His relation to the purely English literature which he read is different and produced very different results. Shakespeare he reverenced, and that he knew him well is shown by the frequency of Shakespearean turns of phrase in his letters, as well as by direct quotation. But of influence upon his poetry there is little trace. He had a profound admiration for the indomitable will of Milton's Satan, and he makes it clear that this admiration affected his conduct. The most frequent praise of English writers in his letters is, however, given to the eighteenth-century authors—to Pope, Thomson, Shenstone, Gray, Young, Blair, Beattie, and Goldsmith in verse, to Sterne, Smollett, and Henry Mackenzie in prose. Echoes of these poets are common in his work, and the most frigid of his English verses show their influence most clearly. To the sentimental tendency in the thought of the eighteenth century he was highly responsive, and the expression of it in The Man of Feeling appealed to him especially. In a mood which recurred painfully often he was apt to pride himself on his "sensibility": the letters to Clarinda are full of it. The less fortunate effects of it are seen both in his conduct and in his poems in a fondness for nursing his emotions and extracting pleasure from his supposed miseries; the more fortunate aspects are reflected in the tender humanity of poems like those To a Mouse, On Seeing a Wounded Hare, and To a Daisy—perhaps even in the Address to the Deil. He had naturally a warm heart and strong impulses; it is only when an element of consciousness or mawkishness appears that his "sensibility" is to be ascribed to the fashionable philosophy of the day and the influence of his English models.

For better or worse, then, Burns belongs to the literary history of Britain as a legitimate descendant of easily traced ancestors. Like other great writers he made original contributions from his individual temperament and from his particular environment and experience. But these do not obliterate the marks of his descent, nor are they so numerous or powerful as to give support to the old myth of the "rustic phenomenon," the isolated poetical miracle appearing in defiance of the ordinary laws of literary dependence and tradition.

If this is true of his models it is no less true of his methods. Though simplicity and spontaneity are among the most obvious of the qualities of his work, it is not to be supposed that such effects were obtained by a birdlike improvisation. "All my poetry," he said, "is the effect of easy composition but laborious correction," and the careful critic will perceive ample evidence in support of the statement. We shall see in the next chapter with what pains he fitted words to melody in his songs; an examination of the variant readings which make the establishment of his text peculiarly difficult shows abundant traces of deliberation and the labor of the file. In the following song, the first four lines of which are old, it is interesting to note that, though he preserves admirably the tone of the fragment which gave him the impulse and the idea, the twelve lines which he added are in the effects produced by manipulation of the consonants and vowels and in the use of internal rhyme a triumph of conscious artistic skill. The interest in technique which this implies is exhibited farther in many passages of his letters, especially those to George Thomson.

GO FETCH TO ME A PINT O' WINE

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, An' fill it in a silver tassie; [goblet] That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie. The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, [from] The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. [must]

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it's no the roar o' sea or shore Wad mak me langer wish to tarry; Nor shout o' war that's heard afar, It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.



CHAPTER III

BURNS AND SCOTTISH SONG

With song-writing Burns began his poetical career, with song-writing he closed it; and, brilliant as was his achievement in other fields, it is as a song-writer that he ranks highest among his peers, it is through his songs that he has rooted himself most deeply in the hearts of his countrymen.

The most notable and significant fact in connection with his making of songs is their relation to the melodies to which they are sung. In the vast majority of cases these are old Scottish tunes, which were known to Burns before he wrote his songs, and were singing in his ear during the process of composition. The poet was no technical musician. Murdoch, his first teacher, says that Robert and Gilbert Burns "were left far behind by all the rest of the school" when he tried to teach them a little church music, "Robert's ear, in particular, was remarkably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long before I could get them to distinguish one tune from another." Either Murdoch exaggerated, or the poet's ear developed later (Murdoch is speaking of him between the ages of six and nine); for he learned to fiddle a little, once at least attempted to compose an air, could read music fairly easily, and could write down a melody from memory. His correspondence with Johnson and Thomson shows that he knew a vast number of old tunes and was very sensitive to their individual quality and suggestion.[1] Such a sentence as the following from one of his Commonplace Books shows how important his responsiveness to music was for his poetical composition.

"These old Scottish airs are so nobly sentimental that when one would compose to them, to south the tune, as our Scottish phrase is, over and over, is the readiest way to catch the inspiration and raise the Bard into that glorious enthusiasm so strongly characteristic of our old Scotch Poetry."

[1] The question of the nature and extent of Burns's musical abilities may be summed up in the words of the latest and most thorough student of his melodies:—"His knowledge of music was in fact elemental; his taste lay entirely in melody, without ever reaching an appreciation of contra-puntal or harmonious music. Nor, although in his youth he had learned the grammar of music and become acquainted with clefs, keys, and notes at the rehearsals of church music, which were in his day a practical part of the education of the Scottish peasantry, did he ever arrive at composition, except in the case of one melody which he composed for a song of his own at the age of about twenty-three, and this melody displeased him so much that he destroyed it and never attempted another. In the same way, although he practised the violin, he did not attain to excellence in execution, his playing being confined to strathspeys and other slow airs of the pathetic kind. On the other hand, his perception and his love of music are undeniable. For example, he possessed copies of the principal collections of Scottish vocal and instrumental music of the eighteenth century, and repeatedly refers to them in the Museum and in his letters. His copy of the Caledonian Pocket Companion (the largest collection of Scottish music), which copy still exists with pencil notes in his handwriting, proves that he was familiar with the whole contents. At intervals in his writings he names at least a dozen different collections to which he refers and from which he quotes with personal knowledge. Also he knew several hundred different airs, not vaguely and in a misty way, but accurately as regards tune, time, and rhythm, so that he could distinguish one from another, and describe minute variations in the several copies of any tune which passed through his hands.... Many of the airs he studied and selected for his verses were either pure instrumental tunes, never before set to words, or the airs (from dance books) of lost songs, with the first lines as titles."—(James C. Dick, The Songs of Robert Burns, 1903, Preface, pp. viii, ix.)

Again, once when Thomson had sent him a tune to be fitted with words, he replied:

"Laddie lie near me must lie by me for some time. I do not know the air; and until I am complete master of a tune in my own singing (such as it is), I never can compose for it. My way is: I consider the poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical expression; then choose my theme; begin 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 subjects in nature around me that are in unison and harmony with the cogitations of my fancy and workings of my bosom, humming every now and then the air with the verses I have framed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of my study, and then commit my effusion to paper; swinging at intervals on the hindlegs of my elbow chair, by way of calling forth my own critical strictures as my pen goes on. Seriously, this at home is almost invariably my way." [September, 1793.]

His wife, who had a good voice and a wide knowledge of folk-song, seems often to have been of assistance, and a further interesting detail is given by Sir James Stuart-Menteath from the evidence of a Mrs. Christina Flint.

"When Burns dwelt at Ellisland, he was accustomed, after composing any of his beautiful songs, to pay Kirsty a visit, that he might hear them sung by her. He often stopped her in the course of the singing when he found any word harsh and grating to his ear, and substituted one more melodious and pleasing. From Kirsty's extensive acquaintance with the old Scottish airs, she was frequently able to suggest to the poet music more suitable to the song she was singing than that to which he had set it."

Kirsty and Jean were not his only aids in the criticism of the musical quality of his songs. From the time of the Edinburgh visit, at least, he was in the habit of seizing the opportunity afforded by the possession of a harpsichord or a good voice by the daughters of his friends, and in several cases he rewarded his accompanist by making her the heroine of the song. Without drawing on the evidence of parallel phenomena in other ages and literatures, we can be sure enough that this persistent consciousness of the airs to which his songs were to be sung, and this critical observation of their fitness, had much to do with the extraordinary melodiousness of so many of them.

We have seen that Burns received an important impulse to productiveness through his cooperation in the compiling of two national song collections. James Johnson, the editor of the first of these, was an all but illiterate engraver, ill-equipped for such an undertaking; and as the work grew in scale until it reached six volumes, Burns became virtually the editor—even writing the prefaces to several of the volumes. George Thomson, the editor of the other, A Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs, was a government clerk, an amateur in music, of indifferent taste and with a preference for English to the vernacular. In his collection the airs were harmonized by Pleyel, Kozeluch, Haydn, and Beethoven; and he had the impudence to meddle with the contributions both of Burns and of the eminent composers who arranged the melodies. Nothing is more striking than the patience and modesty of Burns in tolerating the criticism and alterations of Thomson. The main purpose in both The Scots Musical Museum and the Select Collection was the preservation of the national melodies, but when the editors came to seek words to go with them they found themselves confronted with a difficult problem. To understand its nature, it will be necessary to extend our historical survey.

