The descriptive background of this galloping adventure is skilfully indicated. Each scene—the ale-house, the storm, the lighted church, the witches' dance—is sketched in a dozen lines, every stroke distinct and telling. Even the three lines indicating what waits the hero at home is an adequate picture. Though incidental, these vignettes add substantially to what the descriptive poems have told us of the environment, real and imaginative, in which the poet had been reared.

The value of the reflective element is more mixed. The most quoted passage, that beginning

"But pleasures are like poppies spread,"

can only be regretted. With its literacy similes, its English, its artificial diction, it is a patch of cheap silk upon honest homespun. But the other pieces of interspersed comment are all admirable. The ironic apostrophes—to Tam for neglecting his wife's warnings; to shrewish wives, consoling them for their husband's deafness to advice; to John Barleycorn, on the transient courage he inspires; to Tam again, when tragedy seems imminent—are all in perfect tone, and do much to add the element of drollery that mixes so delightfully with the weirdness of the scene. And like the other elements in the poem they are commendably short, for Burns nearly always fulfills Bagehot's requirement that poetry should be "memorable and emphatic, intense, and soon over."

TAM O' SHANTER

A TALE

Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke. GARVIN DOUGLAS.

When chapman billies leave the street, [pedlar fellows] And drouthy neibors neibors meet, [thirsty] As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate; [road] While we sit bousing at the nappy, [ale] An' getting fou and unco happy, [full, mighty] We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, [bogs, gaps] That lie between us and our hame, Where sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, [found] As he frae Ayr ae night did canter— [one] (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses For honest men and bonnie lasses).

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, [told, good-for-nothing] A bletherin', blusterin', drunken blellum; [chattering, babbler] That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober; [One] That ilka melder wi' the miller [every meal-grinding] Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; [money] That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, [nag] The smith and thee gat roarin' fou on; That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk [wizards, dark] By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet [makes, weep] To think how many counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale: Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right, [uncommonly] Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, [fireside, blazing] Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; [foaming ale] And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, [Cobbler] His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo'ed him like a very brither; [loved] They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, And aye the ale was growing better; The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious; The souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; The storm without might rair and rustle, [roar] Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy. As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, [loads] The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure; Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread— You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river— A moment white, then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time nor tide; The hour approaches Tam maun ride; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour, he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in; [such] As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand, The Deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, [spanked, puddle] Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; [song] Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, [staring] Lest bogles catch him unawares, [goblins] Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. [ghosts, owls]

By this time he was cross the ford, Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; [smothered] And past the birks and meikle stane, [birches, big] Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, [gorse, pile of stones] Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn; [found] And near the thorn, aboon the well, Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel, Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll; When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; [blaze] Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; [chink] And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou canst make us scorn? Wi tippenny, we fear nae evil; [ale] Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil! [whisky] The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, [ale] Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle! [farthing] But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light; And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight! [strange] Warlocks and witches in a dance! Nae cotillon brent new frae France, [brand] But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker in the east, [window-seat] There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast— A touzie tyke, black, grim, and large! [shaggy dog] To gie them music was his charge: He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl. [squeal] Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. [ring] Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantraip sleight [magic trick] Each in its cauld hand held a light, By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table [holy] A murderer's banes in gibbet-airns; [-irons] Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; A thief new-cutted frae the rape— Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' blude red rusted; Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft— The gray hairs yet stack to the heft; Wi' mair of horrible and awfu', Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; The piper loud and louder blew; The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, [linked] Till ilka, carlin swat and reekit, [beldam, steamed] And coost her duddies to the wark, [cast, rags, work] And linkit at it in her sark! [tripped deftly, chemise]

Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, [those, girls] A' plump and strapping in their teens; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, [greasy flannel] Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen![21] Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, [These trousers] That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, [buttocks] For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies! [maidens]

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, [Withered (?), wean] Louping and flinging on a crummock, [Leaping, cudgel] I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie: [full well] There was ae winsome wench and walie [choice] That night enlisted in the core, Lang after kent on Carrick shore! (For mony a beast to dead she shot, [death] And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, [barley] And kept the country-side in fear.) Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, [short-shift, coarse linen] That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. [proud] Ah! little kent thy reverend grannie That sark she coft for her wee Nannie [bought] Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches) [pounds] Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

But here my muse her wing maun cour; [stoop] Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r— To sing how Nannie lap and flang, [leapt, kicked] (A souple jade she was, and strang); And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd; Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, [fidgeted with fondness] And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main: [jerked] Till first ae caper, syne anither, [then] Tam tint his reason a' thegither, [lost] And roars out 'Weel done, Cutty-sark!' [Short-shift] And in an instant all was dark! And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke [fret] When plundering herds assail their byke, [herd-boys, nest] As open pussie's mortal foes [the hare's] When pop! she starts before their nose, As eager runs the market-crowd, When 'Catch the thief!' resounds aloud; So Maggie runs; the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo. [weird screech]

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'![22] In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane o' the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! [devil] For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; [endeavor] But little wist she Maggie's mettle! Ae spring brought off her master hale, [whole] But left behind her ain gray tail: The carlin caught her by the rump, [clutched] And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed; Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty-sarks rin in your mind, Think! ye may buy the joys o'er dear; Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

[21] Woven in a reed of 1,700 divisions.

[22] Lit., a present from a fair; deserts and something more.

Description in Burns is not confined to man and society: he has much to say of nature, animate and inanimate.

Though within a few miles of the ocean, the scenery among which the poet grew up was inland scenery. He lived more than once by the sea for short periods, yet it appears but little in his verse, and then usually as the great severing element.

And seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin auld lang syne

is the characteristic line. Scottish poetry had no tradition of the sea. To England the sea had been the great boundary and defense against the continental powers, and her naval achievements had long produced a patriotic sentiment with regard to it which is reflected in her literature. But Scotland's frontier had been the line of the Cheviots and the Tweed, and save for a brief space under James IV she had never been a sea-power. Thus the cruelty and danger of the sea are almost the only phases prominent in her poetry, and Burns here once more follows tradition.

Again, the scenery of Ayrshire was Lowland scenery, with pastoral hills and valleys. On his Highland tours Burns saw and admired mountains, but they too appear little in his verse. Though not an unimportant figure in the development of natural description in literature, he had not reached the modern deliberateness in the seeking out of nature's beauties for worship or imitation, so that the phases of natural beauty which we find in his poetry are merely those which had unconsciously become fixed in a memory naturally retentive of visual images.

Not only do his natural descriptions deal with the aspects familiar to him in his ordinary surroundings, but they are for the most part treated in relation to life. The thunderstorm in Tam o' Shanter is a characteristic example. It is detailed and vivid and is for the moment the center of interest; but it is introduced solely on Tam's account. Oftener the wilder moods of the weather are used as settings for lyric emotion. In Winter, a Dirge, the harmony of the poet's spirit with the tempest is the whole theme, and in My Nannie's Awa the same idea is treated with more mature art:

Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray, And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay; The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw Alane can delight me—now Nannie's awa.

Many poems are introduced with a note of the season, even when it has no marked relation to the tone of the poem. The Cotter's Saturday Night opens with

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;

The Jolly Beggars with

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird;

The Epistle to Davie with

While winds frae off Ben-Lomond blaw, An' bar the doors wi' drivin' snaw,

though in this last case it is skilfully used to introduce the theme. These introductions are probably less imitations of the traditional opening landscape which had been a convention since the early Middle Ages, than the natural result of a plowman's daily consciousness of the weather.

For whether related organically to his subject or not, Burns's descriptions of external nature are to a high degree marked by actual experience and observation. Even remembering Thomson in the previous generation and Cowper and Crabbe in his own, we may safely say that English poetry had hardly seen such realism. Its quality will be conceived from a few passages. Take the well-known description of the flood from The Brigs of Ayr.

