Skipping
on yon bonnie knowes,
And casting woo' to me.
And casting woo' to me.
Robert Burns-
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it;
By heaven! the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it.
IV.
The wretch that wad a tyrant own,
And the wretch his true-born brother,
Who would set the mob aboon the throne,
May they be damned together!
Who will not sing, "God save the King,"
Shall hang as high's the steeple;
But while we sing, "God save the King,"
We'll ne'er forget the people.
* * * * *
CCXLIX.
ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK.
Tune--"_Where'll bonnie Ann lie. _"
[The old song to the same air is yet remembered: but the humour is
richer than the delicacy; the same may be said of many of the fine
hearty lyrics of the elder days of Caledonia. These verses were
composed in May, 1795, for Thomson. ]
I.
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay!
Nor quit for me the trembling spray;
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing fond complaining.
II.
Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art;
For surely that would touch her heart,
Wha kills me wi' disdaining.
III.
Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd,
Sic notes o' woe could wauken.
IV.
Thou tells o' never-ending care;
O' speechless grief and dark despair:
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is broken!
* * * * *
CCL.
ON CHLORIS BEING ILL.
Tune--"_Ay wakin', O. _"
[An old and once popular lyric suggested this brief and happy song for
Thomson: some of the verses deserve to be held in remembrance.
Ay waking, oh,
Waking ay and weary;
Sleep I canna get
For thinking o' my dearie. ]
I.
Long, long the night,
Heavy comes the morrow,
While my soul's delight
Is on her bed of sorrow.
Can I cease to care?
Can I cease to languish?
While my darling fair
Is on the couch of anguish?
II.
Every hope is fled,
Every fear is terror;
Slumber even I dread,
Every dream is horror.
III.
Hear me, Pow'rs divine!
Oh, in pity hear me!
Take aught else of mine,
But my Chloris spare me!
Long, long the night,
Heavy comes the morrow,
While my soul's delight
Is on her bed of sorrow.
* * * * *
CCLI.
CALEDONIA.
Tune--"_Humours of Glen. _"
[Love of country often mingles in the lyric strains of Burns with his
personal attachments, and in few more beautifully than in the
following, written for Thomson the heroine was Mrs. Burns. ]
I.
Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green brockan,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom:
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen;
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
II.
Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
And cauld CALEDONIA'S blast on the wave;
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they? --The haunt of the tyrant and slave!
The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain;
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.
* * * * *
CCLII.
'TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE EEN.
Tune--"_Laddie, lie near me. _"
[Though the lady who inspired these verses is called Mary by the poet,
such, says tradition, was not her name: yet tradition, even in this,
wavers, when it avers one while that Mrs. Riddel, and at another time
that Jean Lorimer was the heroine. ]
I.
'Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin;
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing:
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us,
'Twas the bewitching, sweet stown glance o' kindness.
II.
Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me!
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.
III.
Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest!
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter--
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.
* * * * *
CCLIII.
HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS.
Tune--"_John Anderson, my jo. _"
["I am at this moment," says Burns to Thomson, when he sent him this
song, "holding high converse with the Muses, and have not a word to
throw away on a prosaic dog, such as you are. " Yet there is less than
the poet's usual inspiration in this lyric, for it is altered from an
English one. ]
I.
How cruel are the parents
Who riches only prize,
And, to the wealthy booby,
Poor woman sacrifice!
Meanwhile the hapless daughter
Has but a choice of strife;
To shun a tyrant father's hate,
Become a wretched wife.
II.
The ravening hawk pursuing,
The trembling dove thus flies,
To shun impelling ruin
Awhile her pinions tries:
Till of escape despairing,
No shelter or retreat,
She trusts the ruthless falconer,
And drops beneath his feet!
* * * * *
CCLIV.
MARK YONDER POMP.
Tune--"_Deil tak the wars. _"
[Burns tells Thomson, in the letter enclosing this song, that he is in
a high fit of poetizing, provided he is not cured by the
strait-waistcoat of criticism. "You see," said he, "how I answer your
orders; your tailor could not be more punctual. " This strain in honour
of Chloris is original in conception, but wants the fine lyrical flow
of some of his other compositions. ]
I.
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion
Round the wealthy, titled bride:
But when compar'd with real passion,
Poor is all that princely pride.
What are the showy treasures?
What are the noisy pleasures?
The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art:
The polish'd jewel's blaze
May draw the wond'ring gaze,
And courtly grandeur bright
The fancy may delight,
But never, never can come near the heart.
II.
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 willing soul!
