Happiness is but a name, Make content and ease thy aim Ambition is a meteor gleam; Fame an idle restless dream: Pleasures, insects on the wing As thy day grows warm and high, Dost thou spurn the humble vale? Life's proud summits would'st thou scale? Round Peace, the tend'rest flower of Spring! + Evils lurk in felon wait: Those that sip the dew alone, Those that would the bloom devour, Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide; † VAR.-Peace, the tenderest flower of Spring; Pleasures, insects on the wing.-MS. VAR. Their.-MS. VAR. Duty.-MS. ["The hermitage in which these elegant lines were written was the property of Captain Riddel, a distinguished antiquarian, who lived in Friars-Carse some mile or so above Ellisland. A small door admitted the Poet, at his own pleasure, into the wood where the Hermitage was built; there he found such seclusion as he loved; flowers and shrubs were thickly planted round the place, and in the interior were chairs and a table for the accommodation of visiters. The first six lines of the poem were inscribed with a diamond, which Burns ever carried about with him, on a pane of glass in the window. While Riddel lived, and even during the life of Burns, the verses were respected; the proprietor, however, at length removed them and had them secured in a frame. Friars-Carse is altogether one of the loveliest spots in the Nith the natural beaut of the place was much improved by the taste of the antiquarian. He formed pictu Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold," While cheerful Peace, with linnet song, As the shades of ev'ning close, resque lines of road; planted elegant shrubberies; raised a rude Druidic temple on the summit of a rough precipitous hill, which over-towers the Nith, and in all the chief walks of his grounds he placed many rare and valuable reliques of Scotland's elder day: such as sculptured troughs, ornamented crosses, and inscribed altars, which he had collected at much outlay from all parts of Scotland-"I shall transcribe for you," says Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, "a few lines I wrote in a hermitage, belonging to a gentleman in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are almost the only favours the muses have conferred on me in this country;" and to Miss Chalmers, he writes, in September, 1788, "One day in a Hermitage, on the banks of the Nith, belonging to a gentleman in my neighbourhood, who is so good as to give me a key at pleasure, I wrote the above, supposing myself the sequestered venerable inhabitant of the lonely mansion."] VAR.-Say, the criterion of their fate, The important query of their state. ** Wert.-MS. tt Prince.-MS. To Captain Riddel, OF GLENEIDDEL. EXTEMPORE LINES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER. Ellisland, Monday Evening. YOUR news &review,* Sir, I've read through & I boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. A Mother's Lament,† FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. FATE gave the word, the arrow sped, And pierc'd my darling's heart; The mother-linnet in the brake With him I love, at rest! * ["The review which Captain Riddel sent to the Bard contained sharp strictures on his poetry. Burns estimated at once the right value of all such criticisms; he felt that true genius had nothing to dread, and that dulness and stupidity would sink, from their own weight, without the aid of satire. In another place, when speaking of the chippers and hewers,' he questions their jurisdiction, and claims to be tried by His peers could not easily be found; so the Poet was safe. Burns was a frequent guest at the board of Glenriddel, and, as he returned to Ellisland, he loved to linger on Nithside, his peers. 'Delighted with the dashing roar,' when the river, swollen, perhaps, with rains on the mountains, was rough and raging, and 'Chaf'd against the scaur's red side,' on the summit of which he had built his abode."-ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.] ["The Mother's Lament," says the Poet, in one copy of the poem, "was composed partly with a view to Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarrock, and partly to the worthy patroness of my early unknown muse, Mrs. Stewart, of Afton." It was also inserted in the Musical Museum to the tune of Finlayston House."-See Burns's Remarks on Scottish Song, under this title.] [Robert Graham, Esq.. of Fintray, was one of the Commissioners of Excise, and having met the Poet at the Duke of Athole's, he became interested in his behalf, and shewed him many kindnesses. In August, 1788, Burns sent Mrs. Dunlop fourteen lines of this Epistle, beginning with : First Epistle to R. Graham, Esq. And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, Then first she calls the useful many forth; The order'd system fair before her stood, Nature, well pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good; But ere she gave creating labour o'er, Half-jest, she try'd one curious labour more. Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter, Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter; With arch alacrity and conscious glee (Nature may have her whim as well as we, Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) She forms the thing, and christens it—a poet, Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow. A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, Admir'd and prais'd-and there the homage ends: "Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train,” saying, "Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following lines were the production of yesterday, as I jogged through the wild hills of New Cumnock. I intend inserting them, or something like them, in an Epistle, which I am going to depend, Mr. Graham, of Fintray, one of the worthiest and write to the gentleman on whose friendship my Excise hopes most accomplished gentlemen, not only of this country, but, writes, in January, 1789:-"I enclose you an Essay of mine, I will dare to say, of this age." To Dr. Moore, the Poet thus in a walk of poesy to me entirely new. I mean the Epistle addressed to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray, a gentleman of uncommon worth, to whom I lie under very great obligations. This story of the Poem, like most of my Poems, is connected with my own story, and to