to gather a wreath of "henbane-nettles and night more than sufficient for his present demands, he de- "To twine The illustrious brow of Scotch nobility," poor Burns was necessarily brought into contact with low associates, and intemperance soon became his tyrant. Unable to reconcile the two occupations, his farm was in a great measure abandoned to his servants, and agriculture but seldom occupied his thoughts. Meantime, there were seldom wanting persons to lead him to a tavern; to applaud the sallies of his wit; and to witness at once the strengt and degradation of his genius. The consequences may be easily imagined: at the expiration of abou three years, he was compelled to relinquish his lease and to rely upon his income of 701. per annum, as an exciseman, till he should obtain promotion. With this intention, he removed to a small house in Dumfries, about the end of the year 1791. In 1792, he contributed to Thomson's collection of Scottish songs; and, about the same time, formed a sort of book society in his neighbourhood. In the mean time, he appears to have given offence to the board of excise, by some intemperate conduct and expressions relative to the French revolution, particularly in attempting to send a captured smuggler as a present to the French convention; and an inquiry was in consequence instituted into his conduct. A short time previously to this, it should be men- The result was, upon the whole, favourable; but tioned, that Burns had obtained, through a friend, an impression, injurious to Burns, was still left upon an appointment in the excise; but with no inten- the minds of the commissioners, and he was told tion of making use of his commission except on that his promotion, which was deferred, must depend some reverse of fortune. He now took possession on his future behaviour. This seems to have morof his farm; but as the house required rebuilding, tified him keenly, and to have made him feel his Mrs. Burns could not, for some time, remove thither, dependent situation as a degradation to his future a circumstance peculiarly unfortunate, as it caused fame. "Often," he says, in a letter to a gentleman, him to lead a very irregular and unsettled life.giving an account of the above circumstances, “in The determination, which he had formed, of aban-blasting anticipation, have I listened to some future doning his dissipated pursuits was broken in upon, and his industry was frequently interrupted by visiting his family in Ayrshire. As the distance was too great for a single day's journey, he generally spent a night at an inn on the road, and on such occasions, falling into company, all his resolutions were forgotten. Temptation also awaited him nearer home he was received at the tables of the neighbouring gentry with kindness and respect, and these social parties too often seduced him from the labours of his farm, and his domestic duties, in which the happiness and welfare of his family were now involved. Mrs. Burns joined her husband at Elliesland, in November, 1788; and as she had, during the autumn, lain-in of twins, they had now five children—four boys and a girl. On this occasion, Burns resumed, at times, the occupation of a labourer, and found neither his strength nor his skill impaired. Sentiments of independence cheered his mind, pictures of domestic content and peace rose on his imagination, and a few "golden days" passed away, the happiest, perhaps, which he had ever experienced. But these were not long to last: the farming speculation was soon looked on with despondence, and neglected; and the excise became the only resource. In this capacity, in reference to which beggarly provision for their bard, Mr. Coleridge indignantly calls upon his friend Lamb, hackney scribbler, with heavy malice of savage stupidity, exultingly asserting that Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronade of independence to be found in his works, and after having been held up to public view and to public estimation as a man of some genius, yet quite destitute of resources within himself to support his borrowed dignity, dwindled into a paltry exciseman; and slunk out the rest of his insignificant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the lowest of mankind.” It seems, however, that the board of excise did not altogether neglect Burns, who was, the year previous to his death, permitted to act as a supervisor. From October, 1795, to the January following, illness confined him to his house; but, going out a few days after, he imprudently dined at a tavern, and returned home about three o'clock in a very cold morning, benumbed and intoxicated. This occasioned a severe relapse, and he soon himself became sensible that his constitution was sinking, and his death approaching. He, however, repaired to Brow, in Annandale, to try the effects of sea-bathing; which, though it relieved his rheuma tic pains, was succeeded by a fresh accession of fever, and he was brought back to his own house in Dumfries, on the 18th of July, 1796. He remained for three days in a state of feebleness, accompanied by occasional delirium, and expired on the 21st of July, in the thirty-eighth year of his age. He was interred, with military honours, by the Dumfries volunteers, to which body he belonged, and his remains were followed to the grave by nearly ten thousand spectators. He left a widow and four sons, for whom the inhabitants of Dumfries opened a subscription, which, in itself considerable, was aug-present.' Burns was in the street, and in the midst mented by the profits of the edition of his works, in four volumes, octavo, published in 1800, by Dr. Currie, with a life of the poet. A nod, accompanied by a significant movement of the forefinger, brought Kate to the doorway or trance, and I was near enough to hear the following words distinctly uttered :- Kate, are ye mad? D'ye no ken that the supervisor and me will be in upon you in the course of forty minutes? Guid-by to ye at Burns was within two inches of six feet in height, with a robust, yet agile frame; a finely formed face, and an uncommonly interesting countenance. His well-raised forehead indicated great intellect, and his eyes are described as having been large, dark, and full of ardour and animation. His conversation was rich in wit and humour, and occasionally displayed profound thought, and refiections equally serious and sensible; for no one possessed a finer discrimination between right and wrong. Though his moral aberrations, for which he felt the keenest remorse, have been exaggerated, the latter years of his life were undoubtedly disgraceful, both to the man and to the poet; yet, amid his career of intemperance, he preserved a warmth and generosity of heart, and an independence of mind not less surprising or peculiar than his genius. of the crowd in an instant; and I had reason to know that his friendly hint was not neglected. It saved a poor widow woman from a fine of several pounds."