name; and, by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled to supporters, These, however, I do not intend having on my seal. I am a bit of a herald, and shall give you, secundum artem, my arms. On a field azure a holly bush, seeded, proper, in base ; a shepherd's pipe and crook, saltierwise, also proper, in chief. On a wreath of the colours a woodlark perching on a sprig of bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottoes: round the top of the crest, "Wood-notes wild ;" at the bottom of the shield, in the usual place, "Better a wee bush than nae bield." By the shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean the nonsense of painters of Arcadia, but a "Stock and Horn," and a Club," such as you see at the head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of the "Gentle Shepherd." By the by, do you know Allan? He must be a man of very great genius.-Why is he not more known? Has he no patrons? or do" poverty's cold wind and crushing rain beat keen and heavy" on him? I once, and but once, got a glance of that noble edition of the noblest pastoral in the world; and dear as it was-I mean, dear as to my pocket-I would have bought it; but I was told that it was printed and engraved for subscribers only. He is the only artist who has hit genuine pastoral costume. What, my dear Cunningham, is there in riches, that they narrow and harden the heart so? I think, that were I as rich as the sun, I should be as generous as the day; but as I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler one than any other man's, I must conclude that wealth imparts a bird-lime quality to the possessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, would have revolted. What has led me to this is the idea of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses, and such riches as a nabob or government contractor possesses, and why they do not form a mutual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish unprotected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that merit will richly repay it.-R. B. No. CCLXV. TO MISS BENSON, AFTERWARDS MRS. BASIL MONTAGUE. MADAM, DUMFRIES, 21st March, 1793. Among many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old fellows before the Flood, is this in particular, that when they met with anybody after their own heart, they had a charming long prospect of many, many happy meetings with them in after-life. Now, in this short, stormy, winter day of our fleeting existence, when you now and then, in the chapter of accidents, meet an individual whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there are all the probabilities against you, that you shall never meet with that valued character more. On the other hand, brief as this miserable being is, it is none of the least of the miseries belonging to it, that if there is any miscreant whom you hate, or creature whom you despise, the ill run of the chances shall be so against you, that in the overtakings, turnings, and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky corner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, and will not allow your indignation or contempt a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer in the powers of darkness, I take these to be the doings of that old author of mischief, the Devil. It is well known that he has some kind of shorthand way of taking down our thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is perfectly acquainted with my sentiments respecting Miss Benson how much I admired her abilities and valued her worth, and how very fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. For this last reason, my dear Madam, I must entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of meeting with you again. Miss Hamilton tells me that she is sending a packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the enclosed sonnet; though, to tell you the real truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may have the opportunity of declaring with how much respectful esteem I have the honour to be, &c.-R. B. No. CCLXVI. TO PATRICK MILLER, ESQ. OF DALSWINTON. DUMFRIES, April, 1793. SIR, My poems having just come out in another edition, will you do me the honour to accept of a copy? A mark of my gratitude to you, as a gentleman to whose goodness I have been much indebted; of my respect for you, as a patriot who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the champion of the liberties of my country; and of my veneration for you, as a man whose benevolence of heart does honour to human nature. There was a time, Sir, when I was your dependent:* this language then would have been like the vile incense of flattery—I could not have used it. Now that connexion is at an end, do me the honour to accept of this honest tribute of respect from, Sir, Your much-indebted humble Servant, No. CCLXVII. R. B. TO G. THOMSON. 7th April, 1793. THANK you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine how much this business of composing for your publication has added to my enjoyments. What with my early attachment to ballads, your book, &c. ballad-making is now as completely my hobby-horse as ever fortification was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my race, (God grant that I may take the right side of the winning-post!), and then, cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have * This was when he held the farm of Ellisland as tenant to Mr. Miller. been happy, I shall say, or sing, "Sae merry as we a' hae been," and raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila shall be "Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!" So much for my last words: now for a few present remarks, as they have occurred at random on looking over your list. The first lines of "The last time I came o'er the moor," and several other lines in it, are beautiful; but, in my opinion-pardon me, revered shade of Ramsay !-the song is unworthy of the divine air. I shall try to make or mend. "For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove," is a charming song; but "Logan Burn and Logan Braes" are sweetly susceptible of rural imagery: I'll try that likewise, and, if I succeed, the other song may class among the English ones. I remember the two last lines of a verse in some of the old songs of "Logan Water," (for I know a good many different ones), which I think pretty : "Now my dear lad maun face his faes, "My Patic is a Lover gay" is unequal. is a muddy expression indeed. "His mind is never muddy,” "Then I'll resign and marry Pate, And syne my cockernony! This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your book. My song, "Rigs of Barley," to the same tune, does not altogether please me; but if I can mend it and thresh a few loose sentiments out of it, I will submit it to your consideration. "The Lass o' Patie's Mill" is one of Ramsay's best songs; but there is one loose sentiment in it which my much-valued friend Mr. Erskine will take into his critical consideration. In Sir J. Sinclair's statistical volumes are two claims-one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire-for the honour of this song. The following anecdote, which I had from