us to expect beyond the grave: I do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits of any son of poverty and obscurity, are in the least more inimical to the sacred interests of piety and virtue, than the, even lawful, bustling and straining after the world's riches and honors; and I do not see but that he may gain Heaven as well, (which by the bye is no mean consideration) who steals through the vale of life, amusing himself with every little flower that fortune throws in his way; as he, who straining straight forward, and perhaps bespattering all about him, gains some of life's little eminences, where, after all, he can only see, and be seen a little more conspicuously, than what, in the pride of his heart, he is apt to term, the poor, indolent devil he has left behind him. There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tenderness in some of our ancient ballads, which shew them to be the work of a masterly hand; and it has often given me many a heart-ache to reflect that such glorious old bards—bards who very probably owed all their talents to native genius; yet have described the exploits of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, and the meltings of love, with such fine strokes of nature-that their very names (O how mortifying to a bard's vanity!) vanity!) are now "Buried among the wreck of things which were." ye 0 illustrious names unknown! who could feel so strongly, and describe so well; the last, the meanest of the muses' train-one who though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and 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 worldunfortunate 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 that 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. VOL. II. R. B. No. No. IV. To MR. JAMES BURNESS. DEAR COUSIN, Lochlee, 17th February, 1784. I WOULD have returned you many thanks for your kind favour of 13th December sooner, had it not been that I waited to give you an account of that melancholy event, which, for some time past, we have from day to day expected. On the 13th current I lost the best of fathers. Though, to be sure, we have had long warning of the impending stroke, still the feelings of nature claim their part, and I cannot recollect the tender endearments and parental lessons of the best of friends and the ablest of instructors without feeling, what perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would partly condemn. I hope my father's friends in your country will not let their connexion in this place die with him. For my part I shall ever with pleasure with pride, acknowledge my connexion with those who were allied by the ties of blood and friendship to a man, whose memory I shall ever honour and revere. I expect, therefore, my dear Sir, you will not neglect any opportunity of letting me hear from you, which will very much oblige, My dear Cousin, Yours sincerely, ROBT. BURNS. € 2 No. No. V. 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 of 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 farewell hopes of a second edition |