Ambition would disown
The world's imperial crown,
Even Avarice would deny
His worship'd deity,
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll.
* * * * *
CCLV.
THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE.
Tune--"_This is no my ain house. _"
[Though composed to the order of Thomson, and therefore less likely to
be the offspring of unsolicited inspiration, this is one of the
happiest modern songs. When the poet wrote it, he seems to have been
beside the "fair dame at whose shrine," he said, "I, the priest of the
Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus. "]
I.
O this is no my ain lassie,
Fair tho' the lassie be;
O weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her e'e.
I see a form, I see a face,
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place:
It wants, to me, the witching grace,
The kind love that's in her e'e.
II.
She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,
And lang has had my heart in thrall;
And ay it charms my very saul,
The kind love that's in her e'e.
III.
A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,
To steal a blink, by a' unseen;
But gleg as light are lovers' een,
When kind love is in the e'e.
IV.
It may escape the courtly sparks,
It may escape the learned clerks;
But weel the watching lover marks
The kind love that's in her e'e.
O this is no my ain lassie,
Fair tho' the lassie be;
O weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her e'e.
* * * * *
CCLVI.
NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE
GROVE IN GREEN.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
[Composed in reference to a love disappointment of the poet's friend,
Alexander Cunningham, which also occasioned the song beginning,
"Had I a cave on some wild distant shore. "]
I.
Now spring has clad the grove in green,
And strew'd the lea wi' flowers:
The furrow'd waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering showers;
While ilka thing in nature join
Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps of woe?
II.
The trout within yon wimpling burn
Glides swift, a silver dart,
And safe beneath the shady thorn
Defies the angler's art:
My life was ance that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I;
But love, wi' unrelenting beam,
Has scorch'd my fountains dry.
III.
The little flow'ret's peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine; till love has o'er me past,
And blighted a' my bloom,
And now beneath the with'ring blast
My youth and joy consume.
IV.
The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs
And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings
In morning's rosy eye;
As little reckt I sorrow's power,
Until the flow'ry snare
O' witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o' care.
V.
O had my fate been Greenland snows,
Or Afric's burning zone,
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes,
So Peggy ne'er I'd known!
The wretch whase doom is, "hope nae mair. "
What tongue his woes can tell!
Within whase bosom, save despair,
Nae kinder spirits dwell.
* * * * *
CCLVII.
O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER.
[To Jean Lorimer, the heroine of this song, Burns presented a copy of
the last edition of his poems, that of 1793, with a dedicatory
inscription, in which he moralizes upon her youth, her beauty, and
steadfast friendship, and signs himself Coila. ]
I.
O Bonnie was yon rosy brier,
That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man,
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear!
It shaded frae the e'enin sun.
II.
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.
III.
All in its rude and prickly bower,
That crimson rose, how sweet and fair!
But love is far a sweeter flower
Amid life's thorny path o' care.
IV.
The pathless wild, and wimpling burn,
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine;
And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn,
Its joys and griefs alike resign.
* * * * *
CCLVIII.
FORLORN, MY LOVE, NO COMFORT
NEAR.
Tune--"_Let me in this ae night. _"
["How do you like the foregoing? " Burns asks Thomson, after having
copies this song for his collection. "I have written it within this
hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus: but what say you to his
bottom? "]
I.
Forlorn, my love, no comfort near,
Far, far from thee, I wander here;
Far, far from thee, the fate severe
At which I most repine, love.
O wert thou, love, but near me;
But near, near, near me;
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,
And mingle sighs with mine, love
II.
Around me scowls a wintry sky,
That blasts each bud of hope and joy;
And shelter, shade, nor home have I,
Save in those arms of thine, love.
III.
Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part,
To poison Fortune's ruthless dart,
Let me not break thy faithful heart,
And say that fate is mine, love.
IV.
But dreary tho' the moments fleet,
O let me think we yet shall meet!
That only ray of solace sweet
Can on thy Chloris shine, love.
O wert thou, love, but near me;
But near, near, near me;
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,
And mingle sighs with mine, love.
* * * * *
CCLIX.
LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER.
Tune--"_The Lothian Lassie. _"
["Gateslack," says Burns to Thomson, "is the name of a particular
place, a kind of passage among the Lowther Hills, on the confines of
Dumfrieshire: Dalgarnock, is also the name of a romantic spot near the
Nith, where are still a ruined church and burial-ground. " To this, it
may be added that Dalgarnock kirk-yard is the scene where the author
of Waverley finds Old Mortality repairing the Cameronian
grave-stones. ]
I.
Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And sair wi' his love he did deave me;
I said there was naething I hated like men,
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe, believe me,
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me!
II.
He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een,
And vow'd for my love, he was dying;
I said he might die when he liked for Jean,
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying,
The Lord forgie me for lying!
III.
A weel-stocked mailen--himsel' for the laird--
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd,
But thought I may hae waur offers, waur offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.
IV.
But what wad ye think? In a fortnight or less--
The deil tak his taste to gae near her!
He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.
V.
But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care,
I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock,
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there!
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock,
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock.
VI.
But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink,
Lest neebors might say I was saucy;
My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink,
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow'd I was his dear lassie.
VII.
I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recovered her hearin',
And how my auld shoon suited her shauchled feet,
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin', a swearin',
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin'.
VIII.
He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife,
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow;
So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,
I think I maun wed him to morrow.
* * * * *
CCLX.
CHLORIS.
Tune--"_Caledonian Hunt's Delight. _"
["I am at present," says Burns to Thomson, when he communicated these
verses, "quite occupied with the charming sensations of the toothache,
so have not a word to spare--such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of
this air, that I find it impossible to make another stanza to suit
it. " This is the last of his strains in honour of Chloris. ]
I.
Why, why tell thy lover,
Bliss he never must enjoy:
Why, why undeceive him,
And give all his hopes the lie?
II.
O why, while fancy raptured, slumbers,
Chloris, Chloris all the theme,
Why, why wouldst thou, cruel,
Wake thy lover from his dream?
* * * * *
CCLXI.
THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT.
[This song is said to be Burns's version of a Gaelic lament for the
ruin which followed the rebellion of the year 1745: he sent it to the
Museum. ]
I.
Oh! I am come to the low countrie,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Without a penny in my purse,
To buy a meal to me.
II.
It was na sae in the Highland hills,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Nae woman in the country wide
Sae happy was as me.
III.
For then I had a score o' kye,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Feeding on yon hills so high,
And giving milk to me.
IV.
And there I had three score o' yowes,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes,
And casting woo' to me.
V.
I was the happiest of a' the clan,
Sair, sair, may I repine;
For Donald was the brawest lad,
And Donald he was mine.
VI.
Till Charlie Stewart cam' at last,
Sae far to set us free;
My Donald's arm was wanted then,
For Scotland and for me.
VII.
Their waefu' fate what need I tell,
Right to the wrang did yield:
My Donald and his country fell
Upon Culloden's field.
VIII.
Oh! I am come to the low countrie,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Nae woman in the world wide
Sae wretched now as me.
* * * * *
CCLXII.
TO GENERAL DUMOURIER.
PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR.
[Burns wrote this "Welcome" on the unexpected defection of General
Dumourier. ]
I.
You're welcome to despots, Dumourier;
You're welcome to despots, Dumourier;
How does Dampiere do?
Aye, and Bournonville, too?
Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?
II.
I will fight France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you,
I will take my chance with you;
By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier.
III.
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about,
Till freedom's spark is out,
Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt, Dumourier.
* * * * *
CCLXIII.
PEG-A-RAMSEY.
Tune--"_Cauld is the e'enin blast. _"
[Most of this song is old: Burns gave it a brushing for the Museum. ]
I.
Cauld is the e'enin' blast
O' Boreas o'er the pool,
And dawin' it is dreary
When birks are bare at Yule.
II.
O bitter blaws the e'enin' blast
When bitter bites the frost,
And in the mirk and dreary drift
The hills and glens are lost.
III.
Ne'er sae murky blew the night
That drifted o'er the hill,
But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey
Gat grist to her mill.
* * * * *
CCLXIV.
THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS.
[A snatch of an old strain, trimmed up a little for the Museum. ]
I.
There was a bonnie lass,
And a bonnie, bonnie lass,
And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear;
Till war's loud alarms
Tore her laddie frae her arms,
Wi' mony a sigh and tear.
II.
Over sea, over shore,
Where the cannons loudly roar,
He still was a stranger to fear;
And nocht could him quell,
Or his bosom assail,
But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear.
* * * * *
CCLXV.
O MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET.
[Burns, it is said, composed these verses, on meeting a country girl,
with her shoes and stockings in her lap, walking homewards from a
Dumfries fair. He was struck with her beauty, and as beautifully has
he recorded it. This was his last communication to the Museum. ]
I.
O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet,
Mally's modest and discreet,
Mally's rare, Mally's fair,
Mally's every way complete.
