in considering him worthy of standing in a uiche
by the side of Burns in the Scottish Pantheon.
He has seen the rude instrument you describe,
so docs not want you to send it ; but wishes to
know whether you believe it to have ever been
generally used as a musical pipe by the Scottish
shepherds, and when, and in what part of the
country chiefly. I doubt much if it was capa-
ble of any thing but routing and roaring. A
friend of mine says, he renuinbers to have heard
one in his younger days (made of wood instead
of your bone), and that the sound was abomin-
able.
Do not, I beseech you, return any books.
Jacobite song, in the Museum, to There' II never
be peace till Jamie comes hame, would not so
well consort with Peter I'indar's excellent love-
song to that air, I have just liaiued for you th»
following :
{My Nannie's awa, p. 212.)
IIow does this please you ? As to the point
of time for the expression, in your proposed
print from my Sndger's return : It must cer-
tainly be at — " She gazed." The interesting
dubiety and suspense, taking possession of her
countenance ; and the gushing fondness, with
a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike
me, as things of which a n!::ster will make a
great deal. In great haste, but in great tru\h,
yours.
No. LXVI.
THE POET TO MR. THO.AISON.
December, 179i.
fr is, I assure you, the pi ide of my heart to
do any thing to forward, or add to the value of
four book : anJ as I agree with you that the
No. LXVII.
THE S.\ME TO THE SAME.
t/anuarT/, 1795.
I FEAR for my songs: however, a few mty
please, yet originality is a coy feature in coni'-
position, and in a multiplicity of efli'orts iu the
same style, riisappeirs altogether. For these
three thousand years, we poetic folks have bo<!u
describing the spring, fur instance ; and as the
spring continues the same, there must soon be
a saineness in the imagery, &c. of these said
rhyming folks.
A great critic, Aiken on songs, says, that
love and wine are the exclusive themes for song
writing. The following is on neither subject,
and consequently is no song ; but will be al-
lowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good
prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme.
(A man's a man for u that, p. 67.)
I do not give yon the foregoing song for your
book, but merely by way of vice la bar/atelle ;
for the piece is not really poetry. How will
the following do for Craigie-burn-woodf
{Su-cet fa's the eve on Craiyie-burn, p. 224.)
Farewell ! God bles* you.
No. LXVIIL
IMR. THO.MSON TO THE POET.
MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, SVith Jan. iV95
1 THANK you heartily for Navnie's awa, as
well as for Craiyie-burn, whirh I tlmik a very
co2:v;ly pair. Your obscrvntiun on the .l.Jhcul-
420
BURNS' WORKS.
ty of original writing in a number of efforts, in
the same style, strikes me very forcibly ; and it
has again and again excited my wonder to find
you continually surmounting this difficulty, in
the many delightful songs you Lave seat me.
Your rive la bagatelle song, I^or a that, shall
nndoubtedly be included in my list.
So. LXIX.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
February, 1793.
Hebz is another trial at your favourite air.
( O let me in this ae niyhl, and Answer,
I do not know whether it wiil do.
No. LXX.
THE SAME TO THE SAME.
Ecclefei-hitn, 7th Feb. 1795.
MY DEAR TH03IS0.V,
You cannot have any idea of the jjreilica-
ment in which I write to you. In tlie cour."*
of my duty as supervisor (in which capacity I
have acted of late) I came yesternight to this
unfortunate, wicked, little villace. I have gone
forwarri, but snows of ten feet deep have im-
pede<i my prrigress : I have tried to " gae hack
the gate 1 cam again," but the same obstacle I
has shut me up within insuperable buis. To add
to uiy misfortune, Kince dinner, a scraper has
been torturing catgut, in sounds that would
hive insulted the dying agonies of a sow, under
the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on
tljat very account, exceeding good company. In
lact, I have Ix-en iu a dilemma, either to get
drunk, to forget these miseries ; or to hang my-
self, to get rid of them : like a prudent man,
(a character congenial to my every thought,
word, and deed), I, of two evils have chosen
the least, and am very drunk, at y<iur service !•
I wrote you yestero'ay from Dumfries. I
had ni)t time then to tell you all I wanted to
»ay ; and heaven knows, at present, I have not
capacity.
Do you know an air — I am sure you must
know it, We'll yang nae mair to yon tmcn : I
think, in slowish time, it would make an excel-
lent wjng. I am highly delighted with it ; and
if you should think it worlliy of your attention,
I have a fair dame in my eye to whonn I would
eODsecrate it.
• Tlic baril inusl have Ix-cn ti|>»y inilccd, to abuse
svcct (jv ■fccliaM at tliit rate,
As I am just going to bed, I vrish you a good
night.
No. LXXI.
JIR. THOMSON TO THE POET.
25th February, 1795.
I HAVE to thank you, my dear Sir, for two
epistles, one containing Let me in this ae niyht ;
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 Lis entreaties. I like
the song as it now stands very much.
I had hopes you would l)e arrested some dayi
at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile the
tedious forenoons by song making. It will
give me pleasure to receive the verses yos ia-
tend for, O teat ye wha'a in yon toicn 9
No. LXXIl.
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
May, 1795.
( The Woocllarh, p, 237.)
Let me know your very first leisure how jrob
like this song.
(Lony, long the ntyht, p. 207 )
How do yoM like the foregoing ? The Irish
air, Humours of Glen, is a great favourite o.
mine, and as, except the silly studfin the Poor
Stiltlier, there are not any decent verses for it;
I have written for it as follows : —
( Their grovet o' sweet myrtle let foriign lanJt
rtckon, p 195.)
{' Twos na her bonnle blue ee teat my ruim,
p. 237.)
Let me hear from you.
No. LXX in.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET.
You must not think, my good Sir, that I
have any intention to enhance the value of my
s;;ft, when I s.iv, in justice to tlio incjcnioiis and
wnrthv artist, th:it tlu- desij^n and oxociition of
The Cotler's Salunliti/ Nii/ht is, in my opi-
nion, one of the happiest productions of Allin's
P'^ncII. I shiul he grievously disai)poliited if
vou t».e not quite ])l(MseiI with it.
1 tie figure intended for your [jortrait, I think
itril<iiigly like you, as f.;r as I can renieni!)er
your phir. This should make the piece irih-r-
esting to your family every way. Tell nie
whether Mrs. Burns finds you out among the
figure!).
I cannot express the feeling of admiration
with which I have rea<l your pathetic Adilress
ti> the Woodlark, your ele-iant Pdiicgyric on
Cahdonia, and your affutting verses on C/iln-
rjs' illness. Every rejieatcd peiusal of these
gives new delight. The other song to Ladilie
lie near me, though not equal to these, is very
pleasiiig.
No. LXXIV,
THE rOFT TO MR. THOMSON.
(How cruel nre the parents, p. 20i. )
{Mark yondtr pomp of custlij fasliion, p. 21 1.)
Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I
answer your orders : your tailor could not he
more punctual. I am just now in a high fit
of poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of
criticism don't cure me. If you can in a p'lst
or two administer a little of the intoxicating
potion of your applause, it will raise your hum-
ble servant's phienzy to any height you want.
I am at this moment " holding high converse"
with the iMuses, and have not a word to throw
away on such a prosaic dog as you are.
No. LXXV.
THE SAME TO THE SA.ME.
Maij, 1795.
Ten thousand thanks for your elegant pre-
Bent ; though I am ashamed of the value of it,
Deing hestowed on a man who has not hy any
means merited such an instance of kindness. I
have shown it to two or three judges of thf
first ahilitit's here, and they all agree with me
i-n classing it as a fiist-rjte production. My
phiz is " sae ken<^|K'ckle,'* that the very joiner's
apprentice whom .Mrs. Burns employed tohieak
up the parcel (I was out of town that (lay)
knew it at once. M,y oiost grateful ccmipli-
ments fo Allan, who his hon(iMre<l my rustic
wuse so much with his masterly pencil. Oue
strange coincidence is, that the little one who
is making the felonious attempt on the cat's tail
is tlw most striking likeness of an " ill-ileedie-,
d — n'd, wee, rumhle-garie, urchin" of mine,
whom, from that Jiropensltv to witty wicked-
ness and manfu' nvschief, uhich, even at tvvj
days auld, I foresaw would form the strikin;"
features of his ilisposition, I named Willie Nicoll,
after a cettain friend of mine, who is one of the
masters of a grammar-school in a city which
shall he nameless.
Give the enclosed epigram to my much-
valued friend Cunningham, and tell him that
on Wednesday I go to visit a frienil of his, to
whom his friendly partiality in speaking of nie,
in a manner introduced ine — I inean a well
known military and literary character, Colonel
Dirom.
Yon do not tell me how you liked my tws
laat songs. Are they condemned ?
No. LXXVI.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET.
\3th May, 1795
It gives me great pleasure to find that you
are all so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's pro-
duction. The chance resendil mce of your little
fellow, whose promising disposition a])pe ired so
very early, and sugu'ested whom he should he
named after, is curious enough. I am acquaint-
ed with that person, who is a prodigy of learn-
ing and genius, and a pleasant fellow, though
no saint.
You really make me hliish when you tell me
you have not merited the drawing from me. I
do not think I cin ever repny yon, or sufficient-
Iv c>teem and lesnect vou fiir the liheral and
kinil manner in winch you have entered into
the spirit of iny undertaking, which could not
have been perfected without you ; So I beg you
wouhl not make a fool of me again, hy speaking
of obligation.
I like your two last songs very much, and
am happy to find you are in such a high fit ol
poetizing. Long may it last. Claike has maile
a fine pathetic air to Mallet's sujierlative ballad
of William and Muryniet, and is to give it ta
me, to be enrolled among the elect.
No. LXXVII.
THE POET TO MH, THOMSON.
Irf Wliislle mtd ni came to ye, my lad, tliS
Iieiation of that line is tiresome to my ei»
Here goes what I think is an iuiurovement •
422
BURNS' WORKS.
O whUtle, anil m come to ye, my lad ;
0 whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ;
Tho* father, and mother, and a' shonld gae mad,
Thy Jeany will venture wi' yej^my lad.