In addition to the effects of the Reformation in Scotland already indicated, there was another even more serious for arts and letters. The reaction against Catholicism in Scotland was peculiarly violent, and the form of Protestantism which replaced it was extremely puritanical. In the matter of intellectual education, it is true, Knox's ideas and institutions were enlightened, and have borne important fruit in making prevail in his country an uncommonly high level of general education and a reverence for learning. But on the artistic side the reformed ministers were the enemies not only of everything that suggested the ornateness of the old religion, but of beauty in every form. Under their influence, an influence extraordinarily pervasive and despotic, art and song were suppressed, and Scotland was left a very mirthless country, absorbed in theological and political discussion, and having little outlet for the instinct of sport except heresy-hunting.

Such at least seemed to be the case on the surface. But human nature is not to be totally changed even by such a force as the Reformation. Especially among the peasantry occasions recurred—weddings, funerals, harvest-homes, New-Year's Eves, and the like—when, the minister being at a safe distance and whisky having relaxed the awe of the kirk session, the "wee sinfu' fiddle" was produced, and song and the dance broke forth. It was under such clandestine conditions that the traditional songs of Scotland had been handed down for some generations before Burns's day, and the conditions had gravely affected their character. The melodies could not be stained, but the words had degenerated until they had lost most of whatever imaginative quality they had possessed, and had acquired instead only grossness.

Such words, it was clear, Johnson could not use in his Museum, and the discovery of Burns was to him the most extraordinary good fortune. For Burns not only knew, as we have seen, the old songs—words and airs—by the score, but was able to purify, complete, or replace the words according to the degree of their corruption. Various poets have caught up scraps of folk-song and woven them into their verse; but nowhere else has a poet of the people appeared with such a rare combination of original genius and sympathetic feeling for the tone and accent of the popular muse, as enabled Burns to recreate Scottish song. If patriotic Scots wish to justify the achievement of Burns on moral grounds, it is here that their argument lies: for whatever of coarseness and license there may have been in his life and writings, it is surely more than counter-balanced by the restoration to his people of the possibility of national music and clean mirth.

One can not classify the songs of Burns into two clearly separated groups, original and remodeled, for no hard lines can be drawn. Since he practically always began with the tune, he frequently used the title or the first line of the old song. He might do this, yet completely change the idea; or he might retain the idea but use none of the old words. In other cases the first stanza or the chorus is retained; in still others the new song is sprinkled with here a phrase and there an epithet recalling the derelict that gave rise to it. Some are made up of stanzas from several different predecessors, others are almost centos of stock phrases.

The contribution thus made to Johnson's collection, of songs rescued or remade or wholly original, amounted to some one hundred eighty-four; to Thomson's about sixty-four. Some examples will make clear the nature of his services.

Auld Lang Syne, perhaps the most wide-spread of all songs among the English-speaking peoples, is in its oldest extant form attributed on uncertain grounds to Francis Sempill of Beltrees or Sir Robert Aytoun.[2] That still older forms had existed appears from its title in the broadside in which it is preserved:

"An excellent and proper new ballad, entitled Old Long Syne. Newly corrected and amended, with a large and new edition [sic] of several excellent love lines."

[2] The melody to which the song is now sung is not that to which Burns wrote it, but was an old strathspey tune. It is possible, however, that he agreed to its adoption by Thomson.

It opens thus:

Should old acquaintance be forgot And never thought upon, The Flames of Love extinguished And freely past and gone? Is thy kind Heart now grown so cold In that Loving Breast of thine, That thou can'st never once reflect On old-long-syne.

And so on, for eighty lines.

Allan Ramsay rewrote it for his Tea-Table Miscellany (1724), and a specimen stanza will show that it was still going down-hill:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot Tho' they return with scars? These are the noble hero's lot, Obtain'd in glorious wars; Welcome, my Varo, to my breast, Thy arms about me twine, And make me once again as blest As I was lang syne.

The remaining four stanzas are worse. Burns may have had further hints to work on which are now lost; but the best, part of the song, stanzas three and four, are certainly his, and it is unlikely that he inherited more than some form of the first verse and the chorus.

AULD LANG SYNE

Should auld acquaintance be forgot [old] And never brought to min'? [mind] Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne? [long ago]

For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, [will pay for] And surely I'll be mine; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes, [two have, hillsides] And pu'd the gowans fine; [pulled, daisies] But we've wander'd mony a weary foot Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidled i' the burn, [waded, brook] From morning sun till dine; [noon] But seas between us braid hae roar'd [broad] Sin' auld lang syne.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere, [comrade] And gie's a hand o' thine; [give me] And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, [draught of good will] For auld lang syne.

A more remarkable case of patchwork is A Red, Red Rose. Antiquarian research has discovered in chap-books and similar sources four songs, from each of which a stanza, in some such form as follows, seems to have proved suggestive to Burns:

(1) Her cheeks are like the Roses That blossom fresh in June, O, she's like a new strung instrument That's newly put in tune.

(2) Altho' I go a thousand miles I vow thy face to see, Altho' I go ten thousand miles I'll come again to thee, dear Love, I'll come again to thee.

(3) The seas they shall run dry, And rocks melt into sands; Then I'll love you still, my dear, When all those things are done.

(4) Fare you well, my own true love, And fare you well for a while, And I will be sure to return back again, If I go ten thousand mile.

The genealogy of the lyric is still more complicated than these sources imply, but the specimens given are enough to show the nature of the ore from which Burns extracted the pure gold of his well-known song:

MY LOVE IS LIKE A RED RED ROSE

O, my love is like a red red rose That's newly sprung in June: O, my love is like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I: And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry. [go]

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun: And I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only love, And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my love, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

Of the songs already quoted, the germ of Ae Fond Kiss lies in the first line of Robert Dodsley's Parting Kiss,

"One fond kiss before we part;"

I Hae a Wife o' My Ain, borrows with slight modification the first two lines; a model for My Nannie O has been found in an anonymous eighteenth-century fragment as well as in a song of Ramsay's, but neither contributes more than the phrase which names the tune as well as the words; The Rigs o' Barley was suggested by a verse of an old song:

O, corn rigs and rye rigs, O, corn rigs are bonie; And whene'er you meet a bonie lass Preen up her cockernonie.

Handsome Nell, Mary Morison, Will Ye Go to the Indies, The Gloomy Night, and My Nannie's Awa are entirely original; and a comparison of their poetical quality with those having their model or starting point in an older song will show that, however brilliantly Burns acquitted himself in his task of refurbishing traditional material, he was in no way dependent upon such material for inspiration.

From what has been said of the occasions of these verses, however, it is clear that inspiration from the outside was not lacking. The traditional association of wine, woman, and song certainly held for Burns, nearly all his lyrics being the outcome of his devotion to at least two of these, some of them, like the following, to all three.

YESTREEN I HAD A PINT O' WINE

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, [Last night] A place where body saw na'; [nobody saw] Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine The gowden locks of Anna. [golden] The hungry Jew in wilderness Rejoicing o'er his manna, Was naething to my hinny bliss [honey] Upon the lips of Anna.

Ye monarchs, tak the east and west, Frae Indus to Savannah! Gie me within my straining grasp The melting form of Anna. There I'll despise imperial charms, An Empress or Sultana, While dying raptures in her arms I give and take with Anna!

Awa, thou flaunting god o' day! Awa, thou pale Diana! Ilk star, gae hide thy twinkling ray [Each, go] When I'm to meet my Anna. Come, in thy raven plumage, night! (Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a') And bring an angel pen to write My transports wi' my Anna!

(Postscript)

The kirk and state may join, and tell To do such things I mauna: [must not] The kirk and state may gae to hell, And I'll gae to my Anna. She is the sunshine o' my ee, To live but her I canna; [without] Had I on earth but wishes three, The first should be my Anna.

