TO DR MOORE. ELLISLAND, 28th February 1791. I do not know, sir, whether you are a subscriber to Grose's Antiquities of Scotland. If you are, the enclosed poem will not be altogether new to you. Captain Grose did me the favour to send me a dozen copies of the proof-sheet, of which this is one. Should you have read the piece before, still this will answer the principal end I have in view-it will give me another opportunity of thanking you for all your goodness to the rustic bard, and also of shewing you that the abilities you have been pleased to commend and patronise are still employed in the way you wish. The Elegy on Captain Henderson is a tribute to the memory of a man I loved much. Poets have in this the same advantage as Roman Catholics: they can be of service to their friends after they have passed that bourne where all other kindness ceases to be of avail. Whether, after all, either the one or the other be of any real service to the dead, is, I fear, very problematical, but I am sure they are highly gratifying to the living and as a very orthodox text, I forget where in Scripture, says, 'Whatsoever is not of faith, is sin; so say I, whatsoever is not detrimental to society, and is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all good things, and ought to be received and enjoyed by His creatures with thankful delight. As almost all my religious tenets originate from my heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the idea that I can still keep up a tender intercourse with the dearly-beloved friend, or still more dearly-beloved mistress, who is gone to the world of spirits. The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with Percy's Reliques of English Poetry. By the way, how much is every honest heart, which has a tincture of Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for your glorious story of Buchanan and Targe! "Twas an unequivocal proof of your loyal gallantry of soul giving Targe the victory. I should have been mortified to the ground if you had not.1 I have just read over once more of many times your Zeluco. I marked with my pencil as I went along every passage that pleased me particularly above the rest, and one or two which, with humble deference, I am disposed to think unequal to the merits of the book. I have sometimes thought to transcribe these marked passages, or at least so much of them as to point where they are, and send them to you. Original strokes that strongly depict the human heart, is your and Fielding's province beyond any other novelist I have ever perused. Richardson, indeed, might 1 In Dr Moore's novel, Buchanan represents the Lowland Puritan feeling of Scotland, Targe the Cavalier Highland spirit. In a fight arising from a quarrel about the honour of Queen Mary, Targe is victor. perhaps be excepted; but unhappily his dramatis personæ are beings of another world; and, however they may captivate the inexperienced, romantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever, in proportion as we have made human nature our study, dissatisfy our riper years. As to my private concerns-I am going on, a mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have lately had the interest to get myself ranked on the list of Excise as a supervisor. I am not yet employed as such, but in a few years I shall fall into the file of supervisorship by seniority. I have had an immense loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn, the patron from whom all my fame and fortune took its rise. Independent of my grateful attachment to him, which was indeed so strong that it pervaded my very soul, and was entwined with the thread of my existence; so soon as the prince's friends had got in-and every dog you know has his day-my getting forward in the Excise would have been an easier business than otherwise it will be. Though this was a consummation devoutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can live and rhyme as I am; and as to my boys, poor little fellows! if I cannot place them on as high an elevation in life as I could wish, I shall, if I am favoured so much by the Disposer of events as to see that period, fix them on as broad and independent a basis as possible. Among the many wise adages which have been treasured up by our Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best: Better be the head o' the commonalty than the tail o' the gentry. But I am got on a subject which, however interesting to me, is of no manner of consequence to you; so I shall give you a short poem on the other page, and close this with assuring you how sincerely I have the honour to be, yours, &c. R. B. Dr Moore's answer to this letter contained some cold criticism on Tam o' Shanter and Matthew Henderson, but on another point spoke what all will feel to have been good sense: 'I cannot help thinking you imprudent in scattering abroad so many copies of your verses. It is most natural to give a few to confidential friends, particularly to those who are connected with the subject, or who are perhaps themselves the subject; but this ought to be done under promise not to give other copies. Of the poem you sent me on Queen Mary, I refused every solicitation for copies; but I lately saw it in a newspaper. My motive for cautioning you on this subject is, that I wish to engage you to collect all your fugitive pieces, not already printed, and after they have been reconsidered and polished to the utmost of your power, I would have you publish them by another subscription; in promoting of which I will exert myself with pleasure.' Burns seems never to have been willing to listen to any such scheme. To write poetry