In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the
Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Par-
nassus ; a diime whom the Graces have attired
in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have arm-
ed with lightning, a Fair One, herself the he-
roine of the song, insists on the amendment ;
and dispute her commands if you dare !
( O this is no my air. lassie, p. 238.)
Do you know that you have roused the tor-
pidity of Clarke at last? He has requested me
to write three or four songs for him, which he
is to set to music himself. The enclosed sheet
contains two songs for him, which please to
present to my valued friend Cunningham.
1 enclose the sheet open, both for your in-
»pection, and that you miy copy the song, O
bonnie was yon i-osie brier. 1 do not know
whether I am right ; but that song plea^es me,
and as it is extremely probable that Clarke's
newly roused celestial spaik will soon be smoth-
ered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the
song, it may go as Scottish verses, to the air of,
1 wish my hire wus in a mire; and poor Er-
skine's English lines may follow.
I enclose you For a' that and a' that, which
was raver in print : it is a much superior soi:g
to mine. I have been told that it was com-
posed by a lady.
(^Now Sprtng has clnd the t/rove in green, p.
214..)
( O bonnie was yon rosy brier, p. 216.)
Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last
eilitionof my |)oenis, prisonteil to the lady, whom,
in so nianv fictitious reveiies of passion, but with
the most ardent sentiuients of real friendship, I
have so often sung under the name of Chloris :
'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend.
Nor ti.ou the gilt refuse.
Nor witn unwilling ear attend
The moralizing muse.
Since thou, in all thy youth and charms,
Mu"t bid the world ailieu,
(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 lour ;
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast
Did nip a fairer (lower).
Since life's gay scenes must charm no more,
btill much IH left behiad ;
Still nobler wealth hast thou in stora.
The comforts of the mind f
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.
Une bagattUe de famitie.
No. LXXVIII.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POE'l.
MY BEAR SIR, Edinburgh, 3d Aug. 179fx
This will be delivered to you by a Dr. Brian-
ton, who has read your woiks, and pants foi
the honour of your acquainti'.nce. I do no
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 that I
am delighted with all the thiee songs, as well as
with your elegant and tender verses to Chloris.
I am sorry you should be induced to alter
O whistle and III come to ye, my lad, to th(
prosaic line. Thy Jeany, will venture wi' ye my
l<i<l. I niii»t be pcnuifed to say, that I do cjt
think the latter either reads or sings so well as
the f irnie". I wish, therefore, you wiiuld in my
name petition the charming Jeany, vvhuever 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. Every
liodv regrets his writing so very little, as every
biiilv aeknowlcdges his ability to write well.
I':.iy, was the resolution formed coolly before
dinner, or was it a midnight vow maile over a
bowl of punch with the bard ?
I shall nnt fail to give Mr. Cunningham what
you have sent him.
1*. S. — The lady's Fur a that and a' that is
sensible enough, but no mure to be compared to
yours than I to Hercules.
• The Editor, who has hc.ird the heronieof this song
line <t hcr'.cll' iti the \erv spirit ol uri'h sinipliiity tliat
it rcqiiiies, thiiikt Mi. 'rhmnsoii's |>etitiou unii«Joj
able — Cl iiKii;.
CORRESPONDENCE.
423
No. LXXIX
THE POET TO ?.IR. niOMSON.
ENGLISH SONG.
Tune—" Let me In this ae night."
Forlorn, my love, no comfort near,
Far, far from thee, I wander here ;
Fur, far from thw, the fate severe
At which I most repine, love.
O weri thou, love, but near me.
Hut neiir, nenr, near me. ,-
How kindly thou woutdst cheer me,
And mingle sit/hs with mine, hue.
Around me scowls a wintry sky.
That blasts each Inid of hope and joy ;
And shelter, shade, nor hiinie have I,
Save in these arms of thine, love,
O tcert, §-c.
Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part,
To poison fortune's ruthless rial t —
Let nie not break thy faithful heart.
And say that fate is mine, love.
O wert, Sf'c.
Rut dreary tho' the moments fleet,
O let me think we yet shall meet !
That only ray of solace sweet
Can on thy Chioris shine, love.
O wert, Sfc.
How do you like the foregoing ? I have
written it within this hour ; so much for the
tpeed of my Pegasus ; but what say you to his
bottom f
No. LXXX.
THE SA.ME TO THE SAME.
^Last May a braw w oer cam down the lany
ylen, p. 20(5. )
FRAGMENT.
TuHt—" The Caledonian Hunfs delight."
Why, why tell thy lover,
Bliss he never must enjoy ;
Wliy, why undeceive him.
And give ail his hopes the lie.
O wiiy, while fincy, rajitured. slumbers,
Chliiris, Chioris all the theme,
Why, why wouhKt thou, cruel,
Wake thy lover from his dream.
Such is the peculiarity of the rhy.ne uf tr.is
air, that I find it iuipossible to make anuthei
stanza to suit it.
I am at present quite occujiicd with the charm-
ing sensations of the toothache, so have not •
word to spare.
No. LXXXI.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET.
MV nEAR SIR, Sd June, 179.=;.
Your English verses to Let me in Ihin at
niijht, an tender and beanfifiil ; ami your bal-
lad to the " Lothian lassie" is a master- piece
for its humour and naivete. The fri^Mnent Car
the Caledonian Hunt is (juite suited to the ori-
ginal measure of the air, and, as it plagues you
so, the fragment must content it. I would ra-
ther, as I said before, have had Bacchanalian
words, had it so pleaseil the pott ; but, never-
theless, for what we have received, Lord uiakt
us thankful \
No. LXXXH.
THE SAME TO THE SAME.
blh Feb. 1796.
O Rohhy Burns are ye s/i-e/.iriy yet ?
Or are ye ivaukii.g, 1 would wit ?
The pause you have made, my dear Sir, ig
awful I Am 1 never to hear fioiu you ajrain ?
I know and I lanieut how much you have been
afflicted of late, but I trust that returning health
and spirits will now enable you to resume the
])eii, and delight us with your musings. I have
still about a dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I
wish " married to immortal verse." We have
several true born Iiishmen on the Scottish li>t ;
hut they are now uaturalizrd, and reckoned our
own good SLiibjects. Indeed we have noiie bet-
ter. I believe I beloie toM you that I have been
much urgeil by some fnejids to publish a col-
'ection of all our favourite aiis and scurgs in oc-
tavo, embillished with a number of etchings by
our ingenious friend AUati ; what is your opi«
nion of tku ?
No. LXXXin.
THE POET TO JIR. THO.MSOX.
Fel'riiary, 1796.
Many thanks, my dear Sir. for \our hand-
Miine, elegant present to Mrs. B . and foi
424
mj fcinaJning yol. r.f P. P.C(!ar. — I'ctcr is a
deligJitful fulliiw, anil a first favourite of mine.
1 am nmi'li pleased with your idea of jHitillsh-
in<; a collection of our songs in octavo with
etchinejs. I am extremely willing to lend eve-
ry a^^istance in my power. The !ri<h airs I
ghall ch.-'erfully undertake the tas>k of finding
verses for.
I have already, you know, equipt three with
words, aivd the other day I strung up a kinri of
rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which 1
admire much.
(//fy/ijr a lass wi' a tocher, p. 23S.)
If tliis will do, you have now fnur of my
liish engat^enipnt. In my hy-past songs, I dis-
like one thing ; the name Chloris — I meant it
as tiie fictitious name of a certain larly ; hut,
on second thoughts, it is a high incongruity to
have a Gnek appellation to a Scottish pastoj-al
ballad. — Of this, and some things cIst', in my
uext : 1 have more amendments to piopose. —
Wliat you once mentioned of " flaxen locks"
is jii^t : they cannot enter into an e/ei/aiit lie-
•triplion of beauty. Of this also again — God
hlfss vou I *
BURNS' WORKS.
' Nj. LXXXV.
No. LXXXIV.
MU. TIIO.MSON TO TIIE POET,
Your Ilejj for n Inns wi' a tocher, is a most
eicellcnt song, and wltti you the subject is
Boiiietliing new indeiil. It is tl*j first time 1 have
Seen yon debasing the god of soft desire, into an
amateur of acres and guineas. —
I am happy ti> fi)id yj approve of my pro-
poseil octavo cditinn Allan has desigTied and
etched about twcn'.y plates, and I am to Iiave
my choice of theiu for that work. Indep.'n-
deiitly of the Ilogarlhian humour with which
they abouml, tlmy exhibit the tharicter and
conlnme of the Scottish peasantry with inimi-
table felicity. In this respect, he himself says,
they will far exceed the aipiatinta plates he did
f(.r the (jciitle Shepherd, because m tiie efchiiig
he sees dcaily wLat he is doing, imt not so
with' the aijuatinta, which he could not manage
to bis mind
The Dutch boors of O^tade are scarcely more
characlcri-tic and natural thaa the Scottisii
figured in those etchings.
• (»iit l'"Ot never mplAimil what name he wnnlj
hft iuudllutiM lui I til.iiis.— .Vu(r by Mi. T'/iunuim.
TIIE POET TO MR. THOMSON.
^prll, 1706.
.\las, my dear Thomson, I fear it will b»
some time ere I tune mv lyre a^ain ! " Hy
Babel streams 1 have sat and wept," almost ever
since I wrote you last: I have only known ex-
istence by the pressure of the heavy hand ol
sickness, and have counted time by the reper-
cussions of pain ! Rheumatisui, cold, and fever
have formeil to me a terrible combination. I
close my eyes in misery, and open them with-
out hope. I look on the vernal clay, and say,
with pour Ferguson —
" Say wheiefore has an all-indulgent Heaven
" Light to the comfortless and wretched given ?^
This will be delivered to vou by a Mrs. Hy-
slop landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which
for tnese many years has been mv lioicff, and
where our frienil Clarke and I have had many
a merry squeeze. 1 am highly djlighted with
Mr. Allan's etchings. Wno'd and iwirritd
anil a' is admirable ! The yroiiphig is beyond
all praise. The expression of the fi^^ures, con-
formable to the story in the ball id, is absolutely
faultless perfection. I next admire Turnim-
spikc. What I like least is, Jenni) snid to
Jitckj/. Besides the feuiale being in her ap-
pearance if you take her stoo|>-
ing into the account, she is at le.ist two inches
taller th in hei lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I sin-
cerely sympathize with liim ! Happy I aiB
to think that he yet has a well-grounded
hope of health and enjoyment in this wurlil.