When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, [all-day] Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes, [thaws] In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes; [melted snow rolls] While crashing ice, borne on the roaring spate, [flood] Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate; [way (to the sea)] And from Glenbuck, down to the Ralton-key, Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea; Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise! [devil if] And dash the gumlie jaup up to the pouring skies! [muddy splashes]

Any reader familiar with Gavin Douglas's description of a Scottish winter in his Prologue to the twelfth book of the AEneid will be struck by the resemblance to this passage both in subject and manner. It is doubtful whether Burns knew more of Douglas than the motto to Tam o' Shanter, but from the days of the turbulent bishop in the early sixteenth century down to Burns's own time Scottish poetry had never lost touch with nature, and had rendered it with peculiar faithfulness. It is interesting to note that while The Brigs of Ayr is Burns's most successful attempt at the heroic couplet, and though it contains verses that must have encouraged his ambition to be a Scottish Pope, yet it is sprinkled with touches of natural observation quite remote from the manner of that master. Compare, on the one hand, such couplets as these:

Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,—

and

And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn [old age, sorely worn-out] I'll be a brig when ye're a shapeless cairn! [heap of stones]

and

Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, The craz'd creations of misguided whim;

and

As for your priesthood, I shall say but little, Corbies and clergy are a shot right kittle; [Ravens, sort, ticklish]

couplets of which Pope need hardly have been ashamed, with such touches of nature as these:

Except perhaps the robin's whistling glee, Proud o' the height o some bit half-lang tree:

and

The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree: The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently crusting, owre the glittering stream.

These examples of his power of exact, vigorous, or delicate rendering of familiar sights and sounds may be supplemented with a few from other poems.

O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, [intervales] When lintwhites chant amang the buds, [linnets] And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids, [dodging, gambols] Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods [coos] Wi' wailfu' cry!

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' the naked tree; Or frost on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day! Epistle to William Simpson.

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As thro' the glen it wimpled; Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays; Whyles in a wiel it dimpled; Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that night. Halloween.

Closely interwoven with Burns's feelings for natural beauty is his sympathy with animals. The frequency of passages of pathos on the sufferings of beasts and birds may be in part due to the influence of Sterne, but in the main its origin is not literary but is an expression of a tender heart and a lifelong friendly intercourse. In this relation Burns most often allows his sentiment to come to the edge of sentimentality, yet in fairness it must be said that he seldom crosses the line. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he had no need to force the note; it was his instinct both as a farmer and as a lover of animals to think, when he heard the storm rise, how it would affect the lower creation.

List'ning the doors and winnocks rattle, [windows] I thought me on the ourie cattle, [shivering] Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle [onset] O' winter war, And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle [-sinking, scramble] Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing! [Each hopping] That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee? Where wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, An' close thy e'e? [eye] A Winter Night.

A number of his most popular pieces are the expression of this warm-hearted sympathy, a sympathy not confined to suffering but extending to enjoyment of life and sunshine, and at times leading him to the half-humorous, half-tender ascription to horses and sheep of a quasi-human intelligence. Were we to indulge further our conjectures as to what Burns might have done under more favorable circumstances, it would be easy to argue that he could have ranked with Henryson and La Fontaine as a writer of fables.

TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, [sleek] O what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! [hurrying rush] I wad na be laith to rin an' chase thee [loath] Wi' murd'ring pattle! [plough-staff]

I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave [odd ear, 24 sheaves] 'S a sma' request; [Is] I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, [rest] And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! [frail] An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell an' keen! [bitter]

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble [stubble] Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, [Without, holding] To thole the winter's sleety dribble, [endure] An' cranreuch cauld! [hoar-frost]

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, [alone] In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft a-gley, [Go oft askew] An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain [leave] For promis'd joy.

Still thou art blest compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear! An' forward tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear!

TO A LOUSE

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie! [where are, going, wonder] Your impudence protects you sairly: I canna say but ye strunt rarely, [swagger] Owre gauze and lace; Tho' faith! I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place. [such]

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, [wonder] Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner! [saint] How dare ye set your fit upon her, [foot] Sae fine a lady! Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner [Go] On some poor body.

Swith! in some beggar's haffet squattle; [Quick, temples settle] There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, In shoals and nations; Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle [i.e. comb] Your thick plantations.

Now haud ye there! ye're out o' sight, [keep] Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight; [fal-de-rals] Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right Till ye've got on it, The very tapmost tow'ring height O' Miss's bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump and gray as onie grozet; [gooseberry] O for some rank mercurial rozet, [rosin] Or fell red smeddum! [deadly, dust] I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dress your droddum! [breech]

I wad na been surpris'd to spy You on an auld wife's flannen toy; [flannel cap] Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, [perhaps, ragged] On's wyliecoat; [undervest] But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie, [balloon bonnet] How daur ye do't? [dare]

O Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread! [abroad] Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makin'! [little wretch] Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, [Those] Are notice takin'!

O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us! It wad frae mony a blunder free us, And foolish notion: What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And ev'n devotion!

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH A PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786

Wee modest crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure [must] Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward springing, blythe to greet The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield, [walls] But thou, beneath the random bield [shelter] O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, [barren] Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade, By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, Till she like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd: Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n To mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine—no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom!

THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE.

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR [welcome with a present]

A guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie! Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie: [handful, belly] Tho' thou's howe-backit now, an' knaggie, [hollow-backed, knobby] I've seen the day, Thou could hae gane like ony staggie [colt] Out-owre the lay. [Across, lea]

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, [drooping] An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisie, I've seen thee dappled, sleek, an' glaizie, [glossy] A bonnie gray: He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, [excite] Ance in a day. [Once]

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, [stately, compact, limber] An' set weel down a shapely shank, As e'er tread yird; [earth] An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, [pool] Like ony bird.

It's now some nine-an-twenty year, Sin' thou was my guid-father's meere; He gied me thee, o' tocher dear, [as dowry] An' fifty mark; Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, [wealth] An' thou was stark. [strong]

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie: [mother] Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie, [sly] Ye ne'er was donsie; [unmanageable] But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, [tractable, good tempered] An' unco sonsie. [very attractive]

That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride [much] When ye bure hame my bonnie bride; [bore] An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, Wi' maiden air! Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide [have challenged] For sic a pair.

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, [can only halt] An' wintle like a saumont-coble, [stagger, salmon-boat] That day ye was a jinker noble [goer] For heels an' win'! [wind] An' ran them till they a' did wobble Far, far behin'.

When thou an' I were young and skeigh, [skittish] An' stable-meals at fairs were driegh, [dull] How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skriegh [snort, neigh] An' tak the road! Town's-bodies ran, and stood abeigh, [aloof] An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, [full of corn] We took the road aye like a swallow: At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow [wedding-races] For pith an' speed; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, Where'er thou gaed. [went]

The sma', drooped-rumpled hunter cattle, [short-rumped] Might aiblins waur'd thee for a brattle; [perhaps have beat, spurt] But sax Scotch miles, thou tried their mettle, An' gart them whaizle; [wheeze] Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O' saugh or hazel. [willow]

Thou was a noble fittie-lan', [near horse of hindmost pair] As e'er in tug or tow was drawn! [hide or tow traces] Aft thee an' I, in aucht hours gaun, [eight, going] On guid March-weather, Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', For days thegither.