the present Sir William Cunningham of Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, believe : Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle with the then Earl, father to Earl John; and one forenoon, riding or walking out together, his lordship and Allan passed a sweet, romantic spot on Irwine Water, still called "Patie's Mill," where a bonie lass was "tedding hay, bareheaded, on the green." My lord observed to Allan that it would be a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and, lingering behind, he composed the first sketch of it, which he produced at dinner. "One Day I heard Mary say" is a fine song; but, for consistency's sake, alter the name Adonis." Were there ever such banns published as a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary? I agree with you that my song, "There's nought but Care on every Hand," is much superior to "Poortith cauld." The original song, “The Mill, Mill, O ! ” though excellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible; still I like the title, and think a Scottish song would suit the notes best; and let your chosen song, which is very pretty, follow as an English set. "The Banks of the Dee" is, you know, literally "Langolee," to slow time. The song is well enough, but has some false imagery in it; for instance, "And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree." In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from a tree; and in the second place, there never was a nightingale seen, or heard, on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is always comparatively flat. If I could hit on another stanza equal to "The small birds rejoice," &c., I do myself honestly avow that I think it a superior song. "John Anderson my Jo," the song to this tune in Johnson's "Museum," is my composition, and I think it not my worst: if it suits you, take it and welcome. Your collection of sentimental and pathetic songs is, in my opinion, very complete; but not so your comic ones. Where are Tullochgorum," Lumps o' Puddin'," "Tibbie Fowler," and several others, which, in my humble judgment, are well worthy of preseryation? There is also one sentimental song of mine in the "Museum," which never was known out of the immediate neighbourhood until I got it taken down from a country girl's singing. It is called "Craigieburn Wood ;" and, in the opinion of Mr. Clarke, is one of the sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about it; and I would take his taste in Scottish music against the taste of most connoisseurs. 66 66 27 66 You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, though they are certainly Irish. Shepherds, I have lost my love!" is to me a heavenly air. What would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it? I have made one to it ["The Gowden Locks of Anna"] a good while ago, but in its original state it is not quite a lady's song. I enclose an altered, not amended, copy for you, if you choose to set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow.-R. B. No. CCLXVIII. TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, ESQ. OF MAR. [Mr. Erskine, afterwards Earl of Mar, had written to Mr. Riddel, offering to head a public subscription for Burns, under the impression that he had been dismissed from the Excise for his political opinions.] DUMFRIES, 13th April, 1793. SIR, Degenerate as human nature is said to be; and, in many instances, worthless and unprincipled it is; still there are bright examples to the contrary-examples that even in the eyes of superior beings must shed a lustre on the name of Man. Such an example have I now before me, when you, Sir, came forward to patronise and befriend a distant obscure stranger, merely because poverty had made him helpless, and his British hardihood of mind had provoked the arbitrary wantonness of power. My much-esteemed friend, Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, has just read me a paragraph of a letter he had from you. Accept, Sir, of the silent throb of gratitude; for words would but mock the emotions of my soul. You have been misinformed as to my final dismission from the Excise; I am still in the service. Indeed, but for the exertions of a gentleman who must be known to you, Mr. Graham of Fintry, a gentleman who has ever been my warm and generous friend, I had, without so much as a hearing, or the slightest previous intimation, been turned adrift, with my helpless family, to all the horrors of want. Had I had any other resource, probably I might have saved them the trouble of a dismission; but the little money I gained by my publication is almost every guinea embarked to save from ruin an only brother, who, though one of the worthiest, is by no means one of the most fortunate, of men. In my defence to their accusations I said, that whatever might be my sentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain I abjured the idea that a constitution, which, in its original principles, experience had proved to be every way fitted for our happiness in society, it would be insanity to sacrifice to an untried visionary theory: that, in consideration of my being situated in a department, however humble, immediately in the hands of people in power, I had forborne taking any active part, either personally or as an author, in the present business of Reform: but that, where I must declare my sentiments, I would say there existed a system of corruption between the executive power and the representative part of the Legislature, which boded no good to our glorious constitution, and which every patriotic Briton must wish to see amended. Some such sentiments as these I stated in a letter to my generous patron Mr. Graham, which he laid before the Board at large; where, it seems, my last remark gave great offence; and one of our supervisors general, a Mr. Corbet, was instructed to inquire on the spot, and to document me— "that my business was to act, not to think; and that whatever might be men or measures, it was for me to be silent and obedient." Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend; so, between Mr. Graham and him, I have been partly forgiven; only I understand that all hopes of my getting officially forward are blasted. Now, Sir, to the business in which I would more immediately interest you. The partiality of my countrymen has brought me forward as a man of genius, and has given me a character to support. In the poet I have avowed manly and independent sentiments, which I trust will be found in the man. Reasons of no less weight than the support of a wife and family have pointed out as the eligible, and, situated as I was, the only eligible line of life for me, my present occupation. Still my honest fame is my dearest concern; and a thousand times have I trembled at the idea of those degrading epithets that malice or misrepresentation may affix to my name. I have often, in blasting anticipation, listened to some future hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of savage stupidity, exulting in his hireling paragraphs: "Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronade of independence to be found in his works, and after having been held forth to |