As for uie — but that is a • • • • sub-
ject !
No LXXXVI.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET
4/A Uray, ITOG.
I NKEn not tell yon, my good Sir, whit con
cern the re-e pt of your last gave me, and hviw
much I sympatlii/.e in your siilferings. But
do licit, I beseech you, g.ve yourself up to de-
sjjofidency, nor speik the l.m^nage of de-
sjiair. The vigour of your constitution I trust
will soon set you oi yoiii feet again ; and tlier?
it is to be hoped you will see the wisdom and
the necessity of taking due care of a lite so va-
luable to your family, to your friends, and tu
the world.
TrriHting Oiat your next will briri',' agreeable
account' of your cmiv cii'scence, and leturning
^oud kjiiiitt, 1 remain, with kincere regard
yoiirt.
J*. S. Mrs, Il/slnp I d'i'ilit hilt derne'ed tba
gold tuA to you in gund condittuu.
CORRESPONDENCE.
425
No. LXXXVII.
THE POET TO MH. TIIOMSOX.
Kr riEAa sir,
I ONCH mentioned to yoi. nn air wliich I hiv(,'
ong ailinln d — flcrt's n hmltli to them t/nu's
cnca, /linei/, but I f'lirjiet if you took any notice
ol" it. I have just l)een trying to suit it wi'li
verses ; and I iieg leave to rccomniend the air
to your attention once more. 1 have only be-
gun it.
(Here's a health to ane J lu'e dear, p. 20i.)
No. LXXXVIII.
THE SAME TO THE S.\ME.
This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a
young fellow of uneomnion merit. As he wili
be a day or two in town, you will have leisure,
if you choose, to write me by him ; and if you
have a spire half hour to spend with him, I
nhall ])laeo your kindness to my account. I
hav? CO copies of the songs I have sent you,
and I have taken a fancy to review them all,
and possibly may mend some of them ; so when
you have comj)lete leisure, I will thank you for
either the originals, or copies. • I had rather
be the author of five well-written songs than of
ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the ge-
nial influence of the a])i)roaching summer 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 busi-
ness !
Do let me know how Cleghorn is, atid re-
member me to him.
Tliis should have been delivered to you a
month ago. 1 am still very poorly, but should
4ke much to hear from you.
pounds. A cruel of a 1 abcrdasher,
to whom I owe an account, taking it into hit
head that I am dying, has commenced a pro-
cess, and will iotallablv put me into jail. Do,
for God's sake, solid me that sum, and that by
return of post. Forgive me tiiis earne^tnena,
but the horrors of a jail have made me hail di:»-
tracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously ; for,
upon returning health, I hereby promise and en-
gage to furnish you with five pounds worth ot
the neatest song i,eiilus yon have seen. 1 tried
my hand on " riotliieimiu. le" this morning.
The measure is s(> diffi<-i!it, that it is iiiipossible
to infuse much genius into tlie lines; they are
on the other side. Forgive, foigive me !
(^Fairest maid on I^nvon Hanki, p. 200.^
No. XC.
No. LXXXIX.
THE SA.ME TO THE SAME.
BrotP. on the Sohiwj frith, \2th Juh,, 1796.
AFTEa all my boasted indejienderce, curst
aecessity compels me to implore ycu for five
• It is ncoiilf^s to say, that this revisal Uumi did
"Jut Uvc t'j prnorin.
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET
MY DEAR SIR, ) 4//l Jiihj, 1796.
Ever since I received your melancholy letter
l)y Mrs. Hyslop, I have been ruminating in
what manner I could endeavour to alleviate
your sufferings. Again and again 1 thought of
a pecuniary offer, but the recollection of luie of
your letters on this sulject, and the fear of of
fending your independent spirit, checked my re
solution. 1 thank you heartily, therefore, for
the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and
with great pleasure enclose a draft for the wiy
sum I pioposed sending. Would I were the
Chancellor of the Exchequer but for oue day,
for your sake.
Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you
to muster a volume of poetry ? If too much
trouble to you in the piesent state of your
health, some literary friend might be found
here, who would select ami arrange from your
manuscripts, and take upon him the task oi
Editor. In the nieantiaie it could be advertis-
ed to be published by subscription. Do not
shun this mode of olitiiniiig the value of your
labour ; remember Pope published the Iliad by
subscription. Think of this, my dear Hums,
and do not reckon me intrusive W'*h my ad-
vice. You are too well conv-.,ced of the re-
spect and fricnrishiji I bear you, to imjiute any
thing 1 say to an unworthy motive. Yours
faithfully.
The verses to " Rotniemurchie" will answel
finely. I am happy tu bee you can titill tua<
your lyre
GLOSSARY.
The ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the E' c\\s]\ di]>hthcrig oo, H
commonly spelled oit. The I'rencii //, a sound which often occurs in ilie Scottish language,
is marked (w, or ui. The a in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a dipiuiiotic,
or followed hv an c mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like the liroud Englisll
a in u-all. The Scottish dii)htho::g tr, always, and ra, very often, sound like the French <
masculine. The Scottisli diphthong cy^ sounds like the Latin ci.
A', All
Aback, away, aloot
Abeigh, at a shy distance
A boon, above, up
A bread, abroad, in sight
A breed, in breadth
Addle, putrid water, &c.
Ae, one.
Art", oft': Aff loof, unpremeditated
Afore, before
A ft, oft
Aften, often
A gley, off the right line ; wrong
Ablins, perhaps
Ain, own
Airle-penny, Airles, earnest monej
Aim, iron
Aith, an oath
Aits, oats
Aiver, an old horse
Ai/le, a liot cinder
A lake, alas
A lane, alone
Akwart, awkward
Amaist, almost
Aniang, among
An', and ; if
Ance, once
Ane, one; and
Anent, over against
Anither, another
Ane, ashes
Asklent, asquint; aslant
Asteer, abroad ; stirring
Athart, athwart
Aught, possession ; as. In a' my aught, in all
mv possession
Auld lang syne, olden time, days of other
years
Auld, old
Ai'l(!f:.rran, or, auld farrant, sagacious, cun-
ning, prudent
a:
Ava, at all
Awa', away
Awfu', awful
Awn, the beard of barley, oatr., &c.
Awnie, bearded
Ayont, beyond
B
BA', ball
Backets, ash boards
Backlins, coming ; coming back, returning
Back, returning
Bad. did bid
Baide, endured, did stay
Baggie, the belly
Bainie, having large bones, stout
Bairn, a child
Bairntime, a family of children, a brood
Haith, both
Ban, to swear
Bane, bone
I?ang, to beat ; to strive
Bardie, diminutive of bard
Baiefit, barefooted
l?armie, of, or like bann
Hatch, a crew, a gang
{{atts, bots
I'audrons, a cat
IJauld, bold
Buwk, bank
IJaws'nt, having a white stripe down the face
i*>e, to let be ; to give over ; to cease
l$ear, barley
lieastie, diminutive of beast
Beet, to add fu6l to fire
Ikld, bald
Iklyve, by and by
Me?i, into the spence or parlour ; a spence
IJenlomond, a noted mountain in Duuibartoiv
shire
F?ethankit, grace after meat
lUnik, a book
Uicker, a kind of wooden dish ; a short race
GLOSSARY.
Bie, or Bield shelter
Breef, an invulnerable or irresistible spcD
Hicn, wealthy, plentiful
Breeks, breeches
Piifj. to buikl
Brent, smooth
B'i'^'gin, buiiciing; a house
Brewin', brewing
fiigfjit, built
Brie, juice, liquid
Bi 1, a bull
Brig, a bridge
I'illie, a brother; a young fellow
Brunstane, brimstone
Hing, a heap of grain, potatoes, &c.
Brisket, the breast, the bosom
I'irk, birch
Brither, a brother
Birken-shaw, Birchen-wood-shaw, a small
Brock, a badger
wood.
Brogue, a hum ; a trick
Birkie. a clever fellow
Broo, broth ; a trick
Birring, the noise of partridges, &c. when they
Broose, broth ; a race at country weddings
spring
who shall first reach the bridegrooms's house
Bit, crisis, nick of time
on returning from church
Bizz, a bustle, to buzz
Browster-wives, ale-house wives
B!a>tie, a shrivelled dwarf; a term of contempt
Brugh, a burgh
Blastit, blasted
Bruilzie, a broil, a combustion
Blate, basliful, sheepish
Brunt, did burn, burnt
Blather, bladder
Brust, to burst ; burst
Bl.tdd, a flat piece of any thing ; to slap
Buchan-bullers, the boiling of the sea among
Blaw, to blow, to boast
the rocks of Buchan
Bleerit, bleared, sore with rlieuni
Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia
Bleerit and blin', bleated and blind
Bught, a pen
Bleezing, blazing
Biightin-time, the time of collecting the sheep
Blcllum, an idle talking fellow
in the pens to be milked
Blether, to talk idly ; nonsense
Euirdly, stout made ; broad made
Bleih'rin', talking idly
Bum-clock, a humming beetle that flies in the
Blink, a little while ; a smiling look ; to look
sunmier evenings
kindly ; to shine by fits
Bumming, humming as bees
Blinker, a term of contempt
Bummle, to blunder
Bliiikin, smirking
Bunmiler, a blunderer
Blue-gown, one of those beggars who get an-
Bunker, a window-seat
nually, on tlie king's birth-da/, a blue cloak
Burdies, diminutive of birds
or gown, with a badge
Bure, did bear
Bluid, Idood
Burn, water, a rivulet
liluntie, a sniveller, a stupid person
Buinewin, i. e. burn the wind, abhcksmlth
I'lype, a shred, a large piece
Burnie, diminutive of burn
liock, to vomit, to gush intermittently
Buskie, bushy
Bocked, gushed, vomited
Buskit. dressed
Bodle, a small gold coin
Busks, dresses
Bt'gles, spirits, hobgol.lins
Bussle, a bustle ; to bustle
Bonnie or bonny, handsome, beautiful
Buss, shelter
Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, a
But, hot, with ; without
sm;ill jannock, or loaf made of oat meal
I$ut an' ben, tlic country kitchen and parlouf
I)Oord, a board
By himsel, lunatic, distracted
Boortree, the shrub elder ; planted much of
Byke, a bee-hive
old in hedges of barn-yards, &c.