-Though totally free from presumption, in the presence of the superior circles of society to which he was admitted, he did not hesitate to express his opinions strongly and boldly. A certain well-known provincial bore, as Mr. Lockhart describes him, having left a tavern-party, of which Burns was one, he, the bard, immediately demanded a bumper, and, addressing himself to the chair, said, "I give you the health, gentlemen all, of the waiter that called my Lord -out of the room." He was no mean extemporizer; and the following verse is said to have been introduced by him, in a song, in allusion to one of the company who had been boasting, somewhat preposterously, of his aristocratic acquaintances: "Of lordly acquaintance you boast, And the dukes that you dined wi' yestreen, Mr. Lockhart, in his life of Burns, gives several instances, which show that " he shrunk with horror Though it crawl on the curl of a queen." and loathing from all sense of pecuniary obligation, no matter to whom." In answer to a letter from The poetry of Burns, who has acquired almost equal Mr. Thomson, enclosing him 57. for some of his songs, fame by his prose, is now too universally acknowhe says, "I assure you, my dear sir, that you truly ledged and appreciated, to require further analysis hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades or criticism. "Fight, who will, about words and me in my own eyes. However, to return it would forms," says Byron, "Burns's rank is in the first savour of affectation; but, as to any more traffic of class of his art ;" but, as Mr. Lockhart observes, that debtor and creditor kind, I swear, by that honour" to accumulate all that has been said of Burns, which crowns the upright statue of Robert Burns's integrity on the least motion of it, I will indignantly spurn the by-past transaction, and from that moment commence entire stranger to you."-The following anecdote is told of him in his character of exciseman, by a writer in the Edinburgh Literary Journal, who saw him at Thornhill fair. "An information," he says, "had been lodged against a poor widow woman, of the name of Kate Wilson, who had ventured to serve a few of her old country friends with a draught of unlicensed ale, and a lacing of whisky, on this village jubilee. I saw him enter her door, and anticipated nothing short of an immediate seizure of a certain gray beard and barrel, which, to my personal knowledge, contained the contraband commodities our bard was in quest of. even by men like himself, of the first order, would fill a volume." We shall conclude, therefore, with an observation of Mr. Campbell, that "viewing him merely as a poet, there is scarcely another regret connected with his name, than that his productions, with all their merit, fall short of the talents which he possessed." Burns's character is, upon the whole, honestly drawn by his own pen, in the serio-comic epitaph, written on himself, concluding with the following verse : "Reader, attend-whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, THE TWA DOGS, A TALE. "Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, That bears the name o' Auld King coil, Upon a bonnie day in June, When wearing through the afternoon, Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, Forgather'd ance upon a time. The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar, Was keepit for his honour's pleasure: His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, Show'd him the gentleman and scholar; But though he was o' high degree, The fient a pride, na pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, E'en wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, But he wad stawn't, as glad to see him, And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi'im. The tither was a ploughman's collie, He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, His breast was white, his towzie back Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' thick thegither; Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit, Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit; Whyles scour'd awa' in lang excursion, An' worry'd ither in diversion; Until wi' daffin weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression About the lords o' the creation. CÆSAR. I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; An' when the gentry's life I saw What way poor bodies liv'd ava. Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a' his stents; Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. He rises when he likes himsel; He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse; As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks, Frae morn to e'en it's naught but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' though the gentry first are stechin, Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sicklike trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant man His honour has in a' the lan': An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it's past my comprehension. LUATH. Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash❜t eneugh; A cottar howkin in a sheugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, CESAR. But then to see how ye're negleckit, I've noticed on our laird's court-day, How they maun thole a factor's snash: I see how folk live that hae riches; LUATH. They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think; Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a' their fire side. An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy; They lay aside their private cares, To mend the kirk and state affairs; They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, Or tell what new taxation's coming, An' ferlie at the folk in Lon❜on. 'As bleak-faced Hallowmass returns, They get the jovial, ranting kirns, When rural life, o' ev'ry station, Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, Forgets there's care upo' the earth. That merry day the year begins, Still it's owre true that ye hae said, CESAR. Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; For Britain's guid! guid faith! I doubt it, Say rather, gaun as premiers lead him, An' saying ay or no's they bid him, At operas an' plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading; Or may be, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To make a tour, an' tak a whirl, To learn bon ton, an' see the warl'. There, at Vienna or Versailles For Britain's guid! for her destruction! LUATH. Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an' harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last! O would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themsels wi' kintra sports, It wa'd for every ane be better, The laird, the tenant, and the cotter! For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; Except for breakin o' their timmer, Or speakin lightly o' their limmer, Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock, The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor fo❜k. But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, The vera thought o't need na fear them. CESAR. L-d, man, were ye but whyles where I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. granes: It's true they need na starve or sweat, Through winter's cauld, or simmer's heat; They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, An' fill auld age wi' gripes an' But human bodies are sic fools, For a' their colleges and schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They make enow themselves to vex them; An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion less will hurt them. A country fellow at the pleugh, His acres till'd, he's right eneugh; A kintra lassie at her wheel, Her dizzens done, she's unco weel: But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; Though deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days, insipid, dull, an' tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless; An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races, Their galloping through public places. There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches, Then sowther a' in deep debauches; Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring, Niest day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great and gracious a' as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, They sip the scandal portion pretty ; Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil's pictured beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. There's some exception, man an' woman; But this is gentry's life in common. By this, the sun was out o' sight, An' darker gloaming brought the night! The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; The kye stood row tin i' the loan; When up they gat, and shook their lugs, Rejoiced they were na men but dogs; An' each took aff his several way, Resolved to meet some ither day. DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. SOME books are lies frae end to end, In holy rapture, A rousing whid, at times to vend, And nail't wi' Scripture. But this that I am gaun to tell, Or Dublin city: An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye The rising moon began to glow'r I there wi' something did forgather, A three-tae'd leister on the ither Clear-dangling, hang; Lay, large an' lang. Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, And then, its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' As cheeks o' branks. "Guid-e'en," quo' I; "Friend! hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin ?** It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', But naething spak; At length, says I, "Friend, whare ye gaun, This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785. It spak right howe,-" My name is Death, But be na fley'd."-Quoth I, "Guid faith, Ye're may be come to stap my breath; But tent me, billie: I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, See, there's a gully!" "Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle; But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd, I wad na mind it, no, that spittle Out-owre my beard." "Well, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; We'll ease our shanks; an' tak a seat, Come, gies your news; This while ye hae been monie a gate At monie a house." "Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head, "It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the thread, An' choke the breath: Folk maun do something for their bread, An' sae maun Death. "Sax thousand years are near hand fled Sin' I was to the butching bred, An' monie a scheme in vain's been laid, To stap or scar me; Till ane Hornbook'st ta'en up the trade, "Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, "See, here's a sithe, and there's a dart, And cursed skill, Has made them baith not worth a f―t, Damn'd haet they'll kill. ""Twas but yestreen, nae further gaen, I threw a noble throw at ane; Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; But deil-ma-care, It just play'd dirl on the bane, But did nae mair. "Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, And had sae fortified the part, That when I looked to my dart, It was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierced the heart Of a kail-runt. * An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally, a brother of the sovereign order of the ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary, sur geon, and physician. + Buchan's Domestic Medicine. |