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, [plunged, stopped, But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, capered] An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, [chest] Wi' pith an' pow'r, [rooty hillocks, Till spritty knowes wad rair't and riskit, roared, cracked] An' slypet owre. [fallen gently over]

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep, I gied thy cog a wee bit heap [dish] Aboon the timmer; [edges] I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep For that, or simmer. [ere]

In cart or car thou never reestit; [were restive] The steyest brae thou wad hae faced it; [steepest] Thou never lap, an' stenned, an' breastit, [leapt, jumped] Then stood to blaw; But, just thy step a wee thing hastit, Thou snoov't awa. [jogged along]

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a', [plough-team, issue] Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa [Besides, more, away] That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, The very warst. [worst]

Mony a sair darg we twa hae wrought, [day's work] An' wi' the weary warl' fought! An' mony an anxious day I thought We wad be beat! Yet here to crazy age we're brought, Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld trusty servan', That now perhaps thou's less deservin', An' thy auld days may end in starvin'; For my last fou, [bushel] A heapit stimpart I'll reserve ane [quarter-peck] Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither; We'll toyte about wi' ane anither; [totter] Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether [attentive, change] To some hain'd rig, [reserved plot] Where ye may nobly rax your leather, [stretch, sides] Wi' sma' fatigue.

To the evidence of Burns's warm-heartedness supplied by these kindly verses may appropriately be added the Address to the Deil. Burns's attitude to the supernatural we have already slightly touched on. Apart from the somewhat vague Deism which seems to have formed his personal creed, the poet's attitude toward most of the beliefs in the other world which were held around him was one of amused skepticism. Halloween and Tam o' Shanter show how he regarded the grosser rural superstitions; but the Devil was another matter. Scottish Calvinism had, as has been said, made him almost the fourth person in the Godhead; and Burns's thrusts at this belief are among the most effective things in his satire. In the present piece, however, the satirical spirit is almost overcome by kindliness and benevolent humor, and few of his poems are more characteristic of this side of his nature.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL

O thou! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Mick, or Clootie, [Hoofie] Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, Clos'd under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, [Splashes, dish] To scaud poor wretches! [scald]

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, [Hangman] An' let poor damned bodies be; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, Ev'n to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, [spank, scald] An' hear us squeal!

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; Far kenn'd an' noted is thy name; An', tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, [flaming pit] Thou travels far; An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, [backward] Nor blate nor scaur. [shy, afraid]

Whyles rangin' like a roarin' lion For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin'; Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin', Tirlin' the kirks; [Stripping] Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend grannie say, In lanely glens ye like to stray; Or, where auld ruin'd castles gray Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, Wi' eldritch croon. [weird]

When twilight did my grannie summon To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman! [sedate] Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin', [beyond] Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin', thro' the boortrees comin', [elders] Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary windy winter night The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, [squinting] Wi' you mysel I gat a fright Ayont the lough; [pond] Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight [clump of rushes] Wi' waving sough. [moan]

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, [fist] Each bristled hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch stoor 'quaick, quaick,' [weird, harsh] Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd like a drake On whistlin' wings.

Let warlocks grim an' wither'd hags Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags [ragwort] They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues Owre howkit dead. [disturbed]

Thence country wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; [churn] For oh! the yellow treasure's taen [i.e., the butter] By witchin' skill; An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gane [petted, twelve-pint cow] As yell's the bill. [dry, bull]

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse; [husbands, cocksure] When the best wark-lume i' the house, [tool] By cantrip wit, [magic] Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. [crisis]

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, [thaws, hoard] An' float the jinglin' icy boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, [-spirits] By your direction, An' 'nighted travelers are allur'd To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies [bog-, goblins] Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, [must] Or, strange to tell! The youngest brither ye wad whip Aff straught to hell. [straight]

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, [ago, garden] When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, And all the soul of love they shar'd, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird, [sward] In shady bow'r;

Then you, ye auld snick-drawing dog! [scheming] Ye cam to Paradise incog, An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, [trick] (Black be your fa!) An' gied the infant warld a shog, [shake] 'Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, [flurry] Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, [smoky rags, scorched wig] Ye did present your smoutie phiz [smutty] 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uz [squinted] Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hal', [holding] While scabs an' blotches did him gall Wi' bitter claw, An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul, [loosed, scold] Was warst ava? [of all]

But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, [fighting] Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, [heat, Lowland] In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', [Hoofs] A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', [roistering] Some luckless hour will send him linkin', [hurrying] To your black pit; But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin', [dodging] An' cheat you yet.

But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! O wad ye tak a thought an' men'! [mend] Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken— [perhaps] Still hae a stake: I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake!

Somewhat akin in nature is Death and Doctor Hornbook. The purpose is personal satire, Doctor Hornbook being a real person, John Wilson, a schoolmaster in Tarbolton, who had turned quack and apothecary. The figure of Death is an amazingly graphic creation, with its mixture of weirdness and familiar humor; while the attack on Hornbook is managed with consummate skill. Death is made to complain that the doctor is balking him of his legitimate prey, and the drift seems to be complimentary; when in the last few verses it appears that in compensation Hornbook kills far more than he cures.

DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK

Some books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never penn'd: Ev'n ministers, they hae been kenn'd, [known] In holy rapture, A rousing whid at times to vend, [fib] And nail't wi' Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell, [going] Which lately on a night befell, Is just as true's the Deil's in hell Or Dublin city: That e'er he nearer comes oursel 'S a muckle pity. [great]

The clachan yill had made me canty, [village age, cheerful] I wasna fou, but just had plenty; [full] I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye [staggered, heed] To free the ditches; [clear] An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes kent aye Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glowre [stare] The distant Cumnock hills out-owre; [above] To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, I set mysel; But whether she had three or four I cou'd na tell.

I was come round about the hill, And todlin' down on Willie's mill, Setting my staff, wi' a' my skill, To keep me sicker; [secure] Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, I took a bicker. [run]

I there wi' Something does forgather, [meet] That pat me in an eerie swither; [put, ghostly dread] An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, [across one shoulder] Gear-dangling, hang; [hung] A three-tae'd leister on the ither [-toed fish-spear] Lay large an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, The queerest shape that e'er I saw, For fient a wame it had ava: [devil a belly, at all] And then its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' As cheeks o' branks. [sides of an ox's bridle]

'Guid-een,' quo' I; 'Friend! hae ye been mawin, [Good-evening, mowing] When ither folk are busy sawin?' [sowing] It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', But naething spak; At length says I, 'Friend, wh'are ye gaun? [going] Will ye go back?'

It spak right howe: 'My name is Death, [hollow] But be na fley'd.'—Quoth I, 'Guid faith, [frightened] Ye're maybe come to stap my breath; But tent me, billie: [heed, fellow] I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, [advise, harm] See, there's a gully!' [big knife]

'Gudeman,' quo' he, 'put up your whittle, [knife] I'm no design'd to try its mettle; But if I did—I wad be kittle [ticklish] To be mislear'd— [if mischievous] I wad na mind it, no that spittle Out-owre my beard.' [Over]

'Weel, weel!' says I, 'a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; [give us, agreed] We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat— Come, gies your news; This while ye hae been mony a gate, [road] At mony a house.'

'Ay, ay!' quo' he, an' shook his head, 'It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the thread, An' choke the breath: Folk maun do something for their bread, [must] An' sae maun Death.

'Sax thousand years are near-hand fled, [well-nigh] Sin' I was to the hutching bred; [butchering] An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid To stap or scaur me; [stop, scare] Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade, An' faith! he'll waur me. [worst]

'Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan— [village] Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan! [second stomach, tobacco pouch] He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan [(Author of Domestic Medicine)] An' ither chaps, The weans haud out their fingers laughin', [children] And pouk my hips. [poke]

'See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart— They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art And cursed skill, Has made them baith no worth a fart; Damn'd haet they'll kill. [Devil a thing]

''Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane, [last night] I threw a noble throw at ane— Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain— But deil-ma-care! It just play'd dirl on the bane, [rang, bone] But did nae mair.