By re, a cow-stable ; a sheep-pen
Boost, behaved, must needs
Bore, a hole in the wall
c
Botch, an angry tumour
\^
Bousing, di inking
CA , to call, to name ; to drive
Bow-kail, cabbage
Ca't, or ca'd, called, driven ; calved
I'owt, bended, crooked
Cadger, a carrier
Brackens, fern
Cadie. or Caddie, a person • a young fellotr
Brae, a declivity ; a precipiece; the slope of a
Caff, chaff
hiil
Caird, a tinker
Braid, broad
Cairn, a loose iiea]< of stones
Btamdg't, reeled forward
Calf-ward, a small enclosure for calves
Braik, a kind of harrow
Callan, a boy
I'raiiidge, to run rashly forward
Caller, fresh ; sound ; refreshing
lirak, broke, made insolvent
Canie, or cannie, gentle, mild ; dextcrCHU
Branks, a kind of wooden curb for horsci
Canniiic, dexterously ; gently
B:-a.-.li, a mddcn illne-s
Cantie, or canty, chterful. merry
Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c.
(■anirip. a charm, a spell
Brattle, a short race ; hurry; fury
Cajie-stane, c(i))e-stonc ; kcy-stnne.
Braw, (ine, liai dM)me
(^areerin, cheerfully
iJrawly, or braw.jie, very well ! finely ; heartily
Carl, an old man
IJraxie, a morliid shee])
Carlin, a utoul old woman
lUcastic, diniiiuitivc of breast
('arte*, cards
Breastit, did spring up or forward
Caudron, n cauldron
Brecka.'i, lern
Lauk uti' keel, chalk and red cluf
(2J
GLOSSARY.
Cauld, coll!
t'aup, a wooden drinking vessel.
Cesses, taxes
("banter, a part of a bagpipe
C'liii]), a ])crson, a fellow ; a blow
C'Ii;iup, a stroke, a blow
Chcckit, cheeked
f 'licep, a cliir]' ; to chirp
('hicl or checl, a young fellow
C'hinila. or cliinilie, a fire-grate, a fire-place
Cliimla lug, tne fireside
Chittcring, shivering, trembling
Chockin', choking
Chow, to chew ; Cheek for chow, side by side
Chuffie, fat-faced
Clachan, a small village about a church; a
hamlet
Claise, or claes, clothes
Chiith, cloth
Claithing, clothing
Claivers, nonsense ; not speaking sense
Clap, clapper of a mill
Clarkit, wrote
CI ish, an idle tale, tiie story of the day
Clatter, to tell idle stories ; an idle story
Claught, snatched at, laid hold of
Claut, to clean ; to scrape
Clautcd, scraped
Clavers, idle stories.
Claw, to scratch
Cleed, to clothe
Clceds, clothes
Cleekit, having caught _
Clinkin, jerking ; clinking
Clinkumbell, he who rings the church-bell
Clips, shears
Clishmaclaver, idle conversation
Cloik, to hatch ; a beetle
( lockin, hatching
Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &c
('lootie, an old name for the JJevil.
Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow
Cluds, clouds
Coaxin, wheedling
Coble, a fishing boat
Cockornony, a lock of hair tied upon a girlV
hcad ; a cap
Coft, bought
tog, a wooden dish
Coggie. dmiinutive of cog
Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire ; so
called, saith tradition, from Coil, or Coilus,
a Pictish monarch
Collie, a general and sometimes a particular
name for country curs
Colliohangie, quarrelling, an uproar
Commaun, command
Cood, the cud
Coof, a blockhead ; a ninny
Cookit, appeared and disappeared by fits
Coast, did cast
Coot, the arikle or foot
Codtie, a wooden kitcJien dish : — also, those
fowls whose legs are clad with feathers are
said to be cootie
Corbies, a species of the crow
Core, corps ; party ; clan
Corn't, fed with oats
Cotier, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or cot-
tagcr
Couthie, kind, fing
Covo, a cnv?
Cowe, toterrify; to keep under, to lop; frigh:_
a brand* of fur/e, broom, &c.
Cow]), tc barter; fi tumble over; a gang
Cowpit, '.umbled
Cowrin', cowering
Cowt, a colt
Cozie, snug
Co/ily, snugly
Crabbit, crabbed, fretful
Crack, conversation ; to converse
Crackin', conversing
Craft, or croft, a held near a house (in old
husbandry)
Craiks, cries or calls incessantly ; a biri
Crambo-clink, or crambo-jingle, rhymes, dog
grel verses
Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel
Crankous, fretful, captious
Cranriuch, the hoar frost
Crap, a crop ; to crop
Craw, a crow of a cock ; a rook
Creel, a basket ; to have one's wits in a crecw,
to be crazed ; to be fascinated
Creepie-stool, the same as cutty-stool
Creeshie, greasy
Crood, or croucl, to coo as a dove
Croon, a hollow and contmued moan ; to make
a noise like the continued roar of a bull ; to
hum a tune
Crooning, humming
Crouchie, crook-backed
Croose, cheerful ; courageous
Crousely, cheerfully ; courageously
Crnwdio, a comjiosiiion of oat-meal and boil-
ed water, sometimes from the broth of beef.
mutton, &c.
Crowdie-time, breakfast time
Crowlin', crawling
Crummock, a cow with crooked horns
Crump, hard and brittle ; spoken of bread
Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel
Cuif, a blockhead, a ninny
Cunmiock, a sliort stall" with a crooked head
Curchie, a courcesy
Curler, a player at a game on the ice, practis.
ed in Scotland, called curlinc;
Curlie, curled, whose hair falls naturally ia
ringlets
Curling, a well known game on the ice
Curniurriiig, murnmring ; a slight rumbling
noise
Curiiin, the crupper
Cusl.at, the dove, or wood-pigeon
( uity, short.-, a spoon broken in the middle
( utty -stool, tlie stool of repentance
DAD DIE, a father
Dafhn, merriment ; foolishness
Daft, merry, giddy ; foolish
Daimt-n, rare, now and then ; jitaimen-icket
an ear of corn now and then.
Dainty, pleasant, good humoured, agreeable
l)f;ise, dacz, to stupify
Dales, plains, valleys
Darkliiis, darkling
DauJ, to thrash, to abuse
Daur, to dare
Daurt, dare*'
GLOSSARY.
Daurg, or daurk, a day'* labour
Davoc, David
Dawd, a large piece
Dawtit, or dawtet, fondled, caressed
Dearies, diminutive of dears
Dearthtu', dear
Deave, to deafen.
Deil-ma-care ! no matter 1 for all that !
Deleerit, delirious
Descrive, to describe
Di^'ht, to wi])e ; to clean com from chafF
Diijlu, cleaned from chaff
l)inff, to worst, to push
Dink, neat, tidy, trim
Dinna, do not
Dirl, a slight tremulous stroke or pain
Dizen, or dizz'n, a dozen
Doited, stupi^ied, hebetated
Dolt, stupihed, crazed
Donsie, unlucky
Dool, sorrow ; to sing dool, to lament, to
mourn
Doos, doves
Dorty, saucy, nice
Douce, or douse, sober, wise, prudent
Doueeiy, soberly, prudently
Douglit, was or were able
Doup, backside
Doup-skel|ier, one that strikes the tail
Dour and din, sullen and shallow
Doure, stout, durable ; sullen, stubborn
Dow, am or are able, can
DowfF, pitliless, wanting force
Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, &c. half a-
sleep
Downa, am or are not able, cannot
Doylt, stupid
Dozent, stujiified, impotent
Drap, a drop ; to drop
Draigle, to soil by trailing, to draggle among
wet, &c.
Drapping, dropping.
Drauiiting, drawling; of a slow enunciation
Dreep, to ooze, to drop
Dreigh, tedious, long about it
Dribble, drizzling; slaver
Drift, a drove
Droddum, the breech
Drone, part of a bag]iipe
Droon-runipl't, tliat droops at the crupper
DrouKit, wet
D.'iiuiiting, drawling
Drouth, tliirst, drought
Drucken, drunken
Drunily, muddy
Druniniock, meal and water nci'xed inan^
state
Drum, pet, sour humour •
Dub, a small i)()nd
Duds, rags, clothes
Du'die, ragged
Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven
Diluted, beaten, boxed
l)-.i.sh, to pu>h as a ram, &c.
Dusht, pushed by a ram, ox, &c
E'E, the eye
E'en the eyes
E'ening, evening
£
(4)
Eerie, frighted, dreading spirits
Eild, old age
Elbuck, the elbow
Eldritch, ghastly, frightful
Eller, an elder, or church officei
En', end
Enbrugh, Edinburgh.