Nothing could be more hopeless than to attempt to classify Burns's songs according to the amours that occasioned them, and to seek to find a constant relation between the reality and intensity of the passion and the vitality of the poetry. At times some relation does seem apparent, as we may discern beneath the vigor of the song just quoted a trace of a conscious attempt to brave his conscience in connection with the one proved infidelity to Jean after his marriage. Again, in such songs as Of a' the Airts, Poortith Cauld, and others addressed to Jean herself, we have an expression of his less than rapturous but entirely genuine affection for his wife.

OF A' THE AIRTS

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, [directions] I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: [love] There wild woods grow, and rivers row, [roll] And mony a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green; [woodland] There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean.

O THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE

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.

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall; And aye it charms my very saul, [soul] The kind love that's in her e'e.

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, [sly] To steal a blink, by a' unseen; [glance] But gleg as light are lovers' e'en, [nimble, eyes] When kind love is in the e'e.

It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learned clerks; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that's in her e'e.

POORTITH CAULD

O poortith cauld, and restless love, [cold poverty] Ye wreck my peace between ye; Yet poortith a' I could forgive, An' 'twere na for my Jeanie. [If 'twere not]

O why should fate sic pleasure have, [such] Life's dearest bands untwining? Or why sae sweet a flower as love Depend on Fortune's shining?

The warld's wealth when I think on, Its pride, and a' the lave o't,— [rest] My curse on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o't.

Her een sae bonnie blue betray How she repays my passion; But prudence is her o'erword aye, [refrain] She talks of rank and fashion.

O wha can prudence think upon, And sic a lassie by him? O wha can prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am?

How blest the wild-wood Indian's fate! He woos his artless dearie— The silly bogles, Wealth and State, [goblins] Can never make him eerie. [afraid]

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a lo'esome wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And neist my heart I'll wear her, [next] For fear my jewel tine. [be lost]

The warld's wrack, we share o't, The warstle and the care o't; [struggle] Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine.

Similarly, most of the lyrics addressed to Clarinda in Edinburgh are marked by the sentimentalism and affectation of an affair that engaged only one side, and that among the least pleasing, of the many-sided temperament of the poet.

But, in general, with Burns as with other poets, it was not the catching of a first-hand emotion at white heat that resulted in the best poetry, but the stimulating of his imagination by the vision of a person or a situation that may have had but the hint of a prototype in the actual. We have already noted that the best of the Clarinda poems were written in absence, and that they drop the Arcadian names which typified the make-believe element in that complex affair. So a number of his most charming songs are addressed to girls of whom he had had but a glimpse. But that glimpse sufficed to kindle him, and for the poetry it was all advantage that it was no more.

His relations with women were extremely varied in nature. At one extreme there were friendships like that with Mrs. Dunlop, the letters to whom show that their common interests were mainly moral and intellectual, and were mingled with no emotion more fiery than gratitude. At the other extreme stand relations like that with Anne Park, the heroine of Yestreen I had a Pint o' Wine, which were purely passionate and transitory. Between these come a long procession affording excellent material for the ingenuity of those skilled in the casuistry of the sexes: the boyish flame for Handsome Nell; the slightly more mature feeling for Ellison Begbie; the various phases of his passion for Jean Armour; the perhaps partly factitious reverence for Highland Mary; the respectful adoration for Margaret Chalmers to whom he is supposed to have proposed marriage in Edinburgh; the deliberate posing in his compliments to Chloris (Jean Lorimer); the grateful gallantry to Jessie Lewars, who ministered to him on his deathbed.

In the later days in Dumfries, when his vitality was running low and he was laboring to supply Thomson with verses even when the spontaneous impulse to compose was rare, we find him theorizing on the necessity of enthroning a goddess for the nonce. Speaking of Craigieburn-wood and Jean Lorimer, he writes to his prosaic editor:

"The lady on whom it was made is one of the finest women in Scotland; and in fact (entre nous) is in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to him—a Mistress, or Friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now, don't put any of your squinting constructions on this, or have any clishmaclaver about it among our acquaintances.) I assure you that to my lovely Friend you are indebted for many of your best songs of mine. Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy—could fire him with 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 contraire! I have a glorious recipe; the very one that for his own use was invented by the Divinity of Healing and Poesy when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon!"

Burns is here, of course, on his rhetorical high horse, and the songs to Chloris hardly bear him out; but there is much in the passage to enlighten us as to his composing processes. In his younger days his hot blood welcomed every occasion of emotional experience; toward the end, he sought such occasions for the sake of the patriotic task that lightened with its idealism the gathering gloom of his breakdown. But throughout, and this is the important point to note in relating his poetry to his life, his one mode of complimentary address to a woman was in terms of gallantry.

The following group of love songs illustrate the various phases of his temperament which we have been discussing. The first two are to Mary Campbell, and exhibit Burns in his most reverential attitude toward women:

HIGHLAND MARY

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! [muddy] There Simmer first unfauld her robes, [may S. f. unfold] And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, [birch] 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' mony a vow and lock'd embrace Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But oh! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, [cold] That wraps my Highland Mary!

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! [loved] But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usherest in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget? Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace— Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on ev'ry spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

The group that follow are addressed either to unknown divinities or to girls who inspired only a passing devotion. In the case of Bonnie Lesley, there was no question of a love-affair: the song is merely a compliment to a young lady he met and admired. Auld Rob Morris is probably purely dramatic.

CA' THE YOWES

(Second Version)

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, [ewes, knolls] Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, [brooklet rolls] My bonnie dearie.

Hark! the mavis' evening sang [thrush's] Sounding Clouden's woods amang; Then a-faulding let us gang, [a-folding, go] My bonnie dearie.

We'll gae down by Clouden side, [go] Thro' the hazels, spreading wide O'er the waves that sweetly glide To the moon sae clearly.

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, Where at moonshine's midnight hours, O'er the dewy bending flowers, Fairies dance sae cheery.

Ghaist nor bogle shall thou fear; [Ghost, goblin] Thou'rt to Love and Heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, [Nought] My bonnie dearie.

Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stown my very heart; [stolen] I can die—but canna part, My bonnie dearie.

AFTON WATER

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 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 I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft as mild Ev'ning weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. [birch]

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, [went, road last night] A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue; I gat my death frae twa sweet een, [got, eyes] Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 'Twas not her golden ringlets bright, Her lips like roses wat wi' dew, [wet] Her heaving bosom lily-white; It was her een sae bonnie blue.

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd, [beguiled] She charm'd my soul I wist na how; And aye the stound, the deadly wound, [pang] Came frae her een sae bonnie blue. [from] But 'spare to speak, and spare to speed'— She'll aiblins listen to my vow: [perhaps] Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead [death] To her twa een sae bonnie blue.

BONNIE LESLEY

O saw ye bonnie Lesley As she gaed o'er the border? [went] 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 is, 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 could na scaith thee, [harm] Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say, 'I canna wrang thee.'

The Powers aboon will tent thee; [above, guard] Misfortune sha'na steer thee; [shall not disturb] Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie. [no other]

LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, [flaxen] Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? [watch] Wilt thou be my dearie, O?

Now nature cleeds the flowery lea, [clothes] And a' is young and sweet like thee; O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, And say thou'lt be my dearie, O.

The primrose bank, the wimpling burn, [winding] The cuckoo on the milk-white thorn, The wanton lambs at early morn Shall welcome thee, my dearie, O.

And when the welcome simmer-shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, [every] We'll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie, O.

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way. [reaper's] Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love, my dearie, O.

And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O.

MONTGOMERIE'S PEGGY

Altho' my bed were in yon muir, Amang the heather, in my plaidie, Yet happy, happy would I be, Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy.

When o'er the hill beat surly storms, And winter nights were dark and rainy, I'd seek some dell, and in my arms I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy.

Were I a Baron proud and high, And horse and servants waiting ready, Then a' 't wad gie o' joy to me, [it would give] The sharin't wi' Montgomerie's Peggy.

THE LEA-RIG

When o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; [folding-] And owsen frae the furrow'd field [oxen] Return sae dowf and wearie O; [dull] Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, [sweetheart] I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, [grassy ridge] My ain kind dearie O. [own]

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, [darkest] I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, [scared] If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, [went] My ain kind dearie O. Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, And I were ne'er sae wearie O, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, [loves] To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher takes the glen, Along the burn to steer, my jo; Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey [twilight] It maks my heart sae cheery O, To meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

AULD ROB MORRIS

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, [dwells] He's the king o' gude fellows and wale of auld men; [pick] He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, [gold, oxen] And ae bonnie lassie, his dautie and mine. [one, darling]

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; [garden] A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, [must not] The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. [death]

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane; I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist, [alone, ghost] And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me; O how past descriving had then been my bliss, [describing] As now my distraction no words can express!

O, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast, besides being one of the most exquisite of his songs, has a pathetic interest from the circumstances under which it was composed. During the last few months of his life, a young girl called Jessie Lewars, sister of one of his colleagues in the excise, came much to his house and was of great service to Mrs. Burns and him in his last illness. One day he offered to write new verses to any tune she might play him. She sat down and played over several times the melody of an old song, beginning,

The robin came to the wren's nest, And keekit in, and keekit in.

The following lines were the characteristic result:

O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST

O, wert thou in the cauld blast, [cold] On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, [direction] I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee, Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, [shelter] To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

This group may well close with his great hymn of general allegiance to the sex.

GREEN GROW THE RASHES

Green grow the rashes, O, Green grow the rashes, O; The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, Are spent amang the lasses, O!

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', In ev'ry hour that passes, O; What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.

The warly race may riches chase, [worldly] An' riches still may fly them, O; An' tho' at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

But gie me a canny hour at e'en, [quiet] My arms about my dearie, O; An' warly cares, an' warly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O! [upside-down]

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, [sedate] Ye're nought but senseless asses, O: The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O; Her prentice han' she tried on man, An' then she made the lasses, O.

Equally personal, but not connected with love, are a few autobiographical poems of which the following are typical. The third of these, though prosaic enough, is interesting as perhaps Burns's most elaborate summing up of the philosophy of his own career.

THERE WAS A LAD

There was a lad was born in Kyle, But whatna day o' whatna style [what] I doubt it's hardly worth the while To be sae nice wi' Robin.

Robin was a rovin' boy, [roystering] Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin' Robin.

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane [one] Was five-and-twenty days begun, 'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win' Blew hansel in on Robin. [his first gift]

The gossip keekit in his loof, [peeped, palm] Quo' scho, 'Wha lives will see the proof, [Quoth she] This waly boy will be nae coof, [choice, dolt] I think we'll ca' him Robin. [call]

'He'll hae misfortunes great an' sma', But aye a heart aboon them a'; [above] He'll be a credit till us a', [to] We'll a' be proud o' Robin.

'But sure as three times three mak nine, I see by ilka score and line, [each] This chap will dearly like our kin', [sex] So leeze me on thee, Robin. [blessing on]

'Guid faith,' quo' scho, 'I doubt you, stir, [sir] Ye gar the lasses lie aspar, [make, aspread] But twenty fauts ye may hae waur, [faults, worse] So blessings on thee, Robin!'

CONTENTED WI' LITTLE

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, [cheerful] Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care, [meet] I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin' alang, [spank] Wi' a cog o' gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang. [bowl of good ale]

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; [sometimes] But man is a soger, and life is a faught: [soldier, fight] My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch, [pocket] And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch daur touch. [dare]

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', [twelvemonth, lot] A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a'; [solders] When at the blythe end of our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past? [Who the devil]

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way, [stumble, stagger] Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jad gae: Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pain, My warst word is—'Welcome, and welcome again!'

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border, O, And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O; He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O, For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O; Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O: My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O; Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my situation, O.

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted Fortune's favour, O: Some cause unseen still stept between to frustrate each endeavour, O; Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd, sometimes by friends forsaken, O; And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with Fortune's vain delusion, O, I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O— The past was bad, and the future hid; its good or ill untried, O; But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O; So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain me, O; To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O; For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Fortune fairly, O.

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O, Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, 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-morrow, O.

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, O. Tho' Fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O; I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther, O; But, as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O, 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 follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O, The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O; Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O, A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.

The stress laid upon that part of Burns's production which has relation, near or remote, to his personal experiences with women is, in the current estimate, somewhat disproportionate. A surprisingly large number of his most effective songs are purely dramatic, are placed in the mouth of a man who is clearly not the poet, or, more frequently, in the mouth of a woman. There is little evidence that Burns would have been capable of sustained dramatic composition; on the other hand, he was far from being limited to purely personal lyric utterance. His versatility in giving expression to the amorous moods of the other sex is almost as great as in direct confession. A group of these dramatic lyrics will demonstrate this.

O FOR ANE AN' TWENTY, TAM!

An' O for ane an' twenty, Tam! An' hey, sweet are an' twenty, Tam! I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, [teach] An' I saw ane an' twenty, Tam. [If]

They snool me sair, and haud me down, [snub, sorely, hold] An' gar me look like bluntie, Tam! [make, a fool] But three short years will soon wheel roun', An' then comes ane an' twenty, Tam.

A gleib o' lan', a claut o' gear, [portion, handful of money] Was left me by my auntie, Tam; At kith or kin I need na spier, [ask] An' I saw ane and twenty, Tam.

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, [have, dolt] Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tam; But hear'st thou, laddie? there's my loof, [hand] I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam!

YE BANKS AND BRAES

(Second Version)

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care?

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days, [remindest] When my fause luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the wood-bine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love, And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose Frae off its thorny tree: But my fause luver staw my rose, [stole] And left the thorn wi' me.

(Third Version)

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 fu' o' care? Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn; Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed never to return.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its love, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause lover staw my rose, [stole] But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME

Simmer's a pleasant time, Flow'rs of ev'ry colour; The water rins o'er the heugh, [crag] And I long for my true lover.

Ay waukin O, [waking] Waukin still and wearie: Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie.

When I sleep I dream, When I wauk I'm eerie; [superstitiously afraid] Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie.

Lanely night comes on, A' the lave are sleeping; [rest] I think on my bonnie lad And I bleer my een with greetin'. [eyes, weeping]

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YE, MY LAD

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad: Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, [take care] And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee; [gate, ajar] Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, [then] And come as ye were na comin' to me. And come as ye were na comin' to me.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flee: [go, fly] But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, [glance] Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; [slight] But court na anither, tho' jokin' ye be, For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. [beguile] For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.

TAM GLEN

My heart is a breaking, dear tittie, [sister] Some counsel unto me come len', To anger them a' is a pity; But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, [fine] In poortith I might mak a fen'; [poverty, shift] What care I in riches to wallow, If I maunna marry Tam Glen? [must not]

There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 'Guid-day to you'—brute! he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller, [money] But when will he dance like Tam Glen?

My minnie does constantly deave me, [mother, deafen] And bids me beware o' young men; They flatter, she says, to deceive me; But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen?

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, [if] He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten: [hundred] But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him, O wha will I get but Tam Glen?

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, [Last night] My heart to my mou gied a sten: [mouth gave a leap] For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written, 'Tam Glen.'

The last Halloween I was waukin' [watching] My droukit sark-sleeve,[3] as ye ken; [drenched chemise] His likeness cam up the house stalkin'— And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen! [trousers]

Come, counsel, dear tittle, don't tarry; I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, [give] Gif ye will advise me to marry [If] The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. [love]

[3] See note 17 on Halloween, p. 218.

THE RANTIN' DOG THE DADDIE O'T

O wha my babie-clouts will buy? [baby-clothes] Wha will tent me when I cry? [care for] Wha will kiss me whare I lie?— The rantin' dog the daddie o't. [of it]

Wha will own he did the faut? [fault] Wha will buy my groanin' maut? [ale for the midwife] Wha will tell me how to ca't? [name it] The rantin' dog the daddie o't.

When I mount the creepie-chair. [stool of repentance] Wha will sit beside me there? Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair,— [Give] The rantin' dog the daddie o't.

Wha will crack to me my lane? [chat, alone] Wha will mak me fidgin' fain? [tingling with fondness] Wha will kiss me o'er again?— The rantin' dog the daddie o't.

LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, [fine] And sair wi' his love he did deave me: [sorely, deafen] I said there was naething I hated like men— The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me, [go with him] The deuce gae wi'm to believe me.

He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een, And vow'd for my love he was dying; I said he might die when he liked for Jean: The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying. The Lord forgie me for lying!

