with trembling wing would sometimes soar after you-a poor rustic bard unknown, pays this sympathetic pang to your memory. Some of you tell us, with all the charms of verse, that you have been unfortunate in the world-unfortunate in love: he, too, has felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than all, the loss of the woman he adored. Like you, all his consolation was his muse she taught him in rustic measures to complain. Happy, could he have done it with your strength of imagination, and flow of verse! May the turf lie lightly on your bones! and may you now enjoy the solace and rest, which this world rarely gives to the heart, tuned to all the feelings of poesy and love! This is all worth quoting in my MSS. and more than all. No. III. R. B. To Mr. AIKEN. (The gentleman to whom the Cotter's Saturday Night is addressed.) Sir, Ayrshire, 1786. I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and settled all our by-gone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made him the offer af the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out of the first and readiest, which he declines. By his account, the paper of a thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing about fifteen or sixteen: he offers to agree to this for the printing, if I will advance for the paper, but this, you know, is out of my power; so fare No. LXXXVI. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 4th May, 1796. I need not tell you, my good sir, what concern the receipt of your last gave me, and how much I sympathize in your sufferings. But do not, I beseech you, give yourself up to despondency, nor speak the language of despair. The vigour of your constitution, I trust, will soon set you on your feet again; and then it is to be hoped you will see the wisdom and the necessity of taking due care of a life so valuable to your family, to your friends, and to the world. Trusting that your next will bring agreeable accounts of your convalescence, and returning good spirits, I remain with sincere regard yours. P. S. Mrs. Hyslop I doubt not delivered the gold seal to you in good condition. No. LXXXVII. Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. My dear sir, I once mentioned to you an air which I have long admired, Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney, but I forget if you took any notice of it. I have just been trying to suit it with verses; and I beg leave to recommend the air to your atten tion once more. I have only begun it. CHORUS. Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, And soft as their parting tear-Jessy! Although thou maun never be mine, I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, I guess by the dear angel smile, No. LXXXVIII. Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a young fellow of uncommon merit. As he will be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, if you chuse, to write me by him; and if you have a spare half hour to spend with him, I shall place your kindness to my account. I have no copies of the songs I have sent you, and I have taken a fancy to review them all, and possibly may mend some of them; so when you have complete leisure, I In the letter to Mr. Thomson, the three first stanzas only are given, and Mr. Thomson suppos ed our poet had never gone farther. Among his MSS. was, however, found the fourth stanza, which completes this exquisite song, the last finished off spring of his muse. E, will thank you for either the originals, or copies. I had rather be the author of five well-written songs than of ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial influence of the approaching summer will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of returning health. I have now reason to believe that my complaint is a flying gout: a sad business! Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remember me to him. This should have been delivered to you a month ago. I am still very poorly, but should like much to hear from you. No. LXXXIX. Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. Brow, on the Solway-firth, 12th July, 1796. After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have. made me half distracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously; for, upon returning health, I here by promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds worth of the neatest song genius you have seen. I tryed my hand on Rothemurche this morning. The measure is so difficult, that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the lines; they are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me! It is needless to say, that this revisal Burns did not live to perform. E. SONG. Tune-"Rothemurche." CHORUS. Fairest maid on Devon banks, And smile as thou were wont to do? Full well thou knowest I love thee dear; Then come, thou fairest of the fair, These verses and the letter enclosing them, are written in a character that marks the feeble state of Burns' bodily strength. Mr. Syme is of opinion that he could not have been in any danger of a jail at Dumfries, where certainly he had many firm friends, nor under any such necessity of imploring aid from Edinburgh. But, about this time, his reason began to be at times unsettled, and the horrors of a jail perpetually haunted his imagination. He died on the 21st of this month. |