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!
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.
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'!
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.
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, disgust
Looks down wi' sneering scornfu' view
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.
- Æneid (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.
-
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.