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel' for the laird, [farm] And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers: I never loot on that I kend it, or car'd; [admitted] But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, [worse] But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what wad ye think? In a fortnight or less, The deil tak his taste to gae near her! [devil] He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, [lane] Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.

But a' the niest week as I petted wi' care, [next, fretted] I gaed to the tryst o' Dalgarnock; [fair] And wha but my fine fickle lover was there? I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, [stared, wizard] I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock.

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, [shoulder, gave, glance] 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.

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, [asked, kindly] Gin she had recover'd her hearin', [If] And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet— [shoes, ill-shaped] But, heavens! how he fell a swearin', a swearin'. But, heavens! how he fell a swearin'.

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, [must] I think I maun wed him to-morrow.

FOR THE SAKE O' SOMEBODY

My heart is sair, I dare na tell, [sore] My heart is sair for somebody; I could wake a winter night, For the sake o' somebody! Oh-hon! for somebody! Oh-hey! for somebody! I could range the world around, For the sake o' somebody.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, O, sweetly smile on somebody! Frae ilka danger keep him free, [every] And send me safe my somebody. Oh-hon! for somebody! Oh-hey! for somebody! I wad do—what wad I not? For the sake o' somebody!

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, O!

Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, Oh, open the door to me, O! Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, Oh, open the door to me, O!

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me, O! The frost, that freezes the life at my heart, Is nought to my pains frae thee, O!

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, And time is setting with me, O! False friends, false love, farewell! for mair I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, O!

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide; She sees his pale corse on the plain, O! 'My true love!' she cried, and sank down by his side, Never to rise again, O!

WANDERING WILLIE

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, [away] Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame; [hold] Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, [one] Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.

Loud tho' the winter blew cauld at our parting, 'Twas na the blast brought the tear in my e'e; Welcome now, Simmer, and welcome, my Willie, The Simmer to Nature, my Willie to me!

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slumbers; How your dread howling a lover alarms! Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, [Awake] And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. [once more]

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main; May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain! [own]

HOW LANG AND DREARY

How lang and dreary is the night. When I am frae my dearie! I restless lie frae e'en to morn, Tho' I were ne'er sae weary.

For O, her lanely nights are lang; And O, her dreams are eerie; [fearful] And O, her widow'd heart is sair, [sore] That's absent frae her dearie.

When I think on the lightsome days I spent wi' thee, my dearie, And now that seas between us roar, How can I be but eerie!

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours; The joyless day how drearie! It wasna sae ye glinted by, [glanced] When I was wi' my dearie.

THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA

O how can I be blithe and glad, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, [go, fine] When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best Is o'er the hills and far awa?

It's no the frosty winter wind, It's no the driving drift and snaw; But aye the tear comes in my e'e, To think on him that's far awa.

My father pat me frae his door, [put] My friends they hae disown'd me a': But I hae ane will tak my part, [have one] The bonnie lad that's far awa.

A pair o' gloves he bought to me, And silken snoods he gae me twa; [fillets, gave] And I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that's far awa.

O weary winter soon will pass, And spring will cleed the birken shaw: [clothe, birch woods] And my young babie will be born, And he'll be hame that's far awa.

BRAW BRAW LADS

Braw braw lads on Yarrow braes, [hills] That wander thro' the blooming heather; But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws [woods] Can match the lads o' Gala Water.

But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a' I lo'e him better; [love] And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, The bonnie lad o' Gala Water.

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, [landlord] And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher, [much dowry] Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water. [watch]

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace, and pleasure; [bought] The bands and bliss o' mutual love, O that's the chiefest warld's treasure!

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

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.

The foregoing are all placed in the mouths of girls, and it is difficult to deny that they ring as true as the songs that are known to have sprung from the poet's direct experience. Scarcely less notable than their sincerity is their variety. Pathos of desertion, gay defiance of opposition, yearning in absence, confession of coquetry, joyous confession of affection returned—these are only a few of the phases of woman's love rendered here with a felicity that leaves nothing to be desired. What woman has so interpreted the feelings of her sex?

The next two express a girl's repugnance at the thought of marriage with an old man; and the two following form a pair treating the same theme, one from the girl's point of view, the other from the lover's. The later verses of My Love She's but a Lassie Yet, however, though full of vivacity, have so little to do with the first or with one another that the song seems to be a collection of scraps held together by a common melody.

WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man? Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie [mother] To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' lan'! [money]

He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin', He boasts and he hirples the weary day lang: [coughs, limps] He's doylt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen, [stupid, benumbed] O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man!

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, I never can please him do a' that I can; He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fellows: O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man! [woe]

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan: I'll cross him and rack him, until I heart-break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.

TO DAUNTON ME

The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw, The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, The frost may freeze the deepest sea; But an auld man shall never daunton me. [tame]

To daunton me, and me sae young, Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, [false] That is the thing you ne'er shall see; For an auld man shall never daunton me.

For a' his meal and a' his maut, [malt] For a' his fresh beef and his saut, [salt] For a' his gold and white monie, An auld man shall never daunton me.

His gear may buy him kye and yowes, [wealth, cows, ewes] His gear may buy him glens and knowes; [knolls] But me he shall not buy nor fee, [hire] For an auld man shall never daunton me.

He hirples twa fauld as he dow, [limps double, can] Wi' his teethless gab and his auld beld pow, [mouth, bald head] And the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd e'e— That auld man shall never daunton me.

I'M OWRE YOUNG TO MARRY YET

I am my mammie's ae bairn, [only child] Wi' unco folk I weary, Sir; [strange] And lying in a man's bed, I'm fley'd wad mak me eerie, Sir. [frightened, scared]

I'm owre young, I'm owre young, [too] I'm owre young to marry yet; I'm owre young, 'twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammie yet.

[My mammie coft me a new gown, [bought] The kirk maun hae the gracing o't; [must] Were I to lie wi' you, kind Sir, I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o't.]

Hallowmas is come and gane, The nights are lang in winter, Sir; And you an' I in ae bed, In troth I dare na venture, Sir.

Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, Sir; [timber] But if ye come this gate again, [way] I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. [older, by]

MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET

My love she's but a lassie yet; My love she's but a lassie yet; We'll let her stand a year or twa, She'll no be half sae saucy yet.

I rue the day I sought her, O, I rue the day I sought her, O; Wha gets her needs na say he's woo'd, But he may say he's bought her, O!

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet; Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet; Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, [Go] But here I never miss'd it yet.

[We're a' dry wi' drinking o't; We're a' dry wi' drinking o't; The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, An' could na preach for thinkin' o't.]

Bessy and Her Spinnin'-Wheel stands by itself as the rendering of the mood of contented solitude, and is further remarkable for its charming verses of natural description. John Anderson My Jo is the classical expression of love in age, inimitable in its simplicity and tenderness. The two following poems supply a humorous contrast.

BESSY AND HER SPINNIN'-WHEEL

O leeze me on my spinnin'-wheel, [Blessings on] O leeze me on my rock and reel; [distaff] Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, [top to toe, clothes, comfortably] And haps me fiel and warm at e'en! [wraps, well] I'll set me down and sing and spin, While laigh descends the simmer sun, [low] Blest wi' content, and milk and meal— O leeze me on my spinnin'-wheel.

On ilka hand the burnies trot, [every, brooklets] And meet below my theekit cot; [thatched] The scented birk and hawthorn white [birch] Across the pool their arms unite, Alike to screen the birdie's nest, And little fishes' caller rest: [cool] The sun blinks kindly in the biel', [shelter] Where blythe I turn my spinnin'-wheel.

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, [oaks, pigeons] And Echo cons the doolfu' tale; [repeats, doleful] The lintwhites in the hazel braes, [linnets] Delighted, rival ither's lays: The craik amang the claver hay, [corn-crake, clover] The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley. [partridge, meadow] The swallow jinkin' round my shiel, [dodging, cot] Amuse me at my spinnin'-wheel.

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, [Above] O wha wad leave this humble state, For a' the pride of a' the great? Amid their flaring, idle toys, Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, [noisy] Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinnin'-wheel?

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO

John Andersen my jo, John, [sweetheart] When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; [straight] But now your brow is beld, John, [bald] Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, [head] John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, [jolly] We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, [must] And hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, [together] John Anderson, my jo.

THE WEARY PUND O' TOW

The weary pund, the weary pund, [pound] The weary pund o' tow; [yarn] I think my wife will end her life Before she spin her tow.