Eneugli, enough
Especial, especially
Ettle, to try, to attempt
Eydent, diligent
FA', fall ; lot ; to fall
Fa's does fall ; water-falls
Faddom't, fathomed
Fae, a foe
Feam, foam
Faiket, unknown
Fairin', a fairing ; a present
Fallow, fellow
Fand, did find
Farl, a cake of oaten bread, &c
Fash, trouble, care ; to trouble, to care fc(
Fasht, troubled
Fasteren-e'en, Fasten's Even
Fauld, a fold ; to Ibid
Faulding, folding
Faut, fault
Faute, want, lack
Fawsont, decent, seemly
Veal, a field ; smooth
Fearfu', frightful
Feart, frighted
Feat, neat, spruce
Fecht, to fight
Fechtin', fighting
Feck, many, plenty
Fecket, an under waistcoat with sleeves
Feckfu', large, brawny, stout
Feckless, puny, weak, silly
Feckly, weakly
Feg, a fig
Feide, feud, enmity
Feirrie, stout, vigorous, healthy
Fell, keen, biting; the flesh immediately un-
der the skin ; a field pretty level, on the sid«
or top of a hill
Fen, successful struggle ; fight
Fend, to live comfortably
Ferlie, or ferley, to wonder ; a wonder ; a term
of contempt
Fetch, to pull by fits
Fetch't, pulled intermittently
Fidge, to fidget
Ficl, soft, smooth
Ficnt, fiend, a petty oath
Fier, sound, healthy ; a broUier : a friend
Fisslc, to make a rustling noise ; to fidget ; a
bustle
Fit, a foot
Fittic-lan', the nearer horse of tlie hindmost
pair in the plough
Fizz, to make a hissing noise, like fermenta-
tion
Flainen, flannel
Flcech. to supplicate in a flattering manner
Flccch'd, su|)]dicatcd
Flccchin', supjiUcating
Fiecsh, a fleece
tiLOSSAUy.
Flc?, a kick, a random stroke
fiet,^ a child, a young one
Fletlicr, to decoy by fair words
iiiaist, a ghost
Fletlicriii', fl;ittering
;}ie, to give ; gied, jjave ; gien, giren
Flev, to scare, to frighten
Giftie, diminutive of gift
riitclicr, to flutter, as young nestlings when
(Jiglets, playful girls
tlieir dam approaches
riillie, diminutive of gill
Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splinters
Gilpey, a half grown, half informed boy 01
Flini,'in'-tree, a piece of timber hung by way
girl, a romping lad, a hoiden
of i);irtition between two horses in a stable ;
Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old
a Hail
Gin, if; against
Flisk, to fret at the yoke
Gipsey, a young girl
Fli.>ket, fretted
Girn, to grin, to twist the features in rage,
Flitter, to vibratt like the win B of small
agony, &c.
birds
Girning, grinning
Flittering, fluttering, vibrating
OliZ, a periwig
Flunkie, a servant in livery
Glaiket, inattentive, foolish
Fod;;eI, S(]uat and plump
Foord, a tord
(ilaive, a sword
Gawky, half-witted, foolish, romping
Forbears, forefathers
Glaizie, glittering ; smooth like glass
Forbye, besides
Glaum, to snatch greedily
Forfairn, distressed; worn out, jaded
Glaum'd, aimed, Sriiatchcd
Forfoughten, fatigued
Gleck, sharp, ready
Forgather, to meet, to encounter with
Gleg, sharp, ready
Forgie. to forgive
Forjesket, jaded with fatigue
Gleib, glebe
Glen, a dale, a deep valley
Fotlier, fodder
Gley, asquint; to squint; a-gley, off at a Side,
Fou, full ; drunk
wrong
Foughten, troubled, harassed
Glib-gabbet, smooth and ready in speech
Fouiii, plenty, enough, or moretlian enough
Glint, to peep
Fow, a bublid. &c. ; also a pitch-fork
Glinted, peeped
Frae, from ; off
Glintin', peeping
Framinit, strange, estranged from, at enmity
Gloamin', the twilight
with
Glowr, to stare, to look ; a stare, a look
FreatJi, froth
Glowred, looked, stared
Fnen". friend
Glunsh, a frown, a sour look
Fu', full
Goavan, looking round with a strange, inquir.
Fud, the scut, or tail of the hare, cony, &c.
ing gaze ; staring stu lidly
Go wan, the flower of t le wild daisy, hawk-
F'ufl", to blo'.v intermittently
Fufl"t, dill blow
weed, &c.
Fuimie, full of merriment
Gowany, daisied, abounding with daisies
Fur, a furrow
Gowd, gold
Furm, a form, bench
Gowft", the game of golf; to strike as the bat
Fyke, trifling cares; to piddle, to be in a fuss
does the ball at golf
about trifles
Gowft" 'd, struck
Fyle, to soil, to dirty
Gowk, a cuckoo ; a term of contempt
Fyl't, soiled, dirtied
Gowl, to howl
Grane, or grain, a groan ; to groan
G
Grain'd and grunted, groaned and grunted
Graining, groaning
GAT?, the mouth ; to speak boldly, or pertly
Graip, a pionged instrument used for cleaning
(iaberlun/.ie, an old man
stables
Gadsman, a nlougliboy, the boy that drives the
horses in tiie plough
Graith, accoutrements, furniture, dress, gear
Grannie, grandmoUier
Gae, to go ; gaed, went ; gaen, or gane, gone;
Grape, to grope
gaun, going
Grapit, groped
Gact, or i,'ate, way, manner; road
Grat, wept, shed tears
Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth sewed on the
(ireat, intimate, familiar
bottom of a gown, &.C.
Grce, to agree ; to bear tlie gree, to be dedd.
Gang, to go, to walk
edly victor
Gar, to make, to force to
Gree't, agreed
Gar't, forced to
Greet, to shed tears, to weep
Garten, a g.itter
(ircetin', crying, weeping
Gash, wise, sagacious; talkative; to ojnverse
(irii)pet, catched, seized
Gasliin', conversing
Groat, to get the whistle of one's grojt, to j.laj
Gaucy, j:iny, large
a losing game
Gaud, a ilough
Gear, ric les ; goods of any kind
Grousome, loathsomely grim
G'rozet, a gooseberry
Geek, to toss the head in wantonness ;i scorn
(irumph, a grunt; to grunt
(Jed, a iiike
(>rum])liie, a sow
Gentles, great folks, gentry
Grun', ground
(Jenty, elegantly formed, nea '
Grur.stane, a grindstone
Geordie, a guinea
1 Gruntlc, die pliiz ; a grunting noiaa
(5)
j
GLOSSARY'
Grunzic, moutk
(rrushie, thick ; of rtiiiving growth
Guile, the Supreme Being good
fiuid, gcod
Guid-niornin', good morrow
Guid-e'en, good evening
Guidnian and guidwife, the master and mis-
tress of the house ; young guidman, a man
newly married
Guid-willie, liberal ; cordial
Guidfather, guidniother, father-in-law, and
mother-in-law
Gully, or gullie, a large knife
Gundie, muddy
Gusty, tasteful
H
If A', hall
Ila'-P.ible, tlie great bible that lies in the
hall
Hae, to have
Haen, had, the participle
Kaet, tint haet, a petty oath of negation; no-
thing
Hatfet, the temple, the side of the head
Ilafflins, nearly half, partly
Hag, s scar, or gulf in mosses, and moors
Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled in the sto-
mach of a cow or sheep
Hain, to spare, to save
Hain'd, spared
Hairst, harvest
Haith, a petty oath
Haivers, nonsense, speaking without tliought
Hal', or hald, an abiding place
Hale, whole, tight, healthy
Haly, holy
Haine, home
Hallun, a particular partition-wall in a cot-
tage, or more properly a seat of turf at the
outside
Flallowmas, Hallow-eve, the 31st of October
Hamely, homely, affable
Han', or haun', hand
Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &c. to
wrap, to cover ; to hop
Happer, a hopper
Ha))pin', hop))ing
Ha]) step an' louj), hop skip and leap
Harkit, hearkened
Ham, very coarse linen
Hash, a fellow tliat neither knows how to dress
nor act w'th propriety
Hastit, hastened
Haucl. to hold
Haughs, low lying, rich lunds; ralleyg
Haurl, to drag; to peel
liauiiin, pechn-g
Haverel, a half witted person ; half witted
Havins, good manners, decorum, good Bcns*
Ilawkie, a cow, properly one with a white face
lleapit, lieajied
Hcalsome, liealthfal, wholcscme
Hearse, hoarse
Hear't, hear it
Heather, heath
Hcch ! oh ! strange !
Hecht, jironiised ; to foretell something thmt U
to be got or given ; foretold ; the thing fore-
told ; offered
Heckle, a board, in which arc fixed a number
(6»
of sliarp pms, used in dressing hemp,flax
&.C.
Heezc, to elevate, to raise
Helm, the rudder or helm
Herd, to tend flocks ; one who tends flocks
Herrin, a herring
Herry, to plunder ; most properly to plunJei
birds' nests
Hcrrynicnt, plundering, devastation
Hersel, herself; also a herd of cattle, ot any
sort
Het, hot
Heutjh, a crag, a coalpit
Hilcli, a liobble; to halt
Hilchin, haliinsj
Hmisel, hintseif
Hincy, honey
Hing. to hiing
Hirjjle, to walk crazily, to creep
Hirsel, so many cattle as one person can attend
Hastie, dry; cnaiiped; barren
Hitch, a loop, a knot
Ilizzie, a hussy, a young girl
Hoddin, the motion of a sage countryman rid-
ing on a cart-horse ; humble
Hog-score, a kLnd of distance-line, in curling,
drawn across the rink
Hog-shouther, a kind of horse-play, by just
ling with the shoulder ; to justle
Hool, outer skin or case, a nut-shell ; a peas-
cod
Hoolie, slowly, leisurely
Hoolie ! take leisure, stop
Hoord, a hoard ; to hoard
Hoordit, hoarded
Horn, a spoon made of horn
Homie, one of the many names of the devil
Host, or hoast, to cough ; a cough
Hostin', coughing
Hosts, coughs
Hotch'd, turn'd topsyturvy ; blended, mixed
Houghmagandie, fornication
Iloulet, an owl
Housie, diminutive of house
Hove, to heave, to swell
Hoved, heaved, swelled
Howdie, a iriidwifa
Howe, hollow ; a hollow or dell
Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of a
horse, &c.