give you the one, I must give you something of the other."] I. [To Professor Stewart, he said, a few weeks afterwards :This Poem is a species of composition new to me; but I do not intend it shall be my last essay of the kind, as you will see by the "Poet's Progress." These fragments, if my design succeeds, are but a small part of the intended whole. propose it shall be the work of my utmost exertions, ripened by years. On a subsequent occasion, the Poet wrote to Mrs. Graham, sending her the Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots," and expressing the warmest gratitude to her husband. It is singular that the Poet did not insert this Address to Mr. Graham in the last two editions of the Poems, published during his life-time. The manuscript of the poem is united with the "Lines on the Hermitage," and the "Lament of Mary," and endorsed thus:-"The three foregoing poems are the favour of the Nithsdale muses."] A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. Pitying the propless climber of mankind, She cast about a standard tree to find; And, to support his helpless woodbine state, Attach'd him to the generous truly great, A title, and the only one I claim, [ham. To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Gra Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, The world were blest did bliss on them depend, Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye! VAR.-Helpless.-MS. + VAR.-Bestows.-MS. [In one of the Poet's memorandum-books these verses were written with a pencil: he intimated that he had just composed them, and noted them down lest they should esepe from his memory. They were admitted into the first Liverpool edition, but excluded from others; they are now placed among the works of Burns. Sir James Hunter Blair was born at Ayr in 1741, and died July 1, 1787, in the In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, ON THE DEATH OF Sir James Hunter Blair. 1 THE lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ; || Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd, well, ¶ Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred Fane.** Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, [sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast, And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd: Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world. "My patriot son fills an untimely grave!" With accents wild and lifted arms she cried; "Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, [pride! Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest++ "A weeping country joins a widow's tear, The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh! "I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow: But ah! how hope is born but to expire! Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. "My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name? No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame. " And I will join a mother's tender cares, Thro' future times to make his virtues last; That distant years may boast of other Blairs!". She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. Epistle to Hugh Parker.* In this strange land, this uncouth clime, A land that prose did never view it, Dowie she saunters down Nithside, And cast dirt on his godship's face; ROBERT BURNS. ELEGY On the Year 1788. A SKETCH. E'en let them die-for that they're born! The Spanish empire's tint a-head, Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit, Observe the very nowte an' sheep, O Eighty-nine, thou's but a hairn, VAR.-An' 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks.-MS. [Truly has the ploughman Bard described the natures of those illustrious rivals, Fox and Pitt, under the similitude of the "birdie cocks." Nor will the allusion to the "handcuffed, muzzled, half-shackled Regent" be lost on those who remember the alarm into which the nation was thrown by the King's illness.-CUNNINGHAM.] VAR. The tither's dour has nae sic breedin'. But, like himsel', a full, free agent. January 1, 1789. Address to the Tooth-ache,* WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TOR MENTED BY THAT DISORDER. My curse upon thy venom'd stang, When fevers burn, or ague freezes, But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases, O' a' the num'rous human dools, The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, O thou grim mischief-making chiel, A towmond's Tooth-ache! * [The tooth-ache attacked Burns soon after he took up his abode at Ellisland: like other sufferers, he was any thing but patient under it. In a letter from Ellisland, in May 1789, he complains of "an Omnipotent tooth-ache engrossing all his inner man."] [The origin of this bitter effusion is thus related by the Poet to Dr. Moore :-Ellisland, March 23d, 1789.-"The enclosed Ode is a compliment to the memory of the late Mrs. [Oswald], of [Auchincruive]. You, probably, knew her personally, an honour which I cannot boast, but I spent my early years in her neighbourhood, and among her servants and tenants. I know that she was detested with the most heartfelt cordiality. However, in the particular part of her conduct which roused my poetic wrath, she was much less blamable. In January last, on my road to Ayr-shire, I had to put up at Bailie Whigham's, in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. The frost was keen, and the grim evening and howling wind were ushering in a night of snow and drift. My horse and I were both much fatigued with the labours of the day; and just as my friend the bailie and I were bidding defiance to the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry of the late Mrs. Oswald; and poor I am forced to brave all the terrors of the tempestuous night, and jade my horse-my young favourite horse, whom I had just christened Pegasus, further on, through the wildest hills and moors of Ayr-shire, to New Cumnock, the next inn! The powers of poesy and prose sink under me when I would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say that, when a good fire, at New Cumnock, had so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat down and wrote the enclosed ode." The Poet lived to think more favourably of the name; one of his finest lyrics, "O wat ye wha's in yon town," was written in honour of the beauty of the succeeding Mrs. Oswald. |