'Hornbook was by wi' ready art, And had sae fortified the part That, when I looked to my dart, It was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart [Devil a bit] O' a kail-runt. [cabbage stalk]

'I drew my scythe in sic a fury I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry, [upset] But yet the bauld Apothecary Withstood the shock; I might as weel hae tried a quarry O' hard whin rock.

'E'en them he canna get attended, Altho' their face he ne'er had kenn'd it, Just sh— in a kail-blade, and send it, [cabbage-leaf] As soon's he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it, At once he tells't.

'And then a' doctor's saws and whittles, Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, He's sure to hae; Their Latin names as fast he rattles As A B C.

'Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees; True sal-marinum o' the seas; The farina of beans and pease, He has't in plenty; Aqua-fortis, what you please, He can content ye.

'Forbye some new uncommon weapons,— [Besides] Urinus spiritus of capons; Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, Distill'd per se; Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, And mony mae.' [more]

'Wae's me for Johnny Ged's Hole now,' [the grave-digger's] Quoth I, 'if that thae news be true! [those] His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew [grazing-plot, daisies] Sae white and bonnie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew; [split] They'll ruin Johnie!'

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, [groaned, weird] And says: 'Ye needna yoke the pleugh, Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, Tak ye nae fear; They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh [ditch] In twa-three year.

'Where I kill'd ane, a fair strae-death, [straw (i.e., bed)] By loss o' blood or want o' breath, This night I'm free to tak my aith [oath] That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, [cloth] By drap and pill.

'An honest wabster to his trade, [weaver by] Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred, [fists] Gat tippence-worth to mend her head When it was sair; [aching] The wife slade cannie to her bed, [slid quietly] But ne'er spak mair.

'A country laird had ta'en the batts, [botts] Or some curmurring in his guts, [commotion] His only son for Hornbook sets, An' pays him well: The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, [pet-ewes] Was laird himsel.

'A bonnie lass, ye kenn'd her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame; [raised, belly] She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, In Hornbook's care; Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, To hide it there.

'That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; [sample] Thus goes he on from day to day, Thus does he poison, kill an' slay, An's weel pay'd for't; Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey Wi' his damn'd dirt.

'But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't; I'll nail the self-conceited sot As dead's a herrin': Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, [Next, wager] He gets his fairin'!'

But, just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell [struck] Some wee short hour ayont the twal, [beyond, twelve] Which rais'd us baith: [got us to our feet] I took the way that pleas'd mysel, And sae did Death.

A few miscellaneous poems remain to be quoted. These do not naturally fall into any of the major glasses of Burns's work, yet are too important either for their intrinsic worth or the light they throw on his character and genius to be omitted. The Elegies, of which he wrote many, following, as has been seen, the tradition founded by Sempill of Beltrees, may be exemplified by Tam Samson's Elegy and that on Captain Matthew Henderson. Special phases of Scottish patriotism are expressed in Scotch Drink, and the address To a Haggis; while more personal is A Bard's Epitaph. In this last we have Burns's summing up of his own character, and it closes with his recommendation of the virtue he strove after but could never attain.

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Or great Mackinlay thrawn his heel? [twisted] Or Robertson again grown weel, To preach an' read? 'Na, waur than a'!' cries ilka chiel, [worse, everybody] 'Tam Samson's dead!'

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane, [groan] An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, [weep alone] An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, [clothe, child] In mourning weed; To death, she's dearly paid the kane,— [rent in kind] Tam Samson's dead!

The Brethren o' the mystic level May hing their head in woefu' bevel, [slope] While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony bead; Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel,— [stunning blow] Tam Samson's dead!

When Winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock; When to the loughs the curler's flock [ponds] Wi' gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the cock? [mark] Tam Samson's dead!

He was the king o' a' the core [gang] To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,[23] Or up the rink like Jehu roar In time o' need; But now he lags on Death's hogscore,[24]— Tam Samson's dead!

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, [salmon] And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, And eels weel kent for souple tail, And geds for greed, [pikes] Since dark in Death's fish-creel we wail Tam Samson's dead!

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a'; [whirring partridges] Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw; [leg-plumed, confidently] Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, [hares, tail] Withouten dread; Your mortal fae is now awa',— Tam Samson's dead!

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd, [attire] While pointers round impatient burn'd, Frae couples freed; But oh! he gaed and ne'er return'd! Tam Samson's dead!

In vain auld age his body batters; In vain the gout his ancles fetters; In vain the burns cam down like waters, [brooks, lakes] An acre braid! Now ev'ry auld wife, greeting clatters [weeping] 'Tam Samson's dead!'

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, [moss] An' aye the tither shot he thumpit, Till coward Death behin' him jumpit Wi' deadly feide; [feud] Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, [blast] 'Tam Samson's dead!'

When at his heart he felt the dagger, He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, But yet he drew the mortal trigger Wi' weel-aim'd heed; 'Lord, five!' he cried, an' owre did stagger; Tam Samson's dead!

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, Marks out his head, Where Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, [nonsense] 'Tam Samson's dead!'

There low he lies in lasting rest; Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast Some spitfu' muirfowl bigs her nest, [builds] To hatch and breed; Alas! nae mair he'll them molest! Tam Samson's dead!

When August winds the heather wave, And sportsmen wander by yon grave, Three volleys let his memory crave O' pouther an' lead, [powder] Till Echo answer frae her cave 'Tam Samson's dead!'

'Heav'n rest his saul, where'er he be!' Is th' wish o' mony mae than me: [more] He had twa fauts, or maybe three, Yet what remead? [remedy] Ae social honest man want we: [One] Tam Samson's dead!

THE EPITAPH

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies: Ye canting zealots, spare him! If honest worth in heaven rise, Ye'll mend ere ye win near him.

Per Contra

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, [nooks] Tell ev'ry social honest billie [fellow] To cease his grievin', For yet, unskaith'd by Death's gleg gullie, [unharmed, nimble knife] Tam Samson's livin'!

[23] In curling, to guard is to protect one stone by another in front; to draw is to drive a stone into a good position by striking it with another; to wick a bore is to hit a stone obliquely and send it through between two others.

[24] The line a curling stone must cross to stay in the game.

ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD

O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody! The meikle devil wi' a woodie [big, gallows-rope] Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie [Drag, smithy] O'er hurcheon hides, [hedgehog] And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie [anvil] Wi' thy auld sides!

He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn, [gone] The ae best fellow e'er was born! [one] Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn By wood and wild, Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, Frae man exil'd.

Ye hills, near neibors o' the starns, [stars] That proudly cock your cresting cairns! [mounds] Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, [eagles] Where echo slumbers! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, [children] My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! [each, dove] Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens! [woods] Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, [winding] Wi' toddlin din, Or foaming strang wi' hasty stens [heaps] Frae lin to lin. [fall]

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, In scented bow'rs; Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' flow'rs.

At dawn when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head, At ev'n when beans their fragrance shed I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukins, whiddin' thro' the glade, [hares, scudding] Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; [crop] Ye curlews calling thro' a clud; [cloud] Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood— [partridge] He's gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Ye fisher herons, watching eels; Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair for his sake. [Boom]

Mourn, clamouring craiks at close o' day, [corncrakes] 'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; And, when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay, [those] Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r [owls] In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, [haunted] What time the moon wi' silent glow'r [stare] Sets up her horn, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour Till waukrife morn! [wakeful]

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! Oft have ye heard my canty strains; [cheerful] But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe? And frae my een the drapping rains [eyes] Maun ever flow. [Must]

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year! Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: [catch] Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy gay green flow'ry tresses shear For him that's dead!

