measure in Caledonia, 'The Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast,' when a letter from Dr Blacklock to a friend of mine overthrew all my schemes, by opening up new prospects to my poetic ambition." The poems were published in July 1786, and the copy which attracted the notice of Dr Blacklock was sent him, with a short account of the poet, by Dr Laurie, minister of Loudoun. Burns thus, no doubt gladly, diverted from his intended exile, made his debût in Edinburgh in November 1786, and was at once introduced to its literary and social celebrities, which at that time were both numerous and distinguished. | Everywhere he maintained his proud intellectual equality, and astonished all classes by the power and originality of his conversation, and the unrestrained ease of his manners. During his stay in Edinburgh he prepared a second edition of his poems, which appeared in April 1787, dedicated to the Caledonian Hunt, and 2800 copies were subscribed for. By this edition he cleared £500, from which he advanced his brother Gilbert, who had taken charge of their aged mother, the sum of £200.
After making a tour through Scotland, north and south, he took a lease of the farm of Ellisland, in Dumfriesshire. He removed thither at Whitsunday 1788, and at the end of the year was joined by his wife, whose parents had previously | consented to their union. He also became a candidate for admission as an officer of excise, and obtained an early appointment. This last was a reserve in case of the farm not succeeding. It was not long before he had to fall back upon it; for in 1791 he gave up his
farm, and went to live in Dumfries, depending solely upon his excise income of £70 a year.
In 1792, he was requested by George Thomson, of Edinburgh, to assist him with a collection of Scottish songs and music, of which he had begun the publication. Burns entered into the scheme with ardent enthusiasm, and besides collecting songs and airs wherever he could find them, contributed such a wealth of original songs as no previous poet had ever written. After his removal to Dumfries, his social habits underwent a change for the worse, and, not long after, his health began to fail. But amid all the depressions of ill health, he continued his delightful labour of song-writing and criticism, till within a short period of his death, which took place on the 21st July 1796. He was buried in the churchyard of St Michael's, in the presence of ten thousand of his mourning countrymen. A mausoleum has since been erected over his remains, and the spot is visited by the admirers of his genius from many lands.
Of no poet is it more difficult to summarise the various excellencies than of Burns; but, at the same time, of none is it less necessary to attempt any new estimate. His character as a man and
as a poet are in the hands of everybody; and it simply remains to point out, that the selection of his poems which follow is made on the principle of illustrating the breadth and intensity of the national character of which he was so marked, so varied, and so faithful a representative. Instead of his most popular masterpieces, which are
familiar to everybody, -as "Tam o' Shanter," "The Cotter's Saturday Night," &c., we have given some others in which his genius shines equally pure, though with less dazzling brilliancy. We agree with Carlyle in thinking "The Jolly Beggars" his greatest
'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, That bears the name of auld King Coil, Upon a bonny day in June,
When wearing through the afternoon,
Twa dogs that werena thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.
The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure;
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride-nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin',
Even wi' a tinkler-gypsy's messin :
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, roving billie,
Wha for his friend and comrade had him,
And in his freeks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang,
Was made langsyne-Lord knows how
lang.
He was a gash and faithfu' tyke
As ever lap a sheugh or dike;
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.
Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
And unco pack and thick thegither;
Wi'
social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit;
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit,
Whyles scour'd awa' in lang excursion,
And worried ither in diversion;
Until wi' daffin' weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down,
And there began a lang digression
About the lords o' the creation.
I've often wonder'd, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have;
And when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies lived ava.
Our laird gets in his rackèd rents,
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents;
He rises when he likes himsel;
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse;
He draws a bonny silken purse
As lang's my tail, whare, through the
steeks,
The yellow-letter'd Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling,
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
And though the gentry first are stechin,
Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan
That's little short o' downright wastrie.
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and siclike trashtrie,
Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner,
Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner
Better than ony tenant man
His honour has in a' the lan';
And what poor cot-folk pit their painchin,
I own it's past my comprehension.
Then chance and fortune are sae guided, They're aye in less or mair provided ;
Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fasht And though fatigued wi' close employment,
A cotter howkin' in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dike,
Baring a quarry, and siclike;
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
And nought but his han' darg to keep
Them right and tight in thack and rape.
And when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
And they maun starve o'cauld and hunger;
But how it comes I never kenn'd yet,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented:
And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
But then to see how ye're neglectit,
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit!
Lord, man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk
As I wad by a stinkin' brock.
I've noticed, on our laird's court-day,
And mony a time my heart's been wae,
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash:
He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear,
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,
And hear it a', and fear and tremble!
I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor folk maun be wretches!
They're no sae wretched's ane wad think, Though constantly on poortith's brink : They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, The view o't gies them little fright.
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their grushie weans and faithfu' wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fire-side;
And whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy
Can mak the bodies unco happy ;
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and State affairs:
They'll talk o' patronage and priests,
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts;
Or tell what new taxation's comin',
And ferlie at the folk in Lun'on.
As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns,
They get the jovial ranting kirns,
When rural life o' every station
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.
That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty wins ;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe and sneeshin mill
Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse,
The young anes rantin' through the
house,
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.
Still it's ower true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now ower aften play'd.
There's mony a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin'
For Britain's guid his saul indentin'.
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it;
For Britain's guid! guid faith, I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him;
And saying Ay or No's they bid him :
At operas and plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading;
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,
To Hague or Calais tak a waft,
To mak a tour, and tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, and see the worl'.
There, at Vienna or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails;
Or by Madrid he takes the rout,
To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles,
Whore-hunting among groves o' myrtles,
Then bouses drumly German water,
To mak himsel look fair and fatter,
And clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain's guid!--for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction!
Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate !
Are we sae foughten and harass'd
For gear to gang that gate at last!
Oh, would they stay aback fra courts,
An' please themsels wi' country sports,
It wad for every ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breakin' o' their timmer,
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer,
Or shootin' o' a hare or moorcock,
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar,
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,
The very thought o't needna fear them.
Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em.
It's true they needna starve nor sweat
Through winter's cauld, or simmer's heat;
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes,
And fill auld age wi' grips and granes:
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsels to vex them;
And aye the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel:
But Gentlemen, and Ladies warst,
Wi' e'endown want o' wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank and lazy;
Though deil haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless;
And e'en their sports, their balls and races,
Their galloping through public places,
There's sic parade, sic pomp and art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches,
Then sowther a' in deep debauches;
Ae night they're mad wi' drink and whor-
ing,
Neist day their life is past enduring.
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great and gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils and jads thegither.
Whyles, ower the wee bit cup and platie,
They sip the scandal potion pretty :
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks,
Pore ower the devil's pictured beuks,
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
And cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.
There's some exception, man and woman :
But this is Gentry's life in common.
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