[The Poet's welcome to an Illegitimate Child was composed on the same occasion [as the preceding] a piece in which some very manly feelings are expressed, along with others which it can give no one pleasure to contemplate. There is a song in honour of the same occasion, or a similar one, about the period, The rantin dog the Daddie o't, which exhibits the poet as glorying, and only glorying, in his shame.

same

"When I consider his tender affection for

the surviving members of his own family, and the reverence with which he ever regarded the memory of the father whom he had so recently buried, I cannot believe that Burns has thought fit to record in verse all the feelings which this exposure excited in his bosom. To wave (in his own language) the quantum of the sin,' he who, two years afterwards, wrote the Cotter's Saturday Night had not, we may be sure, hardened his heart to the thought of bringing additional sorrow and unexpected shame to the fire-side of a widowed mother. But his false pride recoiled from letting his jovial associates guess how little he was able to drown the whispers of the still small voice; and the fermenting bitterness of a mind ill at ease within itself escaped (as may be too often traced in the history

VAR. Our billie, Ron, has ta'en a jink.-M.S.

† He's cantered to anither shore.-M.S. An' pray kind Fortune to redress him.-M.S.

Our billie Rоb has ta'en a jink.

The poem must, therefore, have been written in 1786. An old man of the west of Scotland, who still lives to remember him with affection, says-He was subject to great fluctuation of spirits-sometimes he was so depressed that he would shun his most intimate friends; and when observing any one he knew approaching him on the road, he hesitated not to leap over a hedge, or strike into another path, to avoid being disturbed.' He was at such periods as likely to be in a poetic reverie as in a melancholy one."]-CUNNINGHAM.

Verses written under violent Grief.

ACCEPT the gift a friend sincere
Wad on thy worth be pressin' ;
Remembrance oft may start a tear,
But oh! that tenderness forbear,
Though 'twad my sorrows lessen.

My morning raise sae clear and fair,
I thought sair storms wad never
Bedew the scene; but grief and care
In wildest fury hae made bare

My peace, my hope, for ever!

You think I'm glad; oh, I pay weel
For a' the joy I borrow,
In solitude-then, then I feel
I canna to mysel' conceal
My deeply ranklin' sorrow.

Farewell! within thy bosom free

A sigh may whiles awaken; A tear may wet thy laughin' e'e, For Scotia's son-ance gay like theeNow hopeless, comfortless, forsaken !

["The above verses appear to have been written in the distressing summer of 1786, when the poet's prospects were at the dreariest, and the very wife of his fondest affection had forsaken him. From the time, and other circumstances, we may conjecture that the present alluded to was a copy of the Kilmarnock edition of the poems, then newly published."-CHAMBERS.]

The Farewell.

"The valiant in himself, what can he suffer?
Or what does he regard his single woes?
But when, alas! he multiplies himself,
To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair,
To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him,
To helpless children! then, O then! he feels
The point of misery fest'ring in his heart,
And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward.
Such, such am I! undone!"

Thomson's EDWARD AND ELEANORA

I.

FAREWELL, old Scotia's bleak domains, Far dearer than the torrid plains

Where rich ananas blow!

Farewell, a mother's blessing dear!
A brother's sigh! a sister's tear!

My Jean's heart-rending throe!
Farewell, my Bess!† tho' thou'rt bereft
Of my parental care;
A faithful brother I have left,
My part in him thou'lt share!
Adieu too, to you too,

My Smith, my bosom frien';
When kindly you mind me,
Oh then befriend my Jean!

II.

What bursting anguish tears my heart! From thee, my Jeannie, must I part! Thou, weeping, answ'rest, "No!"

James Smith, Merchant, in Mauchline-the same person

Alas! misfortune stares my face,
And points to ruin and disgrace,
I, for thy sake, must go!
Thee, Hamilton and Aiken * dear,
A grateful, warm adieu!
I, with a much-indebted tear,
Shall still remember you!
All-hail then, the gale then,

Wafts me from thee, dear shore!
It rustles, and whistles-
I'll never see thee more!

[These very touching stanzas were composed in the Autumn of 1786, when the prospects of the poet darkened, and he looked towards the West-Indies as a place of refuge, and perhaps of hope. He alludes to every one who shared his affections:- his mother- his brother Gilbert -his illegitimate child Elizabeth, whom he consigned to his brother's care, and for whose support he had appropriated the copyright of his Poems, and to his friends Smith, Hamilton, and Aiken; but in nothing he ever wrote was his affection for Jean Armour more tenderly or more naturally displayed. The verses were first published in the Rev. Hamilton

Paul's edition of the works of Burns-their authenticity is unquestionable.]