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear! Thou, Winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast, Wide o'er the naked warld, declare The worth we've lost!

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light! Mourn, empress of the silent night! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, [starlets] My Matthew mourn! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, Ne'er to return.

O Henderson! the man! the brother! And art thou gone, and gone for ever? And hast thou crost that unknown river, Life's dreary bound? Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around?

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state! But by thy honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth.

SCOTCH DRINK

_Gie him strong drink, until he wink, That's sinking in despair; An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, That's prest wi' grief an' care;

There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs no more._ SOLOMON (Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7).

Let other Poets raise a fracas 'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, An' crabbed names an' stories wrack us, An' grate our lug; [ear] I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, [barley] In glass or jug.

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink, Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink, [winding, dodge] Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, [cream] In glorious faem, [foam] Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, [flat river-lands] An' aits set up their awnie horn, [oats, bearded] An' pease an' beans at een or morn, Perfume the plain; Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, [Commend me to] Thou King o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, [chews, cud] In souple scones, the wale o' food! [soft cakes, choice] Or tumblin' in the boiling flood Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin'; [belly] Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin', But, oil'd by thee, The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin' [careering] Wi' rattlin' glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear: [muddled Learning] Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, At's weary toil: Thou even brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy siller weed, Wi' gentles thou erects thy head; Yet humbly kind, in time o' need, The poor man's wine, His wee drap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine. [makest palatable]

Thou art the life o' public haunts; But thee, what were our fairs and rants? [Without, frolics] Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, [saints] By thee inspir'd, When gaping they besiege the tents, Are doubly fir'd.

That merry night we get the corn in! O sweetly then thou reams the horn in! [foamest] Or reekin' on a New-Year mornin' [smoking] In cog or bicker, [bowl, cup] An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, [whisky] An' gusty sucker! [tasty sugar]

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, [implements] O rare to see thee fizz an' freath [froth] I' th' lugged caup! [two-eared cup] Then Burnewin comes on like death [The Blacksmith] At ev'ry chaup. [blow]

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel; [iron] The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, [bony, fellow] Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel, The strong forehammer, Till block an' studdie ring an' reel [anvil] Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirlin' weanies see the light, [squalling babies] Thou maks the gossips clatter bright How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight— [dolts] Wae worth the name! Nae Howdie gets a social night, [Midwife] Or plack frae them. [small coin]

When neibors anger at a plea, [lawsuit] An' just as wud as wud can be, [mad] How easy can the barley-bree [-brew] Cement the quarrel! It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason To wyte her countrymen wi' treason; [blame] But mony daily weet their weasan' [throat] Wi' liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter's season, E'er spier her price. [ask]

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash! Fell source o' mony a pain an' brash? [illness] Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, [Robs, stupid, drunken oaf] O' half his days; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Poor plackless devils like mysel' [penniless] It sets you ill, [becomes] Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, [meddle] Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench, [ladder] An' gouts torment him, inch by inch, Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch [face, growl] O' sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' whisky punch Wi' honest men!

O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks! Accept a bardie's gratefu' thanks! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks [creakings] Are my poor verses! Thou comes—they rattle i' their ranks At ither's arses!

Thee, Ferintosh![25] O sadly lost! Scotland, lament frae coast to coast! Now colic-grips an' barkin' hoast [cough] May kill us a'; For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast Is ta'en awa!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, [These] Wha mak the whisky stells their prize— [stills] Haud up thy hand, deil! Ance—twice—thrice! There, seize the blinkers! [spies] An' bake them up in brunstane pies [brimstone] For poor damn'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks, a bannock, and a gill, [Whole breeches, oatmeal cake] An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, [plenty] Tak' a' the rest, An' deal'd about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.

[25] Forbes of Culloden was given in 1690 liberty to distil grain at Ferintosh without excise. When this privilege was withdrawn in 1785, the price of whisky rose—hence Burns's lament.

TO A HAGGIS

Fair fa' your honest sonsie face, [jolly] Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, [Above] Painch, tripe, or thairm: [Paunch, guts] Weel are ye wordy o' a grace [worthy] As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill; [buttocks] Your pin wad help to mend a mill [skewer] In time o' need; While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight, [wipe] An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, [skill] Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin', rich! [-smoking]

Then, horn for horn they stretch an' strive, [spoon] Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve [well-swelled bellies soon] Are bent like drums; Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, [burst] 'Be-thankit!' hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, [sicken] Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering scornfu' view [disgust] On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, [feeble, rush] His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit: [fist, nut] Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed— The trembling earth resounds his tread! Clap in his walie nieve a blade, [ample fist] He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, [crop] Like taps o' thrissle. [thistle]

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware [watery stuff] That jaups in luggies; [splashes, porringers] But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, Gie her a Haggis!

A BARD'S EPITAPH

Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, [Too] Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, [bashful, cringe] Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, [woe] And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer. Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, Wild as the wave; Here pause—and, thro' the starting tear, Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer flame; But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend! whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit; Know prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root.



CHAPTER VI

CONCLUSION

We have now examined in some detail the main facts of Burns's personal life and literary production: it is time to sum these up in order to realize the character of the man and the value of the work.

Certain fundamental qualities are easily traced to his parentage. The Burnses were honest, hard-working people, stubborn fighters for independence, with intellectual tastes above the average of their class. These characteristics the poet inherited. With all his failures in worldly affairs, he contrived to pay his debts; however obliged to friends and patrons for occasional aid, he never abated his self-respect or became the hanger-on of any man; and he showed throughout his life an eager, receptive, and ever-expanding mind. The seed sown by his father with so much pains and care in his early training fell on fruitful soil, and in the range of his information, as well as in his critical and reasoning powers, Burns became the equal of educated men. The love of independence, indeed, was less a family than a national passion. The salient fact in the history of Scotland is the intensity of the prolonged struggle against the political domination of England; and there developed in the individual life of the Scot a corresponding tendency to value personal freedom as the greatest of treasures. The thrift and economy for which the Scottish people are everywhere notable, and which has its vicious excess in parsimony and nearness, is in its more honorable aspects no end in itself but merely a means to independence. If they are keen to "gather gear,"

It's no to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train-attendant, But for the glorious privilege Of being independent.

Along with these substantial and admirable qualities of integrity and independence Burns inherited certain limitations. In the peasant class in which he was born and reared, the fierceness of the struggle for existence has crowded out some of the more beautiful qualities that need ease and leisure for their development. The virtues of chivalry do indeed at times appear among the very poor, but they are the characteristic product of a class in which conditions are more generous, the necessaries of life are taken for granted, and the elemental demands of human nature are satisfied without competitive striving. When a peasant is chivalrous he is so by virtue of some individual quality, and in spite of rather than because of the spirit of his class. Burns was too acute and too observant not to gather much from the social ideals of the ladies and gentlemen with whom he came in contact, and what he gathered affected his conduct profoundly; but at times under stress of frustrated passion or mortified vanity he reverted to the ruder manners of the peasantry from which he sprang. So have to be accounted for certain brutalities in his treatment of the women who loved him or who had been unwise enough to yield to his fascination.

Other characteristics belong to him individually rather than to his family or class or nation. He was to an extraordinary degree proud and sensitive. He reacted warmly to kindness, and showed his gratitude without stint; but he allowed no man to presume upon the obligations he had conferred. He was very conscious of difference of rank, and never sought to ignore it, however little he thought it mattered in comparison with intrinsic merit. But the very degree to which he was aware of the social gap between him and many of his acquaintances put him ever on the alert for slights; and when he perceived or imagined that he had received them, his indignation was sometimes less than dignified and often excessive. Though he knew that he possessed uncommon gifts, he was essentially modest in fact as well as in appearance, and on the whole underestimated his genius.

