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
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, 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 B C D E F G H I J K L M
N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z