I bought my wife a stane o' lint [stone, flax] As gude as e'er did grow; [good] And a' that she has made o' that, Is ae poor pund o' tow. [one]

There sat a bottle in a bole, [niche] Beyond the ingle lowe, [chimney flame] And aye she took the tither souk [other suck] To drouk the stowrie tow. [drench, dusty]

Quoth I, 'For shame, ye dirty dame, Gae spin your tap o' tow!' [bunch] She took the rock, and wi' a knock [distaff] She brak it o'er my pow. [pate]

At last her feet—I sang to see't— Gaed foremost o'er the knowe; [went, hill] And or I wad anither jad, [ere, wed] I'll wallop in a tow. [kick, rope]

O MERRY HAE I BEEN

O, merry hae I been teethin' a heckle, [huckling-comb] An' merry hae I been shapin' a spoon; O, merry hae I been cloutin' a kettle, [patching] An' kissin' my Katie when a' was done, O, a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer, [knock with] An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing, O, a' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, [mistress] An' a' the lang night am as happy's a king.

Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins [sorrow, earnings] O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave: Bless'd be the hour she cool'd in her linens, [shroud] And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave. Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, An' come to my arms, an' kiss me again! Drucken or sober, here's to thee, Katie! And bless'd be the day I did it again.

Had I the Wyte is, we may hope, also purely imaginative drama; it is certainly vividly imagined and carried through with a delightful mixture of sympathy and humorous detachment.

HAD I THE WYTE?

Had I the wyte, had I the wyte, [blame] Had I the wyte? she bade me! She watch'd me by the hie-gate side, [highroad] And up the loan she shaw'd me; [lane] And when I wadna venture in, A coward loon she ca'd me: [rascal] Had kirk and state been in the gate, [way (opposing)] I lighted when she bade me.

Sae craftilie she took me ben, [in] And bade me make nae clatter; 'For our ramgunshoch glum gudeman [surly] Is o'er ayont the water;' [beyond] Whae'er shall say I wanted grace, When I did kiss and daut her, [pet] Let him be planted in my place, Syne say I was the fautor. [Then, transgressor]

Could I for shame, could I for shame, Could I for shame refused her? And wadna manhood been to blame, Had I unkindly used her? He clawed her wi' the ripplin-kame, [wool-comb] And blae and bluidy bruised her; [blue] When sic a husband was frae hame, What wife but had excused her?

I dighted ay her een sae blue, [wiped, eyes] And bann'd the cruel randy; [cursed, scoundrel] And weel I wat her willing mou' [wot, mouth] Was e'en like sugar-candy. At gloamin-shot it was, I trow, [sunset] I lighted, on the Monday; But I cam through the Tysday's dew, [Tuesday's] To wanton Willie's brandy.

Macpherson's Farewell, made famous by Carlyle's appreciation, is a glorified version of the "Dying Words" of a condemned bandit, such as were familiar in broadsides after every notorious execution. Part of the refrain is old. One may imagine The Highland Balou the lullaby of Macpherson's child.

MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie! Macpherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows tree.

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, [jovially] Sae dauntingly gaed he; He played a spring and danced it round, [lively tune] Below the gallows tree.

Oh, what is death but parting breath? On mony a bloody plain I've dared his face, and in his place I scorn him yet again!

Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword, And there's no a man in all Scotland, But I'll brave him at a word.

I've lived a life of sturt and strife; [trouble] I die by treacherie: It burns my heart I must depart And not avenged be.

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky! May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die!

THE HIGHLAND BALOU

Hee balou! my sweet wee Donald, [Lullaby] Picture o' the great Clanronald; Brawlie kens our wanton chief [Finely knows] Wha got my young Highland thief.

Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie! [Blessings on, throat] An thou live, thou'll steal a naigie: [If, little nag] Travel the country thro' and thro', And bring hame a Carlisle cow.

Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the border, Weel, my babie, may thou furder: [succeed] Herry the louns o' the laigh countree, [Harry, rascals, low] Syne to the Highlands hame to me. [Then]

Distinct from either of the foregoing groups are several songs in narrative form, told as a rule from the point of view of an onlooker, but hardly inferior to the others in vitality. In them the personal or dramatic emotion is replaced by a keen sense of the humor of the situation.

DUNCAN GRAY

Duncan Gray came here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, On blythe Yule night when we were fou, [drunk] Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Maggie coost her head fu' heigh, [cast, high] Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, [askance, very skittish] Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; [Made, aloof] Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd; [wheedled] Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', [Wept, eyes both] Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; [leaping, waterfall] Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Slighted love is sair to bide, [sore, endure] Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 'Shall I, like a fool,' quoth he, 'For a naughty hizzie die? [hussy] She may gae to—France for me!' Ha, ha, the wooing o't

How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Meg grew sick as he grew haill, [whole] Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings; And O, her een they spak sic things! [such] Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan could na be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; [smothered] Now they're crouse and cantie baith! [lively, cheerful] Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

DUNCAN DAVISON

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, [called] And she held o'er the moors to spin; There was a lad that follow'd her, They ca'd him Duncan Davison. The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh, [dull, skittish] Her favour Duncan could na win; For wi' the rock she wad him knock, [distaff] And ay she shook the temper-pin. [regulating pin of the spinning-wheel] As o'er the moor they lightly foor, [went] A burn was clear, a glen was green, Upon the banks they eased their shanks, And aye she set the wheel between: But Duncan swore a haly aith, [holy oath] That Meg should be a bride the morn; Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith, [implements] And flung them a' out o'er the burn. [across]

We will big a wee, wee house, [build] And we will live like King and Queen, Sae blythe and merry's we will be When ye set by the wheel at e'en, [aside] A man may drink and no be drunk; A man may fight and no be slain; A man may kiss a bonnie lass, And aye be welcome back again.

THE DE'IL'S AWA WI' TH' EXCISEMAN

The De'il cam fiddling thro' the town. And danced awa wi' th' Exciseman; And ilka wife cried 'Auld Mahoun, [every, Mahomet (Devil)] I wish you luck o' your prize, man.'

We'll mak our maut, and we'll brew our drink, [malt] We'll laugh, and sing, and rejoice, man; And mony braw thanks to the muckle black De'il [big] That danced awa wi' th' Exciseman.

There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels, There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; [dance tunes] But the ae best dance e'er cam to the lan'. [one] Was—The De'il's awa wi' th' Exciseman.

COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE

Comin' thro' the rye, poor body, Comin' thro' the rye, She draigl't a' her petticoatie, [draggled] Comin' thro' the rye.

Gin a body meet a body [If] Comin' thro' the rye; Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body Comin' thro' the glen; Gin a body kiss a body, Need the warld ken?

O, Jenny's a' weet, poor body; [all wet] Jenny's seldom dry; She draigl't a' her petticoatie, Comin' thro' the rye.

THE DEUK'S DANG O'ER MY DADDIE

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, [children, surprising] The deuk's dang o'er my daddie, O! [duck has knocked] The fient ma care, quo' the feirie auld wife, [devil may, lusty] He was but a paidlin body, O! [tottering creature] He paidles out, and he paidles in, An' he paidles late and early, O; This seven lang years I hae lien by his side, An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O. [pithless old fellow]

O, haud your tongue, my feirie auld wife, [hold] O, haud your tongue now, Nansie, O: I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, Ye wad na been sae donsie, O; [would not have, testy] I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose, [oatmeal and hot water] And cuddl'd me late and earlie, O; But downa-do's come o'er me now, [cannot-do is] And, oh, I find it sairly, O! [feel it sorely]

WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR?

'Wha is that at my bower door?' 'O wha is it but Findlay?' 'Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here!' [go, way, shall not] 'Indeed maun I,' quo' Findlay. [must] 'What mak ye, sae like a thief?' [do] '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—' [If] 'Let me in,' quo' Findlay— 'Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din;' [awake] 'Indeed will I,' quo' Findlay. 'In my bower if ye should stay—' 'Let me stay,' quo' Findlay—, 'I fear ye'll bide till break o' day;' 'Indeed will I,' quo' Findlay.

'Here this night if ye remain—' 'I'll remain,' quo' Findlay—, 'I dread ye'll learn the gate again;' [way] 'Indeed will I,' quo' Findlay, 'What may pass within this bower—' 'Let it pass,' quo' Findlay— 'Ye maun conceal till your last hour;' [must] 'Indeed will I,' quo' Findlay.