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.
EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,
A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye're surnam'd like his Grace;
Perhaps related to the race;
Then when I'm tir'd-and sae are ye,
Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do-maun do, sir, wi' them wha
Maun please the great folks for a wamefu';
For me! sae laigh I needna bow,
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin',
Its just sic poet, an' sic patron.

The poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him,
He may do weel for a' he's done yet,
But only he's no just begun yet.

The patron (Sir, ye maun forgie me,
I winna lie, come what will o' me),
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be,
He's just-nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant He downa see a poor man want; What's no his ain, he winna tak' it, What ance he says, he winna break it; Ought he can lend, he'll no refus't, Till aft his guidness is abus'd; And rascals whyles that do him wrang, Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang: As master, landlord, husband, father, He does na fail his part in either.

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that; Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that; It's naething but a milder feature

Of our

poor, sinfu', corrupt nature:
Ye'll get the best o' moral works,
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,
Wha never heard of orthodoxy.
That he's the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,
It's no thro' terror of d-mn-tion;
It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain !
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is
In moral mercy, truth and justice!

No-stretch a point to catch a plack;
Abuse a brother to his back;
Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re,
But point the rake that tak's the door;
Be to the poor like onie whunstane,
And haud their noses to the grunstane,
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving;
No matter, stick to sound believing.

Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces,
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang, wry faces;
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan,
And damn a' parties but your own;
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver,
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

O ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin'!
Ye sons of heresy and error,
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror!
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath;
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him.
While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans,
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression,
I maist forgat my Dedication;
But when divinity comes 'cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour,
But I maturely thought it proper,

When a' my works I did review,
To dedicate them, Sir, to you:
Because (ye need na tak it ill)

I thought them something like yoursel'.

Then patronize them wi' your favour,
And your petitioner shall ever
I had amaist said,

ever pray;

But that's a word I need na say:
For prayin' I hae little skill o't;
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't;
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r
That kens or hears about you, Sir-

"May ne'er misfortune's growling bark,
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk !
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart
For that same gen'rous spirit smart!
May Kennedy's far-honour'd name
Lang beet his hymeneal flame,
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen,
Are frae their nuptial labours risen :
Five bonnie lasses round their table,
And seven braw fellows stout an' able
To serve their king and country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed steel!
May health and peace, with mutual rays,
Shine on the ev'ning o' his days;
Till his wee curlie John's* ier-oe,
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!"

I will not wind a lang conclusion
Wi' complimentary effusion:
But, whilst your wishes and endeavours
Are blest with fortune's smiles and favours,
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which pow'rs above prevent)
That iron-hearted carl, Want,
Attended in his grim advances,
By sad mistakes and black mischances,
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,
Make you as poor a dog as I am,
Your humble servant then no more;
For who would humbly serve the poor?
But by a poor man's hopes in heav'n!
While recollection's pow'r is giv'n,
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim sad of fortune's strife,
I, thro' the tender gushing tear,
Should recognize my master dear,
If friendless, low, we meet together,
Then, Sir, your hand-my friend and brother!

[In a copy of this "Dedication," in the Poet's hand-writing, the circumstance of rid ing on the sabbath-day is thus neatly introduced:

"I regard this poem as one of Burns's very best. There is a great deal of humour and good nature in it." HOGG.

"The epistles of Burns, in which may be included his Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq., discover, like his other writings, the powers of a superior understanding. They display deep insight into human nature, a gay and happy strain of reflection, great independence of sentiment and generosity of heart." CURRIE.

Gavin Hamilton, the steady friend of the poet, was descended from the Hamiltons of Kype in Lanark-shire.

"It is related of the laird of Ky Kype, that he was once paying a visit to the Duke of Hamilton, when his Grace inquired in what degree he was related to the ducal house, and whereabouts in the family tree the race of Kype was to be found. It would be needless to seek the root among the branches,' answered the haughty laird, who perhaps had some pretensions to be of the principal stock of the Hamiltons, or knew, at least, that the claims of the ducal house to the chieftainship were by no means clear."-CHAMBERS.

ELEGY

ON

The Death of Robert Ruisseaux.