for the purpose of making money by it, he regarded with abhorrence; to publish a second volume of poems like the first was only, he feared, to expose himself to the mortification of hearing it pronounced inferior. He still, as in the old Mossgiel days, rhymed for fun;' or if he acknowledged other motives, they were none of them mercenary. He was ever ready, for example, to do what he could to oblige or gratify a friend: he would write in obedience to his own whimsical impulses; above all things, he delighted to improve and add to that glorious inheritance of old songs which his country possessed. At this very time-8th February—the Rev. Mr Baird' wrote to ask him to take some trouble in editing the poems of poor Michael Bruce for the benefit of his aged and helpless mother-begging, moreover, for a few poems of Burns's own, to help out the bulk of the volume. Burns's answer is highly characteristic: TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. ELLISLAND, [February] 1791. REVEREND SIR-Why did you, my dear sir, write to me in such a hesitating style on the business of poor Bruce? Don't I know, and have I not felt, the many ills, the peculiar ills, that poetic flesh is heir to? You shall have your choice of all the unpublished poems I have; and had your letter had my direction so as to have reached me sooner-it only came to my hand this moment-I should have directly put you out of suspense on the subject. I only ask that some prefatory advertisement in the book, as well as the subscription-bills, may bear that the publication is solely for the benefit of Bruce's mother. I would not put it in the power of ignorance to surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a share in the work from mercenary motives. Nor need you give me credit for any remarkable generosity in my part of the business. I have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, follies, and backslidings-anybody but myself might perhaps give some of them a worse appellation-that by way of some balance, however trifling, in the account, I am fain to do any good that occurs in my very limited power to a fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose of clearing a little the vista of retrospection. R. B. It, nevertheless, does not appear that the edition of Bruce subsequently published contained any poems by Burns. 'Afterwards Principal of the university of Edinburgh. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. ELLISLAND, 12th March 1791. If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, let me have them. For my own part, a thing that I have just composed always appears through a double portion of that partial medium in which an author will ever view his own works. I believe, in general, novelty has something in it that inebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently dissipates and fumes away like other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient as usual with an aching heart. A striking instance of this might be adduced in the revolution of many a hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude on the office of my parish priest, I shall fill up the page in my own way, and give you another song of my late com. position, which will appear perhaps in Johnson's work, as well as the former. You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, "There 'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.' When political combustion ceases to be the object of princes and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets. [THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME.] By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray; My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd. If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear friend, how much you would oblige me, if by the charms of your delightful voice you would give my honest effusion to the memory of joys that are past' to the few friends whom you indulge in that pleasure. But I have scribbled on till I hear the clock has intimated the near approach of That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane. So, good-night to you! Sound be your sleep, and delectable your dreams! Apropos, how do you like this thought in a ballad I have just now on the tapis? I look to the west when I gae to rest, That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; The lad that is dear to my babie and me! Good-night once more, and God bless you! R. B. At the close of January, Burns met a serious loss, both as respecting his fortunes and his feelings, in the death of his amiable patron James, Earl of Glencairn, who, after returning from a futile voyage to Lisbon in search of health, died at Falmouth, in the forty-second year of his age. The deep, earnest feeling of gratitude which Burns bore towards this nobleman, is highly creditable to him. He put on mourning for the earl, and designed, if possible, to attend his funeral in Ayrshire. At a later time, he entered a permanent record of his gratitude in the annals of his family, by calling a son James Glencairn. In the meantime, he composed a LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. The wind blew hollow frae the hills, By fits the sun's departing beam Looked on the fading yellow woods That waved o'er Lugar's winding stream: Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewailed his lord, Whom death had all untimely ta'en. He leaned him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mouldering down with years; His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears; And as he touched his trembling harp, 'Ye scattered birds that faintly sing, |