WILLIE'S WIFE

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie; Willie was a wabster guid, [weaver good] Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony body. [have stolen] He had a wife was dour and din, [stubborn, sallow] O, Tinkler Madgie was her mither; [Tinker] Sic a wife as Willie had, [Such] I wad na gie a button for her!

She has an e'e, she has but ane, [eye] The cat has twa the very colour; Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, [besides] A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; [deafen] A whiskin beard about her mou, [mouth] Her nose and chin they threaten ither; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her!

She's bow-hough'd, she's hem-shinn'd, [bandy, crooked] Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter; [One, hand-breadth] She's twisted right, she's twisted left, To balance fair in ilka quarter: [either] She has a hump upon her breast, The twin o' that upon her shouther; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her!

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits, [Old pussy, fireside] An' wi' her loof her face a-washin; [palm] But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, [trim] She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; [wipes, snout, stocking-leg] Her walie nieves like midden-creels, [ample fists, dung baskets] Her face wad fyle the Logan-water; [dirty] Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her!

The songs written by Burns in connection with politics are often lively and pointed, but they have little imagination, and the passing of the issues they dealt with has deprived them of general interest. Two classes of exceptions may be noted. He was, as we have seen, sympathetically interested in the French Revolution, and the fundamental doctrine of Liberty, Fraternity, Equality was cast by him into a poem which, he himself said, is "not really poetry," but is admirably vigorous rhetoric in verse, and has become the classic utterance of the democratic faith.

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT

Is there for honest poverty That hings his head, an' a' that? [hangs] The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, an' a' that, Our toils obscure, an' a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp; The man's the gowd for a' that. [gold]

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Wear hodden-gray, and a' that; [coarse gray] Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, [Give] A man's a man for a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, Their tinsel show, an' a' that; The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, [fellow] Wha struts, and stares, an' a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that: [dolt] For a' that, an' a' that, His riband, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an' a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, [above] Guid faith, he mauna fa' that! [must not claim] For a' that, an' a' that, Their dignities, an' a' that, The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth Are higher rank than a' that.

But 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, an' a' that. [first place] For a' that, an' a' that, It's coming yet for a' that, That man to man the warld o'er Shall brithers be for a' that.

Another, equally famous, sprang from his patriotic enthusiasm for the heroes of the Scottish war of independence, but was written with more than a slight consciousness of what seemed to him the similarity of the spirit then abroad in France.

SCOTS, WHA HAE

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed Or to victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lour! See approach proud Edward's power— Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's King and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa'? Let him follow me!

By Oppression's woes and pains! By 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 in every blow! Let us do or die!

The other class of exceptions is the group of songs on Jacobite themes. The rebellion led by Prince Charles Edward in 1745 had produced a considerable quantity of campaign verse, almost all without poetic value; but after the turmoil had died down and the Stuart cause was regarded as finally lost, there appeared in Scotland a peculiar sentimental tenderness for the picturesque and unfortunate family that had sunk from the splendors of a throne that had been theirs for centuries into the sordid misery of royal pauperism. Burns, whose ancestors had been "out" in the '45, shared this sentiment, as Walter Scott later shared it, both realizing that it had nothing to do with practical politics. Out of this feeling there grew a considerable body of poetry, a poetry full of idealism, touched with melancholy, and atoning for its lack of reality by a richness of imaginative emotion. Burns led the way in this unique movement, and was worthily followed by such writers as Lady Nairne, James Hogg, and Sir Walter himself. He followed his usual custom of availing himself of fragments of the older lyrics, but as usual he polished the pebbles into jewels and set them in gold. Here are a few specimens of this poetry of a lost cause.

IT WAS A' FOR OUR RIGHTFU' KING

It was a' for our rightfu' King, We left fair Scotland's strand; It was a' for our rightfu' King, We e'er saw Irish land, My dear, We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do, And a' is done in vain; My love and native land farewell, For I maun cross the main, [must] My dear, For I maun cross the main.

He turn'd him right and round about Upon the Irish shore; And gae his bridle-reins a shake, [gave] With adieu for evermore, My dear, Adieu for evermore.

The sodger from the wars returns, [soldier] The sailor frae the main; But I hae parted frae my love, Never to meet again, My dear, Never to meet again.

When day is gane, and night is come, And a' folk bound to sleep, I think on him that's far awa', The lee-lang night, and weep, [live-long] My dear, The lee-lang night, and weep.

COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE

Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, Come boat me o'er to Charlie; I'll gie John Ross another bawbee, [half-penny] To boat me o'er to Charlie.

We'll o'er the water, we'll o'er the sea, We'll o'er the water to Charlie; Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, And live or die wi' Charlie.

I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, [love] Tho' some there be abhor him: But O, to see auld Nick gaun hame, [going] And Charlie's faes before him! [foes]

I swear and vow by moon and stars, And sun that shines so clearly, If I had twenty thousand lives, I'd die as aft for Charlie.

THE HIGHLAND LADDIE

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, Wore a plaid and was fu' braw, [gaily dressed] Bonnie Highland laddie. On his head a bonnet blue, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, His royal heart was firm and true, Bonnie Highland laddie.

Trumpets sound and cannons roar, Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie, And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, Bonnie Lawland lassie. Glory, Honour, now invite, Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie, For Freedom and my King to fight, Bonnie Lawland lassie.

The sun a backward course shall take, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, Ere aught thy manly courage shake, Bonnie Highland laddie. Go, for yoursel procure renown, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, And for your lawful King his crown, Bonnie Highland laddie!

BANNOCKS O' BARLEY

Bannocks o' bear meal, [Cakes, barley] Bannocks o' barley; Here's to the Highlandman's Bannocks o' barley. Wha in a brulzie [broil] Will first cry a parley? Never the lads wi' The bannocks o' barley.

Bannocks o' bear meal, Bannocks o' barley; Here's to the lads wi' The bannocks o' barley; Wha in his wae-days [woful-] Were loyal to Charlie? Wha but the lads wi' The bannocks o' barley.

KENMURE'S ON AND AWA

O, Kenmure's on and awa, Willie! O, Kenmure's on and awa! And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord That ever Galloway saw.

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie! Success to Kenmure's band; There's no a heart that fears a Whig That rides by Kenmure's hand.

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie! Here's Kenmure's health in wine; There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, [blood] Nor yet o' Gordon's line.

O, Kenmure's lads are men, Willie! O, Kenmure's lads are men; Their hearts and swords are metal true, And that their faes shall ken.

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie! They'll live or die wi' fame; But soon, wi' sounding victorie, May Kenmure's lord come hame!

Here's him that's far awa, Willie! Here's him that's far awa; And here's the flower that I lo'e best— The rose that's like the snaw!

THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey: And as he was singing, the tears down came— 'There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

'The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame— There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

'My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, [handsome] And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd; [weep, churchyard] 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, Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; [lost, children] But till my last moment my words are the same— There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.'

I HAE BEEN AT CROOKIEDEN

I hae been at Crookieden— [Hell] My bonie laddie, Highland laddie! Viewing Willie and his men— [Duke of Cumberland] My bonie laddie, Highland laddie! There our foes that burnt and slew— My bonie laddie, Highland laddie! There at last they gat their due— My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!

Satan sits in his black neuk— [corner] My bonie laddie, Highland laddie! Breaking sticks to roast the Duke— My bonie laddie, Highland laddie! The bloody monster gae a yell— [gave] My bonie laddie, Highland laddie! And loud the laugh gaed round a' Hell— [went] My bonie laddie, Highland laddie!

CHARLIE HE'S MY DARLING

'Twas on a Monday morning Right early in the year, That Charlie came to our town— The Young Chevalier!

CHORUS

An' Charlie he's my darling, My darling, my darling, Charlie he's my darling— The Young Chevalier!

As he was walking up the street The city for to view, O, there he spied a bonie lass The window looking thro!

Sae light's he jumped up the stair, And tirl'd at the pin; [rattled] And wha sae ready as hersel' To let the laddie in!

He set his Jenny on his knee, All in his Highland dress; And brawlie weel he kend the way To please a bonie lass.

It's up yon heathery mountain And down yon scraggy glen, We daurna gang a-milking For Charlie and his men!

