thrilled through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast in old Scotch songs: I shall give you the verses on the other sheet, as I suppose Mr. Ker will save you the postage.* Light be the turf on the breast of the Heaven inspired poet who composed this glorious fragment! There is