Ilowfl", a tippling house ; a house of rescri
Howk, to dig
llowkit, digged
Howkin, digging
Howlet, an owl
H oy, to urge
Hoy't, urg£d
Hoyse, to pull upwards
Hoyte, to amble crazily
llughoc, diminutive ot Hugh
Hurcheon, a hedgehog
liurdies, the loins : the srupper
llushion, a cushion
r, in
kker, an car of com
ler-oe, a great-grandchild
Ilk, or ilka, each, every
lli-willie, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly
Ixtgine, genius, ingenuity
GLOSSARY.
Ingie, (irt ; fire-place
Ise, I shall or will
Kyle, a district in Ayrshire
Kyte, the belly
Uher, other ; one anolhsr
Kvihc, to discover ; to show one'a sell
J
J AD. j.ule ; also a familiar ti;rtn among coun-
L
IjADDIE, diminutive of lad
try folks for a g'cUly young girl
Tank, to ilally, to trifle
I/iggcn, t!ie angle between ilie side and MU
torn of a wooden di»h
Jiiukin', triHini;, (iallyin;^
Laigh, low
Juup, a JL'rk of water ; to jerk as aqitatcd wa-
1 ter.
Jaw, coarse raillery ; to pour out ; to shut, lo
Lairing, wading, and sir.King in snow, mud,
<!vc.
Laith, loath
jerk as water
Laithfu', bashful, sheejiish
Jerkinct, a jerkin, or short grown
Lallans, tlie Scottish dialect of the English
Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl
language
Jimp, to j mill) ; slender in tlie waist; hand-
Lamljje, diminutive of lamb
some
Lanipit, a kind of shcll-iish, a limpit
Jiinps, easy stays
Lan', land ; estate
Jink, to dodge, to turn a comer ; a sudden
Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane, &c. mysell
turning ; a corner
alone, &c.
Jiiiker, that turns quickly ; a gay sprightly
Lanely, lonely
girl ; a wag
Lang, long ; to think lang, to long, to weary
Jinkin', dodging
Laj), did leap
Jirk, a jerk
Lave, the rest, the remainder, tlie others
Joctelcg, a kind of knife
I^averock, the lark
Jouk, to stoop, to how the head
liawin, shot, reckoniiig, bill
Jow, to jow, a verb which includes both the
Lawlan', lowland
swinging motion and pealing sound of a
Lea'e, to leave
large bell
Leal, loyal, true, faithful
Jundie, to justle
Lea-rig, grassy ridge
Lear, (i)ronounced lare), learning
K
Lee-lang, live-long
Lcesome, ])leasant
KAE, a daw
Leeze-me, a | hrase of congratulatory endear.
Kail, colewort ; a k.nd of broth
ment ; I am hapjiy in tliee, or proud oi
Kail-runt, the stem of colewort
tlice
Kain, fowls, &c. paid as rent by a farmer
I^eister, a three-prong'd dart for striking tish
Leugli, did laugh
Kebbuck, a cheese
Keckie, to giggle ; to titter
l>eiik, a look ; to look
Keek, a peep, to peep
iiibbet, geldetl
Keljjies, a sort of mischievous spirits, said to
Lift, the sky
haunt fords and ferries at night, especially
Lightly, snceringly ; to sneer at
in storms
Lilt, a ballad ; a tune; to sing
Ken, to know ; kend or kcnn'd, knew
Limnier. a kept mistress, a strumpet
Kennin, a small matter
Lim])'t, limped, hobbled
Kenspeckle, well known, easily known
Liiik, to trip along
Ket, matted, hairy ; a fleece of wool
Linkin', tripping
Kilt, to truss up the clothes
Linn, a waterfall ; a precipiccc
Kinrmer, a young girl, a gossip
Lint, tlax
Kin, kindred ; kin', kind, adj.
Lint i" the bell, flax in flower
King's-hood, a certain part of the entrails of
Lintwhite, a linnet
an ox, &c.
l,oan, or loanin', the place of milking
Kintra, country
Loof, the pahu of the hand
Kintra cooser, country stallion
Loot, did let
Kirn, the harvest suuper ; a ciiurn
J,ooves, plural of loof
Kirsen, to christen, or baptize
lioun, a fellow, a ragamuffin ; a woman of
Kist, a chest ; a shop counter
easy virtue
Kitchen, any thing that eats villi bread ; to
Loup, jump, leap
serve for soup, gravy, (Sec-
1/Owe, a .'lame
Kith, kir.dred
l><)win', Haiiiing
Kittle, to tickk ; ticklkh ; lively, apt
liowrie, abbre\iation of Lawrence
Kittlin, a young cat
lAiwse, to loose
Kiutile. to cudilie
1/OWs'd, Wsed
Kiuttlin, cuddling
Lug, the ear ; a handle
Knaggie, like knags, or points of rocks
Lugget, having a handle
Knap, to stnkc smartly, a smart blow
Lu^gie, a «n;aU wooden dish wi-Ji ahandia
Knajipin-banuuer, a hammer used for break-
Lum, the cinii:ney
ing stones
Luncii, a large piece of cheese, flesh, <Sui
Knowe, a small round hillock
iiuntj a cuiun-.n of smoke; to sitioko
Knutl, a il«arf
Liiijua", smokini'
Lyart, of a uiixetl colour, giaj
liye, ccrs
(7^
[ 1
GLOSSARY.
M
MAE., more
IVlair, more
Maist, most, almost
Mciisdy, mo?t]y
Mak, to make
JNiakin', making
Mailen, a farm
ftlallie, IMoUy
Jiang, amoiis
J\Janse, the parsonage house, where the minis-
ter lives
Manteele, a mantle
i\lark, marks. (This and several other nouns
which in English require an s to form the
p;iiral, are in Scotch, like the words sheep,
deer, the same in both numbers.)
IMarled, variegated; spotted
]\Iar's year, tlie year 1715
Washlum, meslin, mixed corn
Mask, to masli, as malt, &c.
J\Iaskin-pat, a tea-|>ot
I\]aud, maad, a plaid worn by shepherds, &c.
]\iaukin, a hare
i^Jaun, must
IMavis, the tiurush
]Maw, to mow
31awin', mowing
I\leerc, a mare
IVJeikle. meickle, much
IVIelancholious, mournful
Welder, corn, or grain of any Icind, sent to
the mill to be ground
I\Iell, to meddle. Also a mallet for pounding
barley in a stone trough
IMelvie, to soil with meal
Men', to mend
JMense, good manners, decorum
i\ienseless, ill-bred, rude, impudent
IMessin, a small dog
Midden, a dunghill
M idden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of a dung-
hill
Mim, prim, affectedly meek
fllin', mind; resemblance
IMind't, mind it; resolved, intending
Minnie, mother, dam
J\livk, miikcst, dark, darkest
Misca', to abuse, to call names
Misca'd, abused
IMisIear'd, mischievous, unmannerly
Misteuk, mi.stook
IMither, a mother
JMixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed
iMoistify, to moik.en
Mony, or monie, many
JMools, dust, earth, the earth of the grave ; to
rake i' the mools ; to lay in the dust I
RIoo]), to nil»hle as a sheep
J\loorlan', of or belonging to moors i
fllorn, the next day, to-morrow
IMou, tiie mouth
Moudiwort, a mole
Mousic, diminutive of mouse
Miukle, or mickle, great, big, much
Miisie, dmiinutive of muse
Mu.slin-kail, broth, composed simply of water,
siallfd barky, and greens
Mutchkin, an English i)int
Mysel, 11)} self
8)
N
NA, no, not, n;T
Nae, no, not any
Naething, or naithing, nothing
Naig, ahorse
Nane, none
Nappy, ale ; to be tipsy
Negleckit, neglected
Neuk, a nook
Niest, next
Nicve, the fist
Nievefu', handful
Niffer, an exchange ; to exchange, to birt«'
IViger, a negro
Nine-tail'd-cat, a hangman's whip
Nit, a nut
Norland, of or belonging to the north
Notic't, noticed
Nowte, black cattle
0%of
Ociiils, name ofa range of mountains in Clack<
mannon and Kinross-shires
() haith, O faith ! an oain
Ony, or onie, any
Or, is often used for ere, before
Ora, or orra, supernumerary, that can b(
spared
O't, ofit
Ourie, shivering ; drooping
Oursel', or oursels, ourselves
Outlers, cattle not housed
Owre, over ; too
Owre-hip, a way of fetching a blow with the
liammer over the arm
PACK, intimate, familiar; twelve stone ol
wool
Painch, paunch
Paitrick, a partridge
Pang, to cram
Parie, speech
Parritch, an oatmeal pudding, a well-knowo
Scotch dish
Pat, did put ; a pot
Pattle, or pettle, a plough-staff
Paughty, proud, haughty
Pauky, or i)awkie, cuumng, sly
Pay't, paid ; beat
Pcch, to fetch the breath short, as in an asth.
ma
Pechan, the crop, the stomach
Peelin' peeling, the rind of fruit
Pet, a u "mesticated sheep, &c.
I'ettle, to cherish ; a plough-staff
Philabcgs, short petticoats worn by the Iligh«
landmen
Ph raise, fair spcehes, flattery ; to flatter
I'hraisiii', fi.ittery
Pibroch, Highland war music adapted tc the
bagi)ipe
Pickle, a small quantity
Pine, pain, uneasiness
Pit, to ))ut
Placard, public proclamation
GLOSSARY.
