of this great genius, for who can but grieve to think of noble qualities of mind and heart degraded by such errors? Yet it is not a tale without its redeeming traits. It presents us, first, a poor girl, lost to the reputable world; next Burns, seeking an asylum for a helpless infant at his brother's;1 then a magnanimous wife interposing with the almost romantically-generous offer to become herself its nurse and guardian. Here one could almost persuade himself he saw a final cause for sin, in the generous atoning sacrifices which it may evoke from the innocent for the sake of the guilty. The babe was soon after found by Jean's father in the same cradle with a child of her own, and drew from him the surprised inquiry if she had again had twins; when she quietly answered, that the second baby was one of whom she was taking temporary charge for a sick friend. She brought up the little girl to womanhood with an unvarying kindness of demeanour which created a filial degree of attachment; and we cannot doubt that she never uttered one word of complaint on the subject to her repentant husband.

It was just at the crisis at which we are now arrived, that Mrs Burns accidentally became aware of the evil consequences of her Mauchline visits. Though the fact was regarded on her part with a heavenly mildness, the consciousness of his error did not the less gall the sensitive spirit of our poet. Let us hope that his mental pains did not solely refer to the mere discovery of his guilt, or to the penalty of vexatious and hard-borne expenses which it brought upon him. It is, however, a significant fact, that one of those fits of melancholy tinged with splenetic views of society which make their appearance in Burns's letters, coincided in time with an affair which we know must have been attended with grievous self-accusations. May we not reasonably suspect, that others of his misanthropic effusions sprang from the heart's own bitterness with itself? Alas! is not this the ordinary explanation of such effusions? Is there really in the world anything greatly to discompose a man, besides the Promethean vulture of a sense of his own errors?

Amidst all chafings of the pained spirit, our bard could carry on his pleasant correspondence with Mr Thomson respecting new songs proposed for old melodies-pastoral sighings breathed while

1 This child obtained the name of Elizabeth, which was a favourite one with Burns, and borne by each of all the three daughters born to him. She is now (1851) a Mrs Thomson, in humble life at Pollockshaws, Renfrewshire, and is said to be of all his children the only one strikingly like himself.

his own soul was wholly out of joint, and most men were gazing appalled at what appeared an outbreak of Tartarus in a neighbouring country.

MR THOMSON TO BURNS.

EDINBURGH, Nov. 1792.

DEAR SIR-I was just going to write to you, that on meeting with your Nannie I had fallen violently in love with her. I thank you, therefore, for sending the charming rustic to me, in the dress you wish her to appear before the public. She does you great credit, and will soon be admitted into the best company.

I regret that your song for the Lea-Rig is so short: the air is easy, soon sung, and very pleasing; so that, if the singer stops at the end of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost ere it is well possessed.

Although a dash of our native tongue and manners is doubtless peculiarly congenial and appropriate to our melodies, yet I shall be able to present a considerable number of the very Flowers of English song, well adapted to those melodies, which, in England at least, will be the means of recommending them to still greater attention than they have procured there. But you will observe my plan is, that every air shall, in the first place, have verses wholly by Scottish poets; and that those of English writers shall follow as additional songs for the choice of the singer.

What you say of the Ewe-bughts is just; I admire it, and never meant to supplant it. All I requested was, that you would try your hand on some of the inferior stanzas, which are apparently no part of the original song; but this I do not urge, because the song is of sufficient length though those inferior stanzas be omitted, as they will be by the singer of taste. You must not think I expect all the songs to be of superlative merit; that were an unreasonable expectation. I am sensible that no poet can sit down doggedly to pen verses, and succeed well at all times.

I am highly pleased with your humorous and amorous rhapsody on Bonny Lesley: it is a thousand times better than the Collier's Lassie. The deil he couldna scaith thee,' &c., is an eccentric and happy thought. Do you not think, however, that the names of such old heroes as Alexander sound rather queer, unless in pompous or mere burlesque verse? Instead of the line, And never made anither,' I would humbly suggest, And ne'er made sic anither;' and I would fain have you substitute some other line for 'Return to Caledonie,' in the last verse, because I think this alteration of the orthography and of the sound of Caledonia, disfigures the word, and renders it Hudibrastic.

Of the other song, My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing, I think the first eight lines very good; but I do not admire the other eight, because four of them are a bare repetition of the first verses. I

have been trying to spin a stanza, but could make nothing better than the following: do you mend it, or, as Yorick did with the love-letter, whip it up in your own way ::

O leeze me on my wee thing,

My bonny blithesome wee thing;
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing,
I'll think my lot divine.

Though warld's care we share o't,
And may see meikle mair o't,
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it,
And ne'er a word repine.

You perceive, my dear sir, I avail myself of the liberty which you condescend to allow me by speaking freely what I think. Be assured, it is not my disposition to pick out the faults of any poem or picture I see; my first and chief object is to discover and be delighted with the beauties of the piece. If I sit down to examine critically, and at leisure, what perhaps you have written in haste, I may happen to observe careless lines, the reperusal of which might lead you to improve them. The wren will often see what has been overlooked by the eagle. I remain yours faithfully, &c.

P.S.-Your verses upon Highland Mary are just come to hand: they breathe the genuine spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will last for ever. Such verses, united to such an air, with the delicate harmony of Pleyel superadded, might form a treat worthy of being presented to Apollo himself. I have heard the sad story of your Mary; you always seem inspired when you write of her.

BURNS TO MR THOMSON.

DUMFRIES, 1st Dec. 1792.

Your alterations of My Nannie, O! are perfectly right. So are those of My Wife's a Winsome Wee Thing. Your alteration of the second stanza is a positive improvement. Now, my dear sir, with the freedom which characterises our correspondence, I must not, cannot alter Bonny Lesley. You are right; the word 'Alexander makes the line a little uncouth, but I think the thought is pretty. Of Alexander, beyond all other heroes, it may be said, in the sublime language of Scripture, that 'he went forth conquering and to conquer."

For nature made her what she is,

And never made anither! (Such a person as she is.)

This is, in my opinion, more poetical than 'Ne'er made sic anither.' However, it is immaterial; make it either way. 'Caledonie,' I agree with you, is not so good a word as could be wished, though it is sanctioned in three or four instances by Allan Ramsay;

but I cannot help it. In short, that species of stanza is the most difficult that I have ever tried.

The Lea-Rig is as follows:

THE LEA-RIG.

TUNE-The Lea-Rig.

When o'er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin'-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrowed field
Return sae dowf and weary O;
Down by the burn, where scented birks'
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O,
If through that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie O.

Although the night were ne'er sac wild,
And I were ne'er sae weary O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher sccks the glen,

Along the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o' gloamin' gray,
It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

I am interrupted. Yours, &c.

BURNS TO MR THOMSON.

4th December 1792.

AULD ROB MORRIS.

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,

dwells

He's the king o' guid fellows and wale o' auld men; choice
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonny lassie, his darling and mine.

VOL. III.

1 For' scented birks,' in some copies 'birken buds.'

Q

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the evening amang the new hay;
As blithe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee.

But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,

The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. death

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree,

I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me!
O how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!