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ing their harmony on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another station. Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature gives you, your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across the way, what heart at such a time but must have been interested in its welfare, and wished it preserved from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast? Such was the scene, and such the hour, when in a corner of my prospect I spied one of the fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic landscape, or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted who hold commerce with aerial beings! Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object.

What an hour of inspiration for a poet! It would have raised plain, dull, historic prose into metaphor and

measure.

'The enclosed song was the work of my return home; and perhaps it but poorly answers what might have been expected from such a scene.

*

I have the honour to be, Madam,

'Your most obedient, and very humble servant, ROBERT BURNS.

'Twas even-the dewy fields were green,

On every blade the pearls hang;
The Zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In every glen the mavis sang,

All nature listening seem'd the while,
Except where green-wood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle!
With careless step l'onward stray'd,
My heart rejoiced in nature's joy,
When musing in a lonely glade,

A maiden fair I chanced to spy;
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile,
Perfection whisper'd passing by,
Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle !+

*Hang, Scotticism for hung.
+ Variation. The lily's hue and rose's dye
Bespoke the lass o' Ballochmyle.

Fair is the morn in flow'ry May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild:
When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wandering in a lonely wild:
But woman, nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;
E'en there her other works are foil'd
By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain.
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed

That ever rose in Scotland's plain,
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil,
And nightly to my bosom strain

The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep
Where fame and honours lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward sink the Indian mine;
Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks or till the soil,
And every day have joys divine

With the bonny lass o' Ballochniyle.

In the manuscript book in which our poet has recounted this incident, and into which the letter and poem were copied, he complains that the lady made no reply to his effusions, and this appears to have wounded his self-love. It is not, however, difficult to find an excuse for her silence. Her modesty might prevent her from perceiving that the muse of Tibullus breathed in this nameless poet, and that her beauty was awakening strains destined to immortality on the banks of the Ayr. It may be conceived also, that supposing the verses duly appreciated, delicacy might find it difficult to express its acknowledgments. The fervent imagination of the rustic bard possessed more of tenderness than of respect. Instead of raising himself to the condition of the object of his admiration, he presumed to reduce her to his own, and to strain this high-born beauty to his daring bosom.

The sensibility of our bard's temper, and the force of his imagination, exposed him in a particular manner to the impressions of beauty; and these qualities, united to his impassioned eloquence, gave him in turn a powerful influence over the female heart. The banks of the Ayr formed the scene of youthful passions of a still tenderer nature, the history of which it would be improper to reveal, were it even in our power, and the traces of which will soon be discoverable only in those strains of nature

and sensibility to which they gave birth. The song entitled Highland Mary is known to relate to one of these attachments. It was written,' says our bard, on on of the most interesting passages of my youthful days.' The object of this passion died early in life, and the impression left on the mind of Burns seems to have been deep and lasting. Several years afterward, when he was removed to Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of his recollections in the following impassioned lines ad dressed to Mary in Heaven!'

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Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray,

That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast'

That sacred hour can I forget?

Can I forget the hallow'd grove,

Where by the winding Ayr we met,

To live one day of parting love!

Etraity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;

Thy image at our last embrace!

An! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green

The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar,

Twined amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be press'd,
The birds sang love on every spray,

Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

At this time Burns's prospects in life were so extremely gloomy, that he had decided upon going out to Jamaica, and had procured the situation of overseer on an estate belonging to Dr. Douglas; not, however, without lamenting, that want of patronage should force him to think of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when his ambition aimed at no higher object than the station of an exciseman or gauger in his own country. But the situation in which he was now placed cannot be better il lustrated than by introducing the letter which he wrote

to Dr. Moore, giving an account of his life up to this period. As it was never intended to see the light, elegance, or perfect correctness of composition, will not be expected. These, however, will be compensated by the opportunity of seeing our poet, as he gives the incidents of his life, unfold the peculiarities of his character with all the careless vigour and open sincerity of his mind. Mauchline, 2d August, 1787.

'SIR,

For some months past I have been rambling over the country; but I am now confined with some lingering complaints, originating, as I take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to give you a history of myself. My name has made some little noise in this country; you have done me the honour to interest yourself very warmly in my behalf; and I think a faithful account of what character of a man I am, and how I came by that character, may perhaps amuse you in an idle moment. I will give you an honest narrative; though I know it will be often at my own expense ;-for 1 assure you, sir, I have, like Solomon, whose character, except in the trifling affair of wisdom, I sometimes think I resemble,I have, I say, like him, "turned my eyes to behold madness and folly," and, like him, too frequently shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. *** After you have perused these pages, should you think them trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that the poor author wrote them under some twitching qualms of conscience, arising from a suspicion that he was doing what he ought not to do-a predicament he has more than once been in before.

I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that character, which the pye-coated guardians of escutcheons call a Gentleman. When at Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted in the Herald's Office; and looking through that granary of honours, I there found almost every name in the kingdom; but for me,

My ancient but ignoble blood

Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood. Gules, Purpure, Argent, &c. quite disowned me.

'My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmer, and was thrown by early misfortunes on the world at large; where, after many years' wanderings and sojournings, he picked up a pretty large quantity of

observation and experience, to which I am indebted for most of my pretensions to wisdom.-I have met with few who understood men, their manners, and their ways, equal to him; but stubborn, ungainly integrity, and headlong, ungovernable irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances; consequently, I was born a very poor man's son. For the first six or seven years of my life, my father was gardener to a worthy gentleman of small estate in the neighbourhood of Ayr. Had he continued in that station, I must have marched off to be one of the little underlings about a farm-house; but it was his dearest wish and prayer to have it in his power to keep his children under his own eye till they could discern between good and evil; so, with the assistance of his generous master, my father ventured on a small farm on his estate. At those years I was by no means a favourite with any body. I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot piety. I say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar; and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, deadlights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry; but had so strong an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places and though nobody can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in was The Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning, "How are thy servants bless'd, O Lord!" I particularly remember one half-stanza, which was music to my boyish ear

For though on dreadful whirls we hung

High on the broken wave

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