PlacK, an old Scotch coin, the third part of a
Scotch penny, twelve of which nuke an
iMiL'lish penny
Plackless, pennyless, without money
Platie, diminutive of phite
Plew. or jjlcu^li, a plough
Pliskie, a trick
Poind, to seize cattle or goods for rent, as the
laws of Scotland allow
Poortuh, poverty
Pou, to ])ull
Pouk, to pluck
Poiissie, a hare, or cat
Pout, a poult, a chick
Pou't. did pull
Powthery, like powder
Pow, the head, the skull
Pownie, a little horse
Powther, or pouther, powder
Preen, a pin
Prent, to print ; print
Prie, to taste
Prie'd, tasted
Prief, proof
Prig, to cheapen ; to dispute
Priggin, cheapening
Prnrisie, demure, precise
Propone, to by down, to propose
Provoses, provosts
Puddock-stool, a musheroom, fungus
Pund, pound ; pounds
Pyle,— a pyle o' cafF, a single grain of chaiF
QUAT, to quit
Quak, to quake
Quey, a cow from one to two years old
R
RAGWEED, the herb ragwort
Raible, to rattle nonsense
Pair, to roar
Raize, to madden, to inflame
Kam-feczl'd, fatigued; overspread
Ram-stam, thoughtless, forward
Raploch, properly a coarse cloth ; but used as
an adnoun for coarse
Rarely, cxceLcntly, very well
Rash, a rush ; rash-buss, a bush of rushes
Ratton, a rat
Raucle, rash ; stout ; fearless
Jiaught, reached
Raw, a row
Rax, to stretch
Ream , cream ; to cream
Reaming, brimful, frothing
Reave, rove
Reck, to heed
Red';, counsel ; to counsel
Rod. wat-shod, walking in blood over the shoe.
to^is
ReJ-wud, stark mad
Ree, half drunk, fuddled
Reck, smoke
Reekin', smoking
Reekit, smoked ; smoky
Reniead, rem,xly
Requite, requited
Rest, to stand restive
Restit. stood restive stunted ; withered
(9)
Restricked restricted
Rew, to rej ent. to compassionate
Rief, reef, plenty
Rief randies, sturdy beggars
Rig, a ridge
Higwiddie, rigwoodie, the rope or chain tha
crosses the saddle of a horse to support the
spokes of a cart ; spare, withcted, sapless
Rin, to run, to melt
Rinnin', running
Rink, the course of the stones ; a term in curl*
ing on ice
Rip, a handful of untlirashed corn
Riskit, made a noise like the tearing of roots
Rockiii', spinning on the rock, or distaff
Rood, stands likewise for tlie plural roods
Roon, a shred, a border or selvage
Roose, to praise, to commend
Roosty, rusty
Roun', round, in the circle of neighbourhood
Roupet, hoarse, as with a cold
Routhie, plentiful
Row, to roll, to wrap
Row't, rolled, wrappeil
Rowte, to low, to bellow
Routh, or routh, plenty
Rowtin', lowing
Rozet, rosin
Rung, a cudgel
Runkled, wrmkled
Runt, the stem of colewort or cabbage
Ruth, a woman's name; the book so caileo
sorrow
Ryke, to reach
S
SAE, so
Saft, soft
Sair, to serve ; a sore
Sairly, or sairlie, sorely
Sair't, served
Sark, a shirt ; a shift
Sarkit, provided in shirts
Saugh, the willow
Saul, soul
Saumont, salmon
Saunt, a saint
Saut. salt, adj. salt
Saw, to so*
Sawin', sowing
Sax, six
Scaith, to damage, to injure ; injury
Scar, a cUfi'
Scaud, to scald
Scauld, to scold
Scaur, ipt to be scared
Scawl, a scold ; a termagant
Scon, a cake of bread
Sconner, a loathing ; to loatlie
Scraich, to scream as a hen, partridge, &Ct
Screed, to tear ; a rent
Scrieve, to glide swiftly along
Scrievin, glccsomely ; swiltly
Scrimp, to scant
Scrimpet, did scant; scanty
See'd, did see
Seizin', seizing
Sel, self; a body's $el, one's self alone
Sell't, did sell
Sen', to send
Sent', I, &c. sent, or did send it ; send it
UJ.OSSARY.
Servan', scrvanj
Snnppcr, to stumble, a stumble
Settlin', seuling; to get a settlin', to be fright-
Snash, abuse, Billingsgate
ed into quietness
Snaw, snow ; to snow
Sets, sets off, goes airav
Shachled, distorted ; sliapeless
Snaw-broo, melted snow
Snawie, snowy
Shaird, a shied, a shard
Sneck, snick, the latch of a door
Shangan, a stick cleft at one and for putting
Sned, to lop, to cut off
the tail of a dog, &c. into, by way of niis-
cliicf, or to frighten him away
Sneeshin, snuff
Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box
Shaver, a humorous v/ag ; a barber
Snell, bitter, biting
Shaw, to show ; a small wood in a hoUow
Snick-drawing, trick-contriving, ciuftv
Sheen, bright, shining
Snivtle, to laugh restrainedly
Sbeep-shank; to think one's self nae aheep-
Snood, a ribbon for binding the hair
shank, to be conceited
Snool, one whose spirit is broken with oppres.
sive slavery ; to subinit tamely, to sneak
Sherra-moor, slieriff-moor, the famous battle
fought in the rebellion, A.D. 1715
Snoove, to go smoothly an-d constantly ; tf
Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice
sneak
Shiel, a ditch, a trench, a sluice
Snowk, to scent or snuff, as a dog, &c.
Shiel, a shed
Snowkit, scented, snuffed
Shill, shrill
Sonsie, having sweet, engaging looks ; lucky
Shog, a shock ; a push off at one side
jolly
Shool, a shovel
Soom, to swim
Shoon, shoes
Sooth, truth, a petty oath
Shore, to offer, to threaten
Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dying on th«
SJior'd, offered
ear
Shouther, the shoulder
Sou])Ie, flexible ; swift
Shure, did shear, shore
Souter, a shoemaker
Sic, sucli
Sowens, a dish made of oatmeal; the seeds o
Sicker, sure, steady
oatmeal so^ired, &c. flummery
Sidehns, sidelong, slanting
Suwp, a spoonful, a small quantity of an
Siller, silver ; money
thing liquid
SinuDcr, summer
Sowih, to try over a tune with a low whistle
Sin. a son
•Sowiher, solder ; to solder, to cement
Sin', since
Spae, to prophesy, to divine
Skaitli, see sraith
Spaul, a limb
Sltellum, a wortlilcss fellow
Spuirge, to dash, to soil, as with mire
Skelp, to strike, to siap ; to walk witn a smart
Spaviet, having the spavin
trijiping step ; a smart stroke
Spean, spane, to wean
Skelpic-limmer, a reproachful term in female
Speat, or spate, a sweeping torrent, after Jtifl
scolding
or thaw
Skelpiu', stepping, walking
Spcei, to cliinb
Skiegii, orskcigh, proud, nice, highmettled
S])encc, the country prrlour
Skinldin, a small ])ortion
Spier, to ask, to inquire
Skirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly
3])ier't, inquired
Skirling, shrieking, crying
Si)liitter, a splutter, to splutter
Skirl't, shrieked
Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch
Sklent, slant ; to nm aslant, to deviate from
Sjilore, a frolic : a noise, riot
truili
Sprackle, s])rachle, to clamber
Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique direction
Sjirattle, to scramble
Skoulh, freedom to converse without restraint ;
Spreckled, spotted, speckled
range, scope
Spring, a quick air in music; a Scottish reel
Skriegii, a scream ; to scream
Sjirit, a tough-rooted plant, something liki
Skyrin', shining; making a groat show
rushes
Skyte, force, very forcible motion
Sprittie, full of spirits
Shic, a sloe
Spunk, (ire, mettle; wit
Slade, did slide
Sjumkie, mettlesome, fiery ; will-o'wisp, or ig.
Slap, a g;ite ; a breach in a fence
nis fatuus
Slaver, saliva ; to emit saliva
Spurtle, a sticJc, used in making oatmeal jnid
Slaw, slow
ding or jioriidge
Sice, siy ; slecst, sliest
Squad, a crew, a ])arty
Sleekit, sleek ; sly
Squatter, to fiuttcr in water as a wild duck
Sliddry, slip lery
Siy )c, to full over, as a wet furrow from the
Sijuattle, to sprawl
Siiucel, a scream, a screech; to scream
p ougli
SLaehcr, to st.igger
Slyj.'.t, lell
Stack, a rick ot corn, hay, &c.
Sma', small
Staggie, the cihiiinulive of stag
Snieddum, dust, powder; mettle, sense
St;'.! wart, strong, ^tout
Snudily, a sniitiiy
Stan', to stand ; siaii't, did stand
Smoor, to smother
Stane, a sii.ne
SinoorM, Mnolhcred
Stan ;, an acute i>ain ; a twinge; to stmg
Snioutic, suiiitty, obscene, uply
St.-ii, u did siiiik ; % pool of standing wiier
Sniytric. a luiiuer us coUeciion of s'nall indi-
Slap, Ml'])
viil juU
Stiltk. slout
vjuijojjAitr.
Etartio, to run as cattY> stiinyr hv the gad-fly
Siaiiiiirel. a blockhoati ; lialf-witted
Staw, did s'cal; to surfeit
Stecli, to cram ilie belly
Stechin, Craiiur.iiifj
Sfetk, 10 shut; asiitch
Steer, to molest; to stir
Steeve, firm, compacted
SieiUtill
Step, to rear as a horse
Stcn't, reared
Stents, tiibiite; dims rf an v kind
Stey, steep ; steyest, steepest
Stibhle, stubble; st.bble-riir, the reaper in
harvest who takes the lead
Stick an' stow, totally, altosrethcr
Siile, a crutch; to halt, to limp
Stnnfiart, the eighth part of a Winchester
bushel
Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old
Stock, a plant or root of colewort, cabbage,
Stockin, a stocking-; Throwing the stockin,
when the bride and bridecroom are put into
bed, and the candle out, the former throws a
storking at random among the company,
and the person whom it strikes is the next
that will be married
Stoiter, to stagger, to stammer
Siooked, made up in shocks as corn
Stoor, sounding hollow, stiong, and hoarse
Slot, an ox
Stoiip, or slowp, a kind of jug or dish with a
handle
Stour, dust, more particularly dust in motion
Siowlins, by stealth
Stown, stolen
Stoyte, to stumble
Straek, did strike
Strae, straw; to die a fair strae heath, to die
m bed
Strai.k, did strike
Straikit, stroked
Strappm', tall and handsome
Straught, straight, to straighten
Streek, stretched tight; to stretch
Str;ddlc, to straddle
Stroan, to spout, to piss
Studdie, an anvil
Stumpie, diniimitive of stump
Strunr, spirituous liquor of any kind ; to walk
sturdily; hufi; sullcnness
Stud; corn or pulse of any kind
Sturt, trouble; to molest
Sturtm, frighted
Sucker, susjar
Sud, should
Sugh, the continued rushing noise of wind or
water
Soutnron, southern; an old name for the Eiig-
li:'li nation
Swaiid, sward
Swall'd, swelled
Swank, stately, jolly
Swankio, or swankcr, a tight strapping young
ffllow or girl
Swap, an exchange ; to barter
Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon
Swat, did sweat
Swatch, a sample
Swats, drink; good ale
Swcitcn, sv.-cating
Sweer, l;i/.y, averse ; dead-swcer, extremely a.
