On gown, and ban', and douce black bonnet, grave Lest they should blame her, And rouse their holy thunder on it, I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy, Can easy, wi' a single wordic, Lowse h-upon mc. But I gae mad at their grimaces, fearful Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces, Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces Waur nor their nonsense. A sobriquet borrowed from the clever old Scotch song, Maggy Lauder. stretching 2 At that time enjoying the appointment of assistant and successor to the Rev. Peter Wodrow, minister of Torbolton. He was an excellent preacher, and a decided moderate. He enjoyed the friendship of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, and of Burns, but unhappily fell into low spirits, in consequence of his dependent situation, and became dissipated. He died in obscurity at Rossul, in the Isle of Mull, December 1825. There's Gawn,' misca't waur than a beast, Than mony scores as guid 's the priest And may a bard no crack his jest What way they've use't him? See him, the poor man's friend in need, And not a Muse erect her head O Pope, had I thy satire's darts Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd. wretches fellows false scope Though blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain, With trembling voice I tune my strain Who boldly daur thy cause maintain In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, O Ayr! my dear, my native ground, As men, as Christians too, renowned, Sir, in that circle you are named; Even, sir, by them your heart's esteemed, Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, And if impertinent I've been, Impute it not, good sir, in ane Whase heart ne'er wranged ye, But to his utmost would befriend Ought that belanged ye. The meagre harvest of '85 was gathered, and Robert and Gilbert Burns must have begun to entertain serious misgivings regarding their prospects. Robert, we have seen, was by this time made aware that he could write so as to draw the approbation of something above a rustic audience. His brother, possessed, like himself, of a cultivated mind and literary taste far above the common world, was at his side to whisper what must have been a precious applause, when, in the intervals of labour, he recited some of those verses, yet fresh from the mint of his glowing mind, which have since been the rapture of multitudes, and the burden of a nation's acclaim. Gilbert tells us, that in the course of a Sunday-walk, the poet repeated to him the Cotter's Saturday Night, and he was electrified by it. The fifth, sixth, and eighteenth stanzas thrilled with ecstacy through his soul.' Can we suppose that Robert would hear the expression of such feelings from a brother whom he knew to be a highly intelligent and reflecting person, without being stirred up into some fond apprehensions of the possibility of succeeding as a poet, and even by poetry mending in some degree fortunes on which all common industrial exertions seemed to be thrown away? And it may be asked, if it be quite possible for any man, in whatever circumstances, to possess the power of pouring forth such verses as those of the Cotter's Saturday Night, without some consciousness that he can command the attention of his fellow-creatures? Scarcely, we suspect. And, indeed, he himself tells us, that by weighing himself against others, he had come to as great confidence in the merit of his poems before their publication, as he ever had afterwards when they had received the stamp of public approbation. We, therefore, deem it more than merely likely, that before the end of this year the notion of publishing had come upon Burns, and that he began accordingly to exert himself vigorously in the composition of poems not strictly, as for the most part hitherto, occasional. Holding the plough,' we are told by Gilbert, was a favourite situation with Robert for poetic composition, and some of his best verses were produced while he was at that exercise.' The ploughing for winter-wheat began in November, and Burns had then, of course, an opportunity of subjecting himself to the stimulus so favourable to his Muse. That he took due advantage of it, or was very soon after at least engaged in composing some of his most important pocms, appears from a letter which he addressed in February 1786 to his young friend John Richmond. On the strength of this information, and from other circumstances, we set down as the composition of the latter autumn and early winter the following brilliant scries of compositions:-To a Mouse, Halloween, Man was made to Mourn, The Cotter's Saturday Night, Address to the Deil, The Jolly Beggars, To James Smith, The Vision, The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer, The Twa Dogs, The Ordination, and Scotch Drink-being, in fact, the principal basis of the fame which the bard subsequently attained. Such an amount of literary industry is uncommon with all; it was unprecedented in Burns, whose previous verses were usually prompted by the passion or whim of the hour. But now, if our theory is correct, the bard of Mossgiel had an end in view for his writings. That such was indeed the case-though hitherto it does not appear in his biography-is in a manner affirmed by his confidant, Gilbert, who expressly says, that 'The Twa Dogs was composed after the resolution of publishing was nearly taken.' The Twa Dogs, we see, was executed before February 17, 1786, a date some considerable time anterior to that at which the resolution of publishing is usually said to have been formed. Some interest must necessarily attach to the personal circumstances of Burns at the time when he was pouring forth these immortal lays. Sir William Allan has, with poetical feeling, painted the peasant-bard seated at study, in his ordinary workingattire, and with a pen in his hand: he represents him sitting in a roomy apartment, where many articles customarily seen in a comfortable farmhouse are scattered about. The conception of the scene appears sufficiently humble; but I am assured that it greatly exceeds the reality in point of dignity. The farmhouse of Mossgiel, which still exists nearly as in the days of the poet, consists mainly of a kitchen and parlour, both containing several beds. Almost the only other apartment in the house is a kind of garret-closet, accessible by a narrow trap-stair ascending from the lobby. This little room is sufficiently lighted by a window of four small panes, set in the sloping roof by which the internal space is contracted fully a third. Mrs Begg relates that her two brothers occupied a small curtainless bed in this apartment. Under the window, the poet had a little deal-table, in which there was a drawer. It was here he transcribed the verses which for the most part he had composed in the fields. Often did his youngest sister steal up, after he had gone out to his afternoon labour, to search the drawer for the verses he had just written off. One cannot but take a pleasure in such particulars, as shewing in so striking a light the independence of the spirit of man on the humble or trivial circumstances by which its earthly tabernacle may be surrounded. TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785. VOL. I. Wee, slcekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, Oh what a panic's in thy breastie ! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle!1 1 The stick used for clearing away the clods from the plough. J hasty clatter |