I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, I guess by the dear angel smile, No. 238. 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 will thank you for either *In the letter to Mr. Thomson, the three first stanzas only are given, and Mr. Thomson supposed our poet had never gone farther. Among his MSS. was, however, found the fourth stanza, which completes this exquisite song, the last finished offspring of his muse. 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. 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 hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds of the neatest song genius you have seen. I tried 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! SONG. Tune-" ROTHEMURCHE." Fairest maid on Devon banks, Wilt thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou were wont do ! Full well thou knowest I love thee dear, Fairest maid, &c. Then come, thou fairest of the fair, No love but thine my heart shall know. Fairest maid, &c.* * These verses and the letter enclosing them, are written in a character that marks the feeble state of Burns's 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. No. 240. MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. MY DEAR SIR, 14th. July, 1796. EVER since I received your melancholy letter by Mrs. Hyslop, I have been ruminating in what manner I could endeavour to alleviate your sufferings. Again and again I thought of a pecuniary offer, but the recollection of one of your letters on this subject, and the fear of offending your independent spirit checked my resolution. I thank you heartily therefore for the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and with great pleasure inclose a draft for the very sum I proposed sending. Would I were Chancellor of the Exchequer but for one day, for your sake. Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you to muster a volume of poetry? If too much trouble to you in the present state of your health, some literary friend might be found here, who would select and arrange from your manuscripts, and take upon him the task of Editor. In the mean time it could be advertised to be published by subscription? Do not shun this mode of ob taining the value of your labour; remember Pope published the Iliad by subscription. Think of this, my dear Burns, and do not reckon me intrusive with my advice. You are too well convinced of the respect and friendship I bear you, to impute any thing I say to an unworthy motive. Yours, faithfully. The verses to Rothemurche will answer finely. I am am happy to see you can still tune your lyre. No. 241. To MR. JOHN RICHMOND, EDINBURGH. MY DEAR SIR, Mosgiel, Feb. 17, 1786. I HAVE not time at present to upbraid you for your silence and neglect; I shall only say I received yours with great pleasure. I have enclosed you a piece of rhyming ware for your perusal. I have been very busy with the muses since I saw you, and have composed, among several others, The Ordination, a poem, on Mr. McKinlay's being called to Kilmarnock; Scotch Drink, a poem; The Cotter's Saturday Night; An Address to the Devil, &c. I have likewise compleated my poem on the Dogs, but have not shewn it to the world. My chief patron now is |