Now Robin lies in his last lair,
He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,
Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare,

Nae mair shall fear him;

Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,

E'er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, Except the moment that they crush't him: For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em,

Tho' e'er sae short, Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em, And thought it sport.

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark,
And counted was baith wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin's mark

To mak a man;
But tell him, he was learn'd and clark,
Ye roos'd him than!

[Cromek found this fragment among the papers of Burns, and printed it in the Reliques, with the intimation only that Ruisseaux was a play upon the Poet's own name. It is probably a portion of a poem in which he desired to dissect himself, and shew his evil and his good to the world; but, not having commenced so happily as he wished, he threw it aside, and resumed the subject in that noble and touching strain, "A Bard's Epitaph." -" He meets us in his compositions," says Campbell, "undisguised as a peasant; at the same time his observations go extensively into life, like those of a man who felt the proper dignity of human nature in the character of a peasant." Perhaps of all poets Burns poured most of himself into poetry. Byron appears in his verse as in a mask, and never comes fairly and unhesitatingly forward; of Scott,

"Some saw an arm, and some a hand,
And some the waving of a gown."

Of Campbell personally we know nothing from his verse; nor has Southey shewn himself. Burns painted his own portrait, and did it so darkly that others have presumptuously increased the gloom in their delineations of his character.-ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.]

Letter to James Tait,

OF GLENCONNER.

AULD comrade dear, and brither sinner,
How's a' the folk about Glenconner?
How do ye this blae eastlin win',
That's like to blaw a body blin'?
For me, my faculties are frozen,
My dearest member nearly dozen'.
I've sent you here, by Johnnie Simson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on!
Reid, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
An' Smith, to common sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled,
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled,
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd,
An' in the depth of science mir'd,
To common sense they now appeal,
What wives an' wabsters see and feel.
But, hark ye, frien'! I charge you strictly,
Peruse them, an' return them quickly,
For now I'm grown sae cursed douce
I pray an' ponder but the house,
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin',
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Boston;
Till by an' by, if I haud on,
I'll grunt a real gospel-groan :
Already I begin to try it,
To cast my e'en up like a pyet,
When by the gun she tumbles o'er,
Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore:
Sae shortly you shall see me bright,
A burning an' a shining light.

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,-
The ace an' wale of honest men:
When bending down wi' auld grey hairs,
Beneath the load of years and cares,
May He who made him still support him,
An' views beyond the grave comfort him.
His worthy fam'ly, far and near,
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear!

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie,

The manly tar, my mason Billie,
An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy;
If he's a parent, lass or boy,
May he be dad, and Meg the mither,
Just five-and-forty years thegither!
An' no forgetting wabster Charlie,
I'm tauld he offers very fairly.
An' L-d, remember singing Sannock,
Wi' hale-breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock.

An' next my auld acquaintance, Nancy,
Since she is fitted to her fancy;
An' her kind stars hae airted till her
A good chiel wi' a pickle siller.
My kindest, best respects I sen' it,
To cousin Kate an' sister Janet;
Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious,
For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashions;
To grant a heart is fairly civil,

But to grant a maidenhead's the devil.-
An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel,
May guardian angels tak' a spell,
An' steer you seven miles south o' hell:
But first, before you see heav'n's glory,
May ye get monie a merry story,
Monie a laugh, and monie a drink,
And aye eneugh o' needfu' clink.

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you,
For my sake this I beg it o' you,
Assist poor Simson a' ye can,
Ye'll fin' him just an honest man:
Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter,
Your's, saint or sinner,

ROB THE RANTER.

[Tait, of Glenconner, accompanied Burns to Nithsdale in 1788, and advised him respecting the farm of Ellisland. -" I am just returned," says the Poet to a correspondent, “from Miller's farm. My old friend, whom I took with me, was highly pleased with the bargain, and advised me to accept of it. He is the most intelligent, sensible farmer in the county, and his advice has staggered me a good deal." To a correspondent of another complexion and character, Burns wrote, regarding "Old Glenconner," " I am thinking my farming scheme will yet hold. A worthy, intelligent farmer, my father's friend and my own, has been with me on the spot: he thinks the bargain practicable. I am myself, on a more serious review of the lands, much better pleased with them. I won't trust this to any body in writing but you."

The poem is one of those hasty and everyday-business-like effusions which Burns occasionally penned. Though not at all equal to some of his earlier epistles, yet it is well worth preserving, as a proof of the ease with which