As I was walking up the street,
A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet;
But O the road was very hard
For that fair maiden's tender feet.
II.
It were mair meet that those fine feet
Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon,
And 'twere more fit that she should sit,
Within yon chariot gilt aboon.
III.
Her yellow hair, beyond compare,
Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck;
And her two eyes, like stars in skies,
Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck.
O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet,
Mally's modest and discreet,
Mally's rare, Mally's fair,
Mally's every way complete.
* * * * *
CCLXVI.
HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER.
Tune--"_Balinamona Ora. _"
[Communicated to Thomson, 17th of February, 1796, to be printed as
part of the poet's contribution to the Irish melodies: he calls it "a
kind of rhapsody. "]
I.
Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms:
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms,
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms.
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher;
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
The nice yellow guineas for me.
II.
Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows,
And withers the faster, the faster it grows;
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes,
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes.
III.
And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest,
The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest;
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest,
The langer ye hae them--the mair they're carest.
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher;
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
The nice yellow guineas for me.
* * * * *
CCLXVII.
JESSY.
Tune--"_Here's a health to them that's awa. _"
[Written in honour of Miss Jessie Lewars, now Mrs. Thomson. Her tender
and daughter-like attentions soothed the last hours of the dying poet,
and if immortality can be considered a recompense, she has been
rewarded. ]
I.
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as their parting tear--Jessy!
II.
Altho' thou maun never be mine,
Altho' even hope is denied;
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing,
Then aught in the world beside--Jessy!
III.
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 lockt in thy arms--Jessy!
IV.
I guess by the dear angel smile,
I guess by the love rolling e'e;
But why urge the tender confession
'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree? --Jessy!
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as their parting tear--Jessy!
* * * * *
CCLXVIII.
FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS.
Tune--"_Rothemurche. _"
[On the 12th of July, 1796, as Burns lay dying at Brow, on the Solway,
his thoughts wandered to early days, and this song, the last he was to
measure in this world, was dedicated to Charlotte Hamilton, the maid
of the Devon. ]
I.
Fairest maid on Devon banks,
Crystal Devon, winding Devon,
Wilt thou lay that frown aside,
And smile as thou were wont to do?
Full well thou know'st I love thee, dear!
Could'st thou to malice lend an ear!
O! did not love exclaim "Forbear,
Nor use a faithful lover so. "
II.
Then come, thou fairest of the fair,
Those wonted smiles, O let me share;
And by thy beauteous self I swear,
No love but thine my heart shall know.
Fairest maid on Devon banks,
Crystal Devon, winding Devon,
Wilt thou lay that frown aside,
And smile as thou were wont to do?
* * * * *
GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE.
I.
TO WILLIAM BURNESS.
[This was written by Burns in his twenty-third year, when learning
flax-dressing in Irvine, and is the earliest of his letters which has
reached us. It has much of the scriptural deference to paternal
authority, and more of the Complete Letter Writer than we look for in
an original mind. ]
_Irvine, Dec. 27, 1781. _
HONOURED SIR,
I have purposely delayed writing in the hope that I should have the
pleasure of seeing you on New-Year's day; but work comes so hard upon
us, that I do not choose to be absent on that account, as well as for
some other little reasons which I shall tell you at meeting. My health
is nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little
sounder, and on the whole I am rather better than otherwise, though I
mend by very slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so
debilitated my mind, that I dare neither review past wants, nor look
forward into futurity; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my
breast produces most unhappy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes,
indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are alightened, I glimmer a
little into futurity; but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable
employment is looking backwards and forwards in a moral and religious
way; I am quite transported at the thought, that ere long, perhaps
very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains, and
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 myself, I
could contentedly and gladly resign it.
"The soul, uneasy, and confined at home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. "[141]
It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, and 17th
verses of the 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any ten times as
many verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble
enthusiasm with which they inspire me for all that this world has to
offer. As for this world, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I
am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay.
I shall never again be capable of entering into such scenes. Indeed I
am altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of this life. I foresee that
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 grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and
piety you have given me, which were too much neglected at the time of
giving them, but which I hope have been remembered ere it is yet too
late. Present my dutiful respects to my mother, and my compliments to
Mr. and Mrs. Muir; and with wishing you a merry New-Year's day, I
shall conclude. I am, honoured sir, your dutiful son,
ROBERT BURNESS.
P. S. My meal is nearly out, but I am going to borrow till I get more.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 141: Pope. _Essay on Man_]
* * * * *
II.
TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH,
SCHOOLMASTER,
STABLES-INN BUILDINGS, LONDON.
[John Murdoch, one of the poet's early teachers, removed from the west
of Scotland to London, where he lived to a good old age, and loved to
talk of the pious William Burness and his eminent son. ]
_Lochlea, 15th January, 1783. _
DEAR SIR,
As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter without putting you
to that expense which any production of mine would but ill repay, I
embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that I have not forgotten, nor
ever will forget, the many obligations I lie under to your kindness
and friendship.
I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to know what has been the
result of all the pains of an indulgent father, and a masterly
teacher; and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with such a recital
as you would be pleased with; but that is what I am afraid will not be
the case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious habits; and, in
this respect, I hope, my conduct will not disgrace the education I
have gotten; but, as a man of the world, I am most miserably
deficient. One would have thought that, bred as I have been, under a
father, who has figured pretty well as _un homme des affaires_, I
might have been, what the world calls, a pushing, active fellow; but
to tell you the truth, Sir, there is hardly anything more my reverse.
I seem to be one sent into the world to see and observe; and I very
easily compound with the knave who tricks me of my money, if there be
anything original about him, which shows me human nature in a
different light from anything I have seen before. In short, the joy of
my heart is to "study men, their manners, and their ways;" and for
this darling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other
consideration. I am quite indolent about those great concerns that set
the bustling, busy sons of care agog; and if I have to answer for the
present hour, I am very easy with regard to anything further. Even the
last, worst shift of the unfortunate and the wretched, does not much
terrify me: I know that even then, my talent for what country folks
call a "sensible crack," when once it is sanctified by a hoary head,
would procure me so much esteem, that even then--I would learn to be
happy. [142] However, I am under no apprehensions about that; for though
indolent, yet so far as an extremely delicate constitution permits, I
am not lazy; and in many things, expecially in tavern matters, I am a
strict economist; not, indeed, for the sake of the money; but one of
the principal parts in my composition is a kind of pride of stomach;
and I scorn to fear the face of any man living: above everything, I
abhor as hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a
dun--possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my heart I despise
and detest. 'Tis this, and this alone, that endears economy to me. In
the matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. My favourite authors
are of the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, particularly his
"Elegies;" Thomson; "Man of Feeling"--a book I prize next to the
Bible; "Man of the World;" Sterne, especially his "Sentimental
Journey;" Macpherson's "Ossian," &c. ; these are the glorious models
after which I endeavour to form my conduct, and 'tis incongruous, 'tis
absurd to suppose that the man whose mind glows with sentiments
lighted up at their sacred flame--the man whose heart distends with
benevolence to all the human race--he "who can soar above this little
scene of things"--can he descend to mind the paltry concerns about
which the terraefilial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves! O how
the glorious triumph swells my heart! I forget that I am a poor,
insignificant devil, unnoticed and unknown, stalking up and down fairs
and markets, when I happen to be in them, reading a page or two of
mankind, and "catching the manners living as they rise," whilst the
men of business jostle me on every side, as an idle encumbrance in
their way. --But I dare say I have by this time tired your patience; so
I shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs. Murdoch--not my
compliments, for that is a mere common-place story; but my warmest,
kindest wishes for her welfare; and accept of the same for yourself,
from,
Dear Sir, yours. --R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 142: The last shift alluded to here must be the condition of
an itinerant beggar. --CURRIE]
* * * * *
III.
TO MR. JAMES BURNESS,
WRITER, MONTROSE. [143]
[James Burness, son of the poet's uncle, lives at Montrose, and, as
may be surmised, is now very old: fame has come to his house through
his eminent cousin Robert, and dearer still through his own grandson,
Sir Alexander Burnes, with whose talents and intrepidity the world is
well acquainted. ]
_Lochlea_, 21_st June_, 1783.
DEAR SIR,
My father received your favour of the 10th current, and as he has been
for some months very poorly in health, and is in his own opinion (and
indeed, in almost everybody's else) in a dying condition, he has only,
with great difficulty, written a few farewell lines to each of his
brothers-in-law. For this melancholy reason, I now hold the pen for
him to thank you for your kind letter, and to assure you, Sir, that it
shall not be my fault if my father's correspondence in the north die
with him. My brother writes to John Caird, and to him I must refer you
for the news of our family.