He had a warm heart, and in his relations with his equals he was genial and friendly. His love of his kind manifested itself especially in his delight in company, a delight naturally heightened by the enjoyment of the sense of leadership which his superior wit and brilliance gave him in almost any society. The customs of the time associated to an unfortunate degree hard drinking with social intercourse. But more than the whisky he enjoyed the loosening of self-consciousness and the warmth of conviviality that it brought.

It's no I like to sit an' swallow, [not that] Then like a swine to puke an' wallow; But gie me just a true guid fellow [give] Wi' right ingine, [wit] And spunkie ance to mak us mellow, [liquor enough] An' then we'll shine!

Burns was not a drunkard. He seems to have taken little alone, and in the houses of some of his more fashionable friends he resented the pressure to drink more than he wanted. Nor did he allow dissipation to interfere with his work on the farm, or his duties in the excise. Yet, even when contemporary manners have received their share of responsibility, it must be allowed that on the poet's own confession he drank frequently to excess, and that this abuse had a serious share in the breakdown of his constitution, weakened as it was by the excessive toil of his youth.

He was fond of women, and this passion more than any other has been the center of the disputes that have raged round his life and character. Again, contemporary and class customs have to be taken into account. In spite of the formal disapproval of public opinion and the censure of the church, the attitude of his class in the end of the eighteenth century toward such irregularities as brought Burns and Jean Armour to the stool of repentance was much less severe than it would be in this country to-day. Burns himself knew he was culpable, but the comparative laxity of the standards of the time made it easier for him to forgive himself, and prompted him to defiance when he believed himself criticized by puritan hypocrites. Thus in his utterances we have a curious inconsistency, his feeling ranging from black remorse and melancholy, through half-hearted excuse and justification, to swaggering bravado. And none of them makes pleasant reading.

But his relations with the other sex were not all of the nature of sheer passion. He was capable of serious friendship, warm respect, abject adoration, and a hundred other variations of feeling; and in several cases he maintained for years, by correspondence and occasional visits, an intercourse with ladies on which no shadow of a stain has ever been cast. Such were his relations with Margaret Chalmers and Mrs. Dunlop. These facts have no controversial bearing, but they are necessary to be considered if we are to have a complete view of Burns's relations to society.

In estimating him as a poet, nothing is lost in keeping in mind the historical relations which have been so strongly emphasized in recent years. He himself would have been the last to resent being placed in a national tradition, but, on the contrary, would have been proud to be regarded as the last and greatest of Scottish vernacular poets. Patriotic feeling is frequent in his verse; we have seen how consciously he performed his work for Johnson and Thomson as a service to his country; and to the "Guidwife of Wauchope House" he professed, speaking of his youth,

E'en then, a wish (I mind its pow'r), A wish that from my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast, That I for poor auld Scotland's sake Some usefu' plan or book could make, Or sing a sang at least.

So in the line of the Scottish "makers" we place him, the inheritor of the speech of Henryson and Dunbar, of the meters and modes of Montgomery and the Sempills, Ramsay and Fergusson, the re-creator of the perishing relics of the lost masters of popular song.

His relation to his English predecessors need not again be detailed, so little of value did they contribute to the vital part of his work. But some account should be taken of his connection with the English literature of his own and the next generation.

The humanitarian movement was well under way before the appearance of Burns, and the particular manifestations of it in, for example, the poems of Cowper on animals, owed nothing to the influence of Burns. But Cowper's hares never appealed to the popular heart with the force of Burns's sheep and mice and dogs, and the tender familiarity and wistful jocoseness of his poems to beasts have never been surpassed. In writing these he was probably, consciously or unconsciously, affected by the tendency of the time, as he was also in the democratic brotherhood of A Man's a Man for a' That, but, in both cases, as we have seen, part of the impulse, that part that made his utterance reach his audience, was derived from his personal intercourse with his farm stock and from his inborn conviction of the dignity of the individual. His relations to these elements in the thought and feeling of his day were, then, reciprocal: they strengthened certain traits in his personality, and he passed them on to posterity, strengthened in turn by his moving expression.

The situation is similar with regard to his connection with the so-called "return to nature" in English poetry. Historians have discerned a new era begun in descriptive poetry with Thomson's Seasons; and in Cowper again, to ignore many intermediates, there is abundance of faithful portraiture of landscape. But Burns was not given to set description of their kind, and what he has in common with them lies in the nature of his detail—the frank actuality of the images of wind and weather, burn and brae, which form the background of his human comedy and tragedy. He observed for himself, and he called things by their own names. In so doing he was once more following a national tradition, so that he was not "returning" to nature, since the tradition had never left it; but, on the other hand, it is reasonable to suppose that Wordsworth, arriving at a somewhat similar method by a totally different route, found corroboration for his theories of the simplification needed in the matter and diction of poetry in the success of the Scottish rustic who showed his youth

How Verse may build a princely throne On humble truth.

Wordsworth, of course, like the most distinguished of his romantic contemporaries, found much in nature that Burns never dreamed of; and even the faithfulness in detail which Burns shared with these poets reached a point of subtlety and sensuousness far beyond the reach of his simple and direct epithets. Nature was to be given in the next generation a vast and novel variety of spiritual significance. With all that Burns had nothing to do. He was realist, not romanticist, though his example operated beneficently and sanely on some of the romantic leaders.

Yet in Burns's treatment of nature there is imaginative beauty as well as humble truth. His language in description, though not mystical or highly idealized, is often rich in feeling, and his personality was potent enough to pervade his most objective writing. Thus he ranks among those who have put lovers of poetry under obligation for a fresh glimpse of the beauty and meaning of the world around them. This glimpse is so strongly suggestive of the poet that our delight in it will largely depend on our sympathy with his temperament; yet now and again he flashes out a phrase whose imaginative value is absolute, and which makes its appeal without respect to the author:

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, And time is setting with me, oh!

Apart from the respects in which Burns is the inheritor and perfecter of the vernacular traditions, and apart from his contact, active or passive, with the English poets of his time, there is much in his poetry which is thoroughly his own. It does not lie mainly in his thinking, robust and shrewd though that is. We perceive in his work no great individual attitude toward life and society such as we are impelled to perceive in the work of Goethe; we find no message in it like the message of Browning. What he does is to bring before us characters, situations, moods, images, that belong to the permanent and elemental in our nature. These are presented with a sympathy so living, a tenderness so poignant, a humor so arch and so sly, that they become a part of our experience in the most delightful and exhilarating fashion. Part of the function of poetry is to prevent us from becoming sluggish In our contemplation of life by making us feel it fresh, vivid, pulsing; and this Burns notably accomplishes. Coleridge's image of wetting the pebble to bring out its color and brilliance is peculiarly apt in the case of Burns; for it was the common if not the commonplace that he dealt with, and his workmanship made it sparkle like a jewel.

In the long run the value of an author depends on two factors, the nature of his insight and his power of expression. Burns's insight into his own nature was deep and on the whole just, and that nature was itself rich enough to teach him much. He found there the great struggle between impulse and will—fiery, surging impulse and a stubborn will. This experience, illuminated by a lively imagination, gave him a sympathetic understanding of extraordinary range, extending from the domestic troubles of the royal family and the perplexities of the prime minister to the precarious adventures of a louse. His insight into external nature blended the weather wisdom of the ploughman with the poet's sensitiveness to the harmony or discord of wind and sky with the moods of humanity.

