Burns never failed when he let the affections guide his pen, and wrote the uppermost thought as it rose. But Goldsmith was not his model. In youth he had been ensnared by the "wits," and Pope became the object of his imitation. With such an artist who might contend? Burns possessed silver and gold; but only skill the most accomplished, and practice untiring, could raise the rare chasing on the metal. These endowments he wanted, and his celebrated letters are themes. They have a worse fault his adulation is immense; and no scribbler, bribing Harley for a meal, ever outshamed the reply of Burns to the "Card" of Lord Buchan. But I will not linger on his faults, of which some did really lean to the side of virtue. And even flattery is occasionally the heart's voice speaking loud. Burns had in him the seeds of a noble character, and the ground was good; but while he slept "his enemy came and sowed tares with the wheat," and the fruit and the weeds grew together. Jeffrey speculated on the healthful influence of pure examples and wise lessons put gently before him. The effort would have been hazardous, for his pride was full of eyes, always wakeful. He boasted of it as a necessity of life, and wished to be stretched to his full length in the grave, that he might occupy every inch of the ground to which he was entitled. His employment sharpened his tone. A moderate independence, literary leisure, and cultivated friends might have cherished a sweeter temper of charity and meekness in the poet-gauger, weary of a weekly gallop of two hundred miles, and the inspection of yeasty barrels. And what reader of Burns will refuse to echo the voice of Wordsworth, in his sympathy and his prayer ? Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight— When Wisdom prospered in his sight, Yes, freely let our hearts expand, Our pleasure varying at command Through busiest street and loneliest glen He rules 'mid winter snows, and when Deep in the general heart of men Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven And memory of Earth's bitter leaven But why to Him confine the prayer, The best of what we do and are, Dedication of the Second Edition of Poems. TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN OF THE CALEDONIAN HUNT. MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN, A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is to sing in his Country's service-where shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of his native Land,those who bear the honours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors? The Poetic Genius of my Country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha-at the plough; and threw her inspiring mantle She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue; I tuned my wild, artless notes, as she inspired. She whispered me to come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my Song under your honoured protection: I now obey her dictates. over me. Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for past favours; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address with the venal soul of a servile Author, looking for a continuation of those favours: I was bred to the Plough, and am independent. I come to claim the common Scottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen; and to tell the world that I glory in the title. I come to congratulate my Country, that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated; and that from your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your welfare and happiness. When you go forth to awaken the Echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party; and may Social Joy await your return. When harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured worth attend your return to your native Seats; and may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates! May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance, and may tyranny in the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People, equally find you an inexorable foe! I have the honour to be, With the sincerest gratitude, and highest respect, My Lords and Gentlemen, Your most devoted humble servant, Edinburgh, April 4, 1787. ROBERT BURNS. THE POEMS OF BURNS. THE TWA DOGS.1 A TALE. 'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, When wearing thro' the afternoon, The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar, His locked, letter'd, braw" brass collar, And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him. 1 "The Tale of Twa Dogs" was composed after the resolution of publishing was nearly taken. Robert had a dog, which he called Luath, that was a great favourite. The dog had been killed by the wanton cruelty of some person the night before my father's death. Robert said to me that he should like to confer such immortality as he could bestow on his old friend Luath, and that he had a great mind to introduce something into the book under the title of "Stanzas to the Memory of a quadruped Friend;" but this plan was given up for the Tale as it now stands. Cæsar was merely the creature of the poet's imagination, created for the purpose of holding chat with his favourite Luath. 2 A Pictish king, said to have given a name to Kyle. Handsome. 7 Fiend. B G. B. 3 Encountered. 10 Dog with matted hair, вигу The tither was a ploughman's collie,1 Wha for his friend and comrade had him, 3 Was made lang syne,-Lord knows how lang. CESAR. I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, What way poor bodies liv'd ava.12 Our Laird gets in his racked rents, His flunkies answer at the bell; He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse; 14 As lang's my tail, whare thro' the steeks,14 Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, 16 2 A brother. 3 Cuchullin's dog in "Ossian's Fingal.". 5 A ditch. 9 Loins. 8 Large. 16 Cmming. 11 6 White-striped. 10 Scented. 11 Digged. 15 Peeps. 14 Stitches. 17 Stomach. |