I shall only trouble you with a few particulars relative to the
wretched state of this country. Our markets are exceedingly high;
oatmeal 17d. and 18d. per peck, and not to be gotten even at that
price. We have indeed been pretty well supplied with quantities of
white peas from England and elsewhere, but that resource is likely to
fail us, and what will become of us then, particularly the very
poorest sort, Heaven only knows. This country, till of late, was
flourishing incredibly in the manufacture of silk, lawn, and
carpet-weaving; and we are still carrying on a good deal in that way,
but much reduced from what it was. We had also a fine trade in the
shoe way, but now entirely ruined, and hundreds driven to a starving
condition on account of it. Farming is also at a very low ebb with us.
Our lands, generally speaking, are mountainous and barren; and our
landholders, full of ideas of farming gathered from the English and
the Lothians, and other rich soils in Scotland, make no allowance for
the odds of the quality of land, and consequently stretch us much
beyond what in the event we will be found able to pay. We are also
much at a loss for want of proper methods in our improvements of
farming. Necessity compels us to leave our old schemes, and few of us
have opportunities of being well informed in new ones. In short, my
dear Sir, since the unfortunate beginning of this American war, and
its as unfortunate conclusion, this country has been, and still is,
decaying very fast. Even in higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire
noblemen, and the major part of our knights and squires, are all
insolvent. A miserable job of a Douglas, Heron, and Co. 's bank, which
no doubt you heard of, has undone numbers of them; and imitating
English and French, and other foreign luxuries and fopperies, has
ruined as many more. There is a great trade of smuggling carried on
along our coasts, which, however destructive to the interests of the
kingdom at large, certainly enriches this corner of it, but too often
at the expense of our morals. However, it enables individuals to make,
at least for a time, a splendid appearance; but Fortune, as is usual
with her when she is uncommonly lavish of her favours, is generally
even with them at the last; and happy were it for numbers of them if
she would leave them no worse than when she found them.
My mother sends you a small present of a cheese, 'tis but a very
little one, as our last year's stock is sold off; but if you could fix
on any correspondent in Edinburgh or Glasgow, we would send you a
proper one in the season. Mrs. Black promises to take the cheese under
her care so far, and then to send it to you by the Stirling carrier.
I shall conclude this long letter with assuring you that I shall be
very happy to hear from you, or any of our friends in your country,
when opportunity serves.
My father sends you, probably for the last time in this world, his
warmest wishes for your welfare and happiness; and my mother and the
rest of the family desire to enclose their kind compliments to you,
Mrs. Burness, and the rest of your family, along with those of,
Dear Sir,
Your affectionate Cousin,
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 143: This gentleman (the son of an elder brother of my
father's), when he was very young, lost his father, and having
discovered in his father's repositories some of my father's letters, he
requested that the correspondence might be renewed. My father continued
till the last year of his life to correspond with his nephew, and it was
afterwards kept up by my brother. Extracts from some of my brother's
letters to his cousin are introduced, for the purpose of exhibiting the
poet before he had attracted the notice of the public, and in his
domestic family relations afterwards. --GILBERT BURNS. ]
* * * * *
IV.
TO MISS E.
[The name of the lady to whom this and the three succeeding letters
were addressed, seems to have been known to Dr. Currie, who introduced
them in his first edition, but excluded them from his second. They
were restored by Gilbert Burns, without naming the lady. ]
_Lochlea_, 1783.
I verily believe, my dear E. , that the pure, genuine feelings of love
are as rare in the world as the pure genuine principles of virtue and
piety. This I hope will account for the uncommon style of all my
letters to you. By uncommon, I mean their being written in such a
serious manner, which, to tell you the truth, has made me often afraid
lest you should take me for some zealous bigot, who conversed with his
mistress as he would converse with his minister. I don't know how it
is, my dear, for though, except your company, there is nothing on
earth gives me much pleasure as writing to you, yet it never gives me
those giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. I have often
thought that if a well-grounded affection be not really a part of
virtue, 'tis something extremely akin to it. Whenever the thought of
my E. warms my heart, every feeling of humanity, every principle of
generosity kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of
malice and envy which are but too apt to infest me. I grasp every
creature in the arms of universal benevolence, and equally participate
in the pleasures of the happy, and sympathize with the miseries of the
unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, I often look up to the Divine
Disposer of events with an eye of gratitude for the blessing which I
hope he intends to bestow on me in bestowing you. I sincerely wish
that he may bless my endeavors to make your life as comfortable and
happy as possible, both in sweetening the rougher parts of my natural
temper, and bettering the unkindly circumstances of my fortune. This,
my dear, is a passion, at least in my view, worthy of a man, and I
will add worthy of a Christian.