For the expression of all this he had an instrument that did not reach, it is true, to the great tragic tones of Shakespeare nor to the delicate and filmy subtleties of Shelley. But he could utter pathos almost intolerably piercing, and overwhelming remorse; gaiety as fresh and inspiriting as the song of a lark; roistering mirth; keen irony; and a thousand phases of passion. This he did in a verse of amazing variety—sometimes tender and caressing; sometimes rushing like a torrent.

Finally, it must be insisted again, in that aspect in which he is most nearly supreme, the writing of songs, he is musician as well as poet. Though he made no tunes, he saved hundreds; saved them not merely for the antiquary and the connoisseur but for the great mass of lovers of sweet and simple melody; saved them by marrying them to fit and immortal words. It is for this most of all that Scotland and the world love Burns.

THE END



INDEX

A Man's a Man for a' That, quoted 158, 317.

A Red, Red Rose, 101, quoted 102.

Address to the Deil, 38, 86, 281, quoted 282.

Address to the Unco Guid, 38, quoted 176, 189.

Adventures of Telemachus, 17.

Ae Fond Kiss, quoted 56-57, 75, 103.

AEneid (Douglas's), 268.

Afton Water, quoted 116.

Ainslie, Robert, 50.

Alloway, 4 ff.

Animals, Burns's feeling for, 270, 271.

Armour, James, 35, 37-39.

Armour, Jean, 35-39, 50, 55, 93, 110, 122, 172.

Arnold, Matthew, 206, 237.

Auld Lang Syne, 98, quoted 100.

Auld Lichts, 179, 180, 184, 188.

Auld Rob Morris, 115, quoted 121.

Bachelor's Club, 22.

Bannocks o' Barley, quoted 165.

Bard's Epitaph, A, 294, quoted 308.

Beattie, 86.

Beethoven, 95.

Begbie, Ellison, 22-23, 27, 110.

Bessy and Her Spinnin'-Wheel, quoted 145.

Biography, Official, 68.

Blacklock, Doctor, 39.

Blair, Doctor, 45, 86.

Blair Athole, 51.

Boar's Head Tavern, 240.

Bonnie Lesley, 115, quoted 118.

Braw Braw Lads, quoted 140.

Brow-on-Solway, 67.

Browning, 320.

Burnes, William, 3-8.

Burns, Agnes (Brown), 4, 8.

Burns, Gilbert, 5-6, 15, 31, 59, 90.

Burns, Robert, his career: autobiographical letter, 1-2; parentage and early life, 3-23; schooling, 5-8, 15, 17; reading, 6-8, 18-19; study of French, 16; folk-lore, 18; overwork, 19; first song, 20; flax-dressing, 23; early love-affairs, 22, 27; Mossgiel, 31-44; Elizabeth Paton, 32-35; Jean Armour, 35-36; Mary Campbell (Highland Mary), 36-37; West Indian project, 37-39; Elizabeth Miller, 37; Kilmarnock edition, 37-38; disciplined by the church, 38-39; Edinburgh, 44-56; early reviews, 46; Edinburgh edition, 46-50; southern tour, 50; Highland tours, 50-51; Mrs. McLehose, 52-58; marriage, 55; Ellisland, 53-62; Excise, 61-65; Dumfries, 62-68; politics, 63-65; work for Johnson and Thomson, 65-66, 91-98; whisky, 66-67, 313; illness and death, 66-67.

Burns and music, 9 ff.

Burns's method of composition, 87, 92, 111-112.

Burns's stanza, 80.

Ca' the Yowes, quoted 115.

Campbell, Mary, 36-37, 76, 112. See Highland Mary.

Canterbury Tales, 254.

Chalmers, Margaret, 110.

Charlie He's My Darling, quoted 168.

Chaucer, 254.

Chloris (Jean Lorimer), 110, 112.

Choice Collection (Watson's), 81.

Clarinda (Mrs. McLehose), 52-58.

Clarinda, quoted 58, 75, 109.

Cockburn, Mrs., 82.

Coleridge, 321.

Come Boat Me O'er to Charlie, quoted 163.

Comin' through the Rye, quoted 154.

Complete Letter-Writer, 6.

Contented wi' Little, quoted 126.

Conviviality, 66, 313.

Corn Rigs, 75.

Cowper, 267, 317.

Crabbe, 267.

Craigieburn-wood, 111.

Creech, 45, 50, 52.

Currie, Doctor, 68.

Dalrymple, James, 44.

Dalrymple School, 15.

Davidson, Betty, 18.

Death and Doctor Hornbook, quoted 287.

Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie, 80, 82.

Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, 185-186.

Descriptive poetry, 206 ff., 264 ff.

Dick, J.C., 91-92, note.

Dodsley, Robert, 103.

Douglas, Gavin, 268.

Dramatic lyrics, 128 ff.

Drummond of Hawthornden, 72.

Dumfries, 50, 62-68.

Dunbar, William, 81, 241, 316.

Duncan Davison, quoted 153.

Duncan Gray, quoted 152.

Dunlop, Mrs. 110.

Edinburgh, Burns in, 44-56.

Edinburgh Magazine, 46.

Elegies, 294 ff.

Elegy on Capt. Matthew Henderson, quoted 298.

Ellisland, 58-62.

English poems of Burns, 73 ff.

Epigrams, 204, 205.

Epistle to a Young Friend, 199, quoted 200.

Epistle to Davie, 79, quoted 193, 267.

Epistle to James Smith, 190, 191.

Epistle to John Goldie, 179.

Epistle to John Rankine, 33.

Epistle to McMath, 181.

Epistle to William Simpson, 270.

Epistles, 38, 190 ff.

Epitaphs, 204, 205.

Erskine, Hon. Henry, 45.

Excise service, 59, 61-65.

Farmer's Ingle, 84.

Ferguson, Dr. Adam, 46.

Fergusson, Robert, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 316.

Fisher, William, 173.

Flax-dressing experiment, 23.

Flint, Christina, 93.

For the Sake o' Somebody, quoted 136.

Freemasons, 46.

French Revolution, 63-64.

From thee, Eliza, I must go, 37.

Gaelic, 69.

Gibson, Nancy, 239.

Glencairn, Lord, 45, 49.

Glenriddel Manuscript, 60.

Go Fetch to me a Pint o' Wine, quoted 88.

Goethe, 320.

Goldsmith, 86.

Gordon, Duchess of, 45, 48.

Graham of Fintry, 64.

Gray, 86.

Green Grow the Rashes, quoted 123.

Grose, Captain, 253.

Had I the Wyte?, quoted 148.

Halloween, 38, 208, quoted 209, 217, 218, 223, 270, 282.

Hamilton, Gavin, 38, 172, 185.

Hamilton of Gilbertfield, 81, 82.

Handsome Nell: quoted 20; criticized by Burns, 21-22, 103.

Happy Beggars, 238.

Haydn, 95.

Henderson, Captain Matthew, 294.

Henryson, Robert, 78, 81, 272, 316.

Heroic couplet in Burns, 268, 269.

Highland Mary, quoted 113-116.

Highland Mary, 36-37, 76, 110.

History of the Bible, 6.

Hogg, James, 162.

Holy Willie's Prayer, 38, quoted 173.

How Lang and Dreary, quoted 138.

Humble Petition of Bruar Water, 51.

Hume, David, 44.

I Gaed a Waefu' Gate, quoted 117.

I Hae a Wife, quoted 59, 103.

I Hae Been at Crookieden, quoted 167.

I'm Owre Young to Marry Yet, quoted 143.

Independence, Scottish love of, 311.

Irvine, 23.

It Was a' for our Rightfu' King, quoted 162.

Jacobite Songs, 161 ff.

Jacobitism, 63.

John Anderson, my Jo, 145, quoted 146.