Such in nature and origin are the songs of Burns. Of some three hundred written or rewritten by him, a large number are negligible in estimating his poetical capacity. One cause lay in his unfortunate ambition to write in the style of his eighteenth-century predecessors in English, with the accompanying mythological allusions, personifications, and scraps of artificial diction. Another was his pathetic eagerness to supply Thomson with material in his undertaking to preserve the old melodies—an eagerness which often led him to send in verses of which he himself felt that their only defense was that they were better than none. Thus his collected works are burdened with a considerable mass of very indifferent stuff. But when this has all been removed, we have left a body of song such as probably no writer in any language has bequeathed to his country. It is marked, first of all, by its peculiar harmony of expression with the utterance of the common people. Direct and simple, its diction was still capable of carrying intense feeling, a humor incomparable in its archness and sly mirth, and a power of idealizing ordinary experience without effort or affectation. The union of these words with the traditional melodies, on which we have so strongly insisted, gave them a superb singing quality, which has had as much to do with their popularity as their thought or their feeling. This union, however, has its drawbacks when we come to consider the songs as literature; for to present them as here in bare print without the living tune is to perpetuate a divorce which their author never contemplated. No editor of Burns can fail to feel a pang when he thinks that these words may be heard by ears that carry no echo of the airs to which they were born. Here lies the fundamental reason for what seems to outsiders the exaggerated estimate of Burns in the judgment of his countrymen. What they extol is not mere literature, but song, the combination of poetry and music; and it is only when Burns is judged as an artist in this double sense that he is judged fairly.



CHAPTER IV

SATIRES AND EPISTLES

Fame first came to Burns through his satires. Before he had been recognized by the Edinburgh litterateurs, before he had written more than a handful of songs, he was known and feared on his own countryside as a formidable critic of ecclesiastical tyranny. It was this reputation that made possible the success of the subscription to the Kilmarnock volume, and so saved Burns to Scotland.

Two characteristics of the Kirk of Scotland had tended to prepare the people to welcome an attack on its authority: the severity with which the clergy administered discipline, and the extremes to which they had pushed their Calvinism.

In spite of the existence of dissenting bodies, the great mass of the population belonged to the established church, and both their spiritual privileges and their social standing were at the mercy of the Kirk session and the presiding minister. It is difficult for a Protestant community to-day to realize the extent to which the conduct of the individual and the family were controlled by the ecclesiastical authorities. Offenses which now would at most be the subject of private remonstrance were treated as public crimes and expiated in church before the whole parish. Gavin Hamilton, Burns's friend and landlord at Mossgiel, a liberal gentleman of means and standing, was prosecuted in the church courts for lax attendance at divine service, for traveling on Sabbath, for neglecting family worship, and for having had one of his servants dig new potatoes on the Lord's day. Burns's irregular relations with Jean Armour led to successive appearances by both him and Jean before the congregation, to receive open rebuke and to profess repentance. Further expiation was demanded in the form of a contribution for the poor.

Against the discipline which he himself had to suffer Burns seems to have made no protest, and probably thought it just enough; but what he considered the persecution of his friend roused his indignation. This was all the fiercer as he regarded some of the members of the session as hypocrites, whose own private morals would not stand examination. Chief among these was a certain William Fisher, immortalized in a satire the application of which was meant to extend to the whole class which he represented.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER

Thou, that in the Heavens does dwell, Wha, as it pleases best Thysel', Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell, A' for thy glory, And no for ony guid or ill They've done before thee!

I bless and praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here before thy sight, For gifts an' grace A burning and a shining light, To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation? [such] I, wha deserv'd most just damnation, For broken laws, Sax thousand years ere my creation, [Six] Thro' Adam's cause.

When from my mither's womb I fell, Thou might have plung'd me deep in hell, To gnash my gooms, and weep and wail, [gums] In burning lakes, Where damned devils roar and yell, Chain'd to their stakes;

Yet I am here a chosen sample, To show Thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar o' Thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example To a' Thy flock.

But yet, O Lord! confess I must At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; [troubled] An' sometimes too, in warldly trust, Vile self gets in; But Thou remembers we are dust, Defil'd wi' sin.

O Lord! yestreen, Thou kens, wi' Meg— Thy pardon I sincerely beg— O! may't ne'er be a living plague To my dishonour, An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg Again upon her.

Besides I farther maun avow— [must] Wi' Leezie's lass, three times, I trow— But, Lord, that Friday I was fou, [drunk] When I cam near her, Or else, Thou kens, thy servant true Wad never steer her. [meddle with]

May be Thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset Thy servant e'en and morn Lest he owre high and proud should turn, [too] That he's sae gifted; If sae, Thy hand maun e'en be borne, Until thou lift it.

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place, For here thou hast a chosen race; But God confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha' bring Thy elders to disgrace An' public shame.

Lord, mind Gau'n Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes, [cards] Yet has sae mony takin' arts Wi' great an' sma', Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts He steals awa'.

An' when we chasten'd him therefor, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore [raised such a row] As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us; Curse thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes!

Lord hear my earnest cry an' pray'r, Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr; Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare Upo' their heads; Lord, visit them, and dinna spare, [do not] For their misdeeds.

O Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My very heart and soul are quakin', To think how we stood sweatin', shakin', An' pish'd wi' dread, While he, wi' hingin' lips and snakin', [sneering] Held up his head.

Lord, in Thy day of vengeance try him; Lord, visit him wha did employ him, And pass not in Thy mercy by them, Nor hear their pray'r: But, for Thy people's sake, destroy them, And dinna spare.

But, Lord, remember me and mine Wi' mercies temporal and divine, That I for grace and gear may shine [wealth] Excell'd by nane, And a' the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen!

Still more highly generalized is his Address to the Unco Guid, a plea for charity in judgment, kept from sentimentalism by its gleam of humor. It has perhaps the widest appeal of any of his poems of this class. One may note that as Burns passes from the satirical and humorous tone to the directly didactic, the dialect disappears, and the last two stanzas are practically pure English.

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS

My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them aye thegither; [together] The rigid righteous is a fool, The rigid wise anither; The cleanest corn that e'er was dight, [sifted] May hae some pyles o' caff in [grains, chaff] So ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffin. [larking] SOLOMON (Eccles. vii. 16).

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, [so good] Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neibour's fauts and folly! [faults] Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, [well-going] Supplied wi' store o' water: The heapet happer's ebbing still, [hopper] An' still the clap plays clatter! [clapper]

Hear me, ye venerable core, [company] As counsel for poor mortals That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door, [sedate] For glaikit Folly's portals; [giddy] I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences,— [put forth] Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, [restive] Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, And shudder at the niffer; [exchange] But cast a moment's fair regard— What makes the mighty differ? [difference] Discount what scant occasion gave, That purity ye pride in, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) [rest] Your better art o' hidin'.

Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, [Gives] What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop! Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It makes an unco leeway. [uncommon]

See Social life and Glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, Till, quite transmogrified, they're grown Debauchery and Drinking: O would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences; Or—your more dreaded hell to state— Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted virtuous Dames, Tied up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor Frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases; A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination— But, let me whisper i' your lug, [ear] Ye're aiblins nae temptation. [perhaps]

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, [trifle] To step aside is human. One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it; And just as lamely can ye mark How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord, its various tone, Each spring, its various bias. Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.

As regards the questions of doctrine there were in the church two main parties, known as the Auld Lichts and the New Lichts. The former were high Calvinists, emphasizing the doctrines of election, predestination, original sin, and eternal punishment. The latter comprised many of the younger clergy who had been touched by the rationalistic tendencies of the century, and who were blamed for various heresies—notably Arminianism and Socinianism. Whatever their precise beliefs, they laid less stress than their opponents on dogma and more on benevolent conduct, and Burns had strong sympathy with their liberalism. He first appeared in their support in an Epistle to John Goldie, a Kilmarnock wine-merchant who had published Essays on Various Important Subjects, Moral and Divine. Though he does not explicitly accept the author's Arminianism, he makes it clear that he relished his attacks on orthodoxy. A quarrel between two prominent Auld Licht ministers gave him his next opportunity, and the circulation in manuscript of The Twa Herds: or, The Holy Tulyie made him a personage in the district. With an irony more vigorous than delicate he affects to lament that