verse
Swoor, swore, did swear
!>winge, to beat ; to whip
Jjwiri, a curve ; an eddying blast, or pool ; a
knot in wood
vSwirlie, knaggie, full of knots
Swith, get away
Switlier, to hesitate in choice; an irresolute
Wavering in choice
Syne, since, ago ; then
TACKETS, a kind of nails for driving into
the heals of shoes
Tae, a toe ; three tae'd, having three prongs
Tiiirge, a target
Tak, totake; takin, taking
Tanitall.in, the name of a mountain
I'angle, a sea-weed
Tap, the lop
Tajjeiless, heedless, foolish
Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowance
Tarrow't, murmured
Tarry-brceks, a sailor
Taukl, or laid, tolil
Taui)ie, a foolish, thoughtless young person
Tajited, or tauue, matted together ; spoken
of hair or wool
Tawie, that allows itself jieaceably to be hand,
led ; spoken of a horse, cow, &,c.
Teat, a small r,uanti y
Teen, to provoke ; y ovocation
Tedding, spreading . fter the mower
Ten. hours bite, a s.ight feed to the horses
while in the yoke, in the forenoon
Tent, a field-pulpit ; liced, caution ; to t;ike
heed ; to tend or herd cattle
Tentie, heedful, cautious
Tentlcss, lieedless
Teugh, tough
Thack, thatch ; tliack an' rape, clothing ne-
cessaries
Thae, these
Thairms, small guts ; fiddle-strings
'I'hankit, thanked
Theekit, Uutched
Thegiilier, together
Theniscl, themselves
Thick, intimate, familiar
Thieveless, told, dry, spited ; spoken of a
person's demeanour
Thir, these
Thirl, thrill
Thirl d, thrilled, vibrated
Thole, to suffei, to endure
'Jihowf, a thaw ; to thaw
Thowlcss, slack, lazy
Thrang, throng ; a crowa
'i'lirap|)ie, throat, windpipe
Thrave, twenty-four sheaves or two shocks oi
corn ; a considerable number
Thraw, to sjiraiii, to twist; to contradict
'I hrawin, twisting, &c.
Thrawn, si)r;jned, twisted ; contnulicted
Threap, to maintain by dint of assertion
Threshin, thrashing
Threteen, thirteen
Thristle, thistle
Througli, to go on with ; to make out
GLOSSARY
riiroutlier, pell-mell, confusedly
Tlivul, to make a loud intcnuittent noise
Tliiimnit, tliumped
Thysfl, tliyself
\VA\ waU ; wa'a, wall*
Tili't, to it
W'abster, a weaver
Timmer, timber
Wad, would ; to bet ; a bet, a pledge
Tijie, to lose; tint, lost
Wadna, would not
U'inkler, a tinker
Wae, wo ; sorrowful
Tii.t die gate, lost the way
A\'aefu', woful, sorrowful, wailing
Tijf, a ram
W'aesucks ! or waes me ! alas ! O the pitv
Tippence, twopence
Waft, the cross thread that goes from tlie shut
'I irl, to rayke as light noise ; to uncover
tie through the web ; woof
Tirlin, uncovering
Wair, to lay out, to expend
Tither, the other
M'ale, choice ; to choose
Tittle, to wliisper
M'aled, chose, chosen
Tittlin, whispering
Walie, ample, large, jolly ; also an intarjea
Tocher, marriage portion
tion of distress
Tod, a fox
Wame, llie belly
Toddle, to totter, like the walk of a child
Wamefu', a belly-full
Toddlin, tottering
Wanchancie, unlucky
Tooni, empty, to empty
Wanrestfu', restless
Toop, a ram
Vi'ark, work
Toun, a hamlet ; a farm-house
Wark-lume, a tool to work with
Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet ; to blow
War], or warld, world
a horn, &c.
^\'arlock, a wizard
Tow, a rope
\Varly, worldly, eager on amassing wealth
lowmond, a twelvemonth
\\ arran, a warrant; to warrant
Towzie, rough, shaggy
Wars.t, worst
Toy. a very old fashion of female head-dress
^\^arst^d or warsl'd, wrestled
Toyte, to lottur like old age
Wastrie, prodigality
Transniugritied, transmigrated, metamorphos-
AVat, wet ; I wat, I wot, I know
ed
^\'ater-brose, brose made of meal and watei
Trashirie, trash
simply, without the addition of milk, but-
Trews, tiowsers
ter, &.C.
'I'rickie, fuU of tricks
Wattle, a twig, a wand
Trig, spruce, neat
Wauble, to swing, to reel
Trimly, excellently
Waught, a draught
^\'aukit, thickened as fullers do cloth
'J'row, to believe
Trowth- triitli. a petty oath
M'aukrife, not apt to sleep
Tryste, an apjxiintment ; a fair
Waur, worse ; to worst
Trysted, appointed ; To tryste, to make an
\\'aur't, worsted
appointment
W'ean, or weanie, a child
Try't, tried
Wearie, or weary ; many a weary body, many
Tug, raw liiie. of which m old times plough-
a different person
traces were ireqaently made
Wei-sor , wcasand
Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quarrel, ofgW
Wiivi/f' the stocking. See Stocking
Twa, two
W.>e, titi.e; Wee things, little ones; Wee
Twa-three, a few
bit, a small mat ter
'Twad, it would
^Vecl, well ; Werlfare, welfire
Twal, tv/elve ; twal-penn;e worth, a small
Weet, rain, wetness
quantity, a penny-worth
Weird, f;ite
N.IJ One jienny English is 12d Scotch
We'se, we shall,
Twin, to ])art
^\'ha, who
Tyke, a dog
Whaizle, to wheeze
U'halpit, whelped
Whang, a leattiern string ; a piece of cneese,
U
UNCO, strange, uncouth ; very, very great,
prodigious
Uncos, iicv.'s
bread, &c. , to give the strappado
Whare, where; \Y'hare'er, wherever
Wlieep, to fly nimbly, jerk ; penny-wheep,
UtiKftm'd, unknown
small beer
^^'hase, whose
M'liatreck, nevertheless
^Vhid, the motion of a hare, running but not
friglnrd ; a lie
Whuidm . running as a hare or cony
\\'bigmeiceries, w'lmiis, fancies, crotchets
Ur.siikcr, unsure, unsteady
Unskaiili'd, undamaged, unhurt
Unwceiing, unwitu^t'/j unknowingly
llpo', ujK.'n
Urcliin, a iiedgehog
V
\\'hingm'. crying, complaining, fretting
Whirligigi'Tns, useless ornamtnts, triting ap.
VAP'RIN, vapouring
pcndagcs
Vera, very
\\ hissle, a whistle ! to whislift
V'irl. a ring round a column, Ace
A\'hist, si'cnre; to hold oneV whisht, to be
Vittle, corn of all kinds, food
silent
(12^
■ ■
GLOSSARY
W^hi«ik. to sweep, to lash
Whivkit, lashed
\\'liittcr, a hearty draught of liquor
\\"lniii-stanc, a whin-stone
W'hyles, whiles, sometimes
\Vi\ with
Wicht, wight, powerful, stroEg; invinlive ;
of a superior genius
\Vii-k, to strike a stone in an oblique direc-
tion ; a term in curling
\^■il•kL•r, willow (the smaller sort)
\\"w\, a small wliirlpocl
\\ itie, a diminutive or endearing term for
wife
Wilyart, bashful and reserved ; avoiding so-
ciety or appearing awkward in it, wild, ti-
mid, strange
Wimple, to meander
\\"imprt, meandered
M'im))liii', waving, meandering
V\'in, to win, to winnow
iVin't, winded as a bottom of yam
iVin', wind ; ^\'in's, winds
U'inna, will not
\\'innock, a window
Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay
Wintle, & staggering motion ; to Stagger, to
reel
Winze, an oath
Wiss, to wish
\Vithoinen, without
M'izen'il, hide-bound, dried, shrunk
Woiiner, a wonder ; a contemptuous appella-
tion
Wons, dwells
V\'oo\ wool
Woo. to court, to make love to
Woodie, a rone, raore properly one nuade of
wulies or willows
Woor-l) ih. tlie garter knotted b«lcw the knot
»iili a coupk of loop«
(IS)
^^'ordy, worthy
\\"orsct, worsted
\Vow, an exclamation of pleaiurt jj west
dor
\\"rack, to teaze, to vpr
Wraith, a s])irit, or gnost ; an apparition «x.
actly like a living j)erson, whose appeara -,«
is said to forbode the person's approactli. (»
death
Wrang, wrong; to wrong
AVreetii, a drifted heap of snow
AYud, mad, distracted
\\'umble, a wimble
Wyle, to beguile
^^'yliecot, a HanncI vest
'Wyte, blame ; to blame
Y
VAD, an old mare ; a worn out horse
Ve ; this pronoun is frequently used for
Yearns, longs much
■^'earlings, born in the same year, coevaU
Year is used both for singular and plural
Yearn, earn, an eagle, an ospray
Yell, barren, tliat gives no milk
\'erk, to lash, to jerk
Yerkit, jerked, lashed
■^'estieen, yesternight
Yett, a gate, such as is usually at the 381
into a farm-yard or Held
Yill, ale
\'ird, earth
^'okin', yoking ; a bout
^'ont, beyond
Yoursel' yourself
Yowe, a ewe
Yowie, diminutiye of yoTW
Yuk, Clmstm&a
mm
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