Johnson, James, 65, 91, 94, 97, 98, 316.

Kenmure's On and Awa, quoted 165.

Kilmarnock Edition. 37-39.

Kilpatrick, Nelly, 20, 22, 110.

Kirk of Scotland, Opposition to, 171.

Kirkoswald, 17, 254.

Kirkyard Eclogues, 84.

Knox, John, 71.

Kozeluch, 95.

La Fontaine, 272.

Laddie Lie Near Me, 92.

Lament for the Earl of Glencairn, 49.

Language of Burns, 69 ff.

Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks, quoted 119.

Last Dying Words of Bonny Heck, 82.

Last May a Braw Wooer, quoted 135.

Last Speech of a Wretched Miser, 83.

Leith Races, 84.

Lewars, Jessie, 110, 122.

Lindesay, Sir David, 71.

Lindsay, Lady Anne, 82.

Lochlea, 5 ff.

London Monthly Review, 46.

Lorimer, Jean (Chloris), 110, 111.

Lounger, The, 46.

Lowland Scots, 69 ff.

Lucky Spence's Last Advice, 82.

Mackenzie, Henry, 19, 45, 46, 86.

Macpherson's Farewell, quoted 150.

McGill, Doctor, 186.

McLehose, Mrs., 52-58.

Mary Morison, quoted 28.

Mauchline, 31, 50.

Merry Beggars, 238.

Miller, Elizabeth, 37.

Milton, 85.

Montgomerie's Peggy, quoted 120.

Montgomery, Alexander, 79, 316.

Moore, Dr. John: 5; letter to, 1-2, 18, 83.

Mossgiel, 31-44.

Mount Oliphant, 4-5.

Murdoch, John, 5, 15-17, 90-91.

Murray, Sir William, 51.

Muse, jocular treatment of his, 203 ff.

Music, Burns's knowledge of, 90 ff.

Music and song, 169-170, 322.

My Father was a Farmer, quoted 126.

My Heart's in the Highlands, quoted 140.

My Love She's but a Lassie Yet, 141, quoted 144.

My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose, 101, quoted 102.

My Nannie's Awa, quoted 57-58, 75, 103, 266.

My Nannie O, quoted 29-30, 103.

My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing, quoted 108.

Nairne, Lady, 162.

Nature in Burns, 318.

New Lichts, 179, 188.

Nicol, William, 50, 52.

O, For Ane an' Twenty, Tam!, quoted 129.

O Merry Hae I Been, quoted 148.

O This is No my Ain Lassie, quoted 107.

O, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast, 122, quoted 123.

Of a' the Airts, quoted 106.

On a Scotch Bard, Gone to the West Indies, quoted, 42-44.

On Seeing a Wounded Hare, 86.

Open the Door to me, O! quoted 137.

Park, Anne, 110.

Paton, Elizabeth, 32.

Peasant characteristics of Burns, 311, 312.

Percy, Bishop, 81.

Planestanes and Causey, 84.

Pleyel, 95.

Politics, 63-65.

Poor Mailie's Elegy, quoted 26-27.

Poortith Cauld, 106, quoted 107.

Poosie Nansie, 239.

Pope, 86, 269.

Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ, 186.

Prayer in the Prospect of Death, quoted 32.

Ramsay, Allan, 79, 81, 82, 83, 84, 99, 103, 238, 316.

Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 51.

Realism, 267.

Reformation, influence of, 95 ff.

Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, 81.

Richmond, 44.

Riddel, Col. Robert, 60.

Satires and Epistles, 171 ff.

Scenery in Burns, 265 ff.

Scotch Drink, 38, 84, 294, quoted 301.

Scots Musical Museum, 65, 95, 97.

Scots, Wha Hae, quoted 160.

Scott, Alexander, 79.

Scott, Sir Walter, 44, 46-48, 161-162.

Scottish Dialect, 69 ff.

Scottish Folk-song, 96 ff.

Scottish Literature, 78 ff.

Scottish Song, 90 ff.

Sea in Scottish poetry, 264-265.

Seasons, 318.

Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs, 95.

Sempills, 79, 80, 294, 316.

Shaftesbury, 193.

Shakespeare, 85, 321.

Shelley, 322.

Shenstone, 86.

Sibbald, James, 46.

Simmer's a Pleasant Time, quoted 131.

Smith, Adam, 44.

Sterne, 86, 270.

Stewart, Dugald, 45.

Stirling, Alexander, Earl of, 72.

Stuart-Menteath, Sir James, 93.

Tam Glen, quoted 133.

Tam o' Shanter, 253-257, quoted 257, 266, 268, 282.

Tam Samson's Elegy, quoted 294.

Tea Table Miscellany, 81, 99.

The Auld Farmer's New-Year Morning Salutation, quoted 278.

The Banks of Helicon, 79.

The Blue-eyed Lassie, quoted 117.

The Bonnie Lad that's Far Awa, quoted 139.

The Brigs of Ayr, 267.

The Cherry and the Slae, 79.

The Cotter's Saturday Night, quoted 8-15, 38, 74, 84, 190, criticized 207 ff., 219, 266.

The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie, quoted 23-25.

The Deil's Awa wi' th' Exciseman, quoted 154.

The Deuk's Dang o'er my Daddie, quoted 155.

The Gazetteer, 64.

The Gentle Shepherd, 82.

The Gloomy Night, quoted 40-41, 103.

The Highland Balou, 150, quoted 151.

The Highland Laddie, quoted 164.

The Holy Fair, 38, 84, 227, quoted 228.

The Jolly Beggars, 38, 77, 238-241, quoted 241, 266.

The Kirk's Alarm, 186, 187.

The Lass of Cessnock Banks, 23.

The Lea-Rig, quoted 120.

The Man of Feeling, 86.

The Ordination, 184, 185.

The Piper of Kilbarchan, 79.

The Poet's Welcome to his Love-begotten Daughter, quoted 33-35.

The Rantin' Dog the Daddie o't, quoted 134.

The Rigs o' Barley, quoted 30, 103.

The Twa Dogs, 4, 38, 84, quoted 219.

The Twa Herds, 180.

The Vision, 38.

The Weary Pund o' Tow, quoted 147.

There'll Never be Peace, quoted 166.

There was a Lad, quoted 125.

Thomson, George, 65, 88, 91, 92, 95, 98, 169, 316.

Thomson, James, 86, 318.

To a Haggis, 294, quoted 306.

To a Louse, 38, quoted 274.

To a Mountain Daisy, 38, 86, 190, quoted 276.

To a Mouse, 38, 86, 190, quoted 272.

To Daunton Me, quoted 142.

To Mary in Heaven, 76, quoted 114.

To the Deil, 38, 86, 281, quoted 282.

To the Guidwife of Wauchope House, 316.

To the Rev. John McMath, quoted 181.

To the Unco Guid, 38, quoted 176, 189.

Wallace, History of Sir William, 19.

Wandering Willie, quoted 138.

Watson, James, 81.

West Indies, 37-39.

Wha is that at my Bower Door?, quoted 156.

What Can a Young Lassie, quoted 142.

Whistle and I'll Come to Thee, my Lad, 75, quoted 132.

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 37, quoted 40, 103.

Willie Brew'd a Peck o' Maut, 237, quoted 238.

Willie's Wife, quoted 156.

Wilson, John (Dr. Hornbook), 287.

Winter, a Dirge, 266.

Winter Night, A, 271.

Women, Burns and, 314, 315.

Wordsworth, 318, 319.

Ye Banks and Braes, quoted 130, 131.

Yestreen I had a Pint o' Wine, quoted 104-105, 110.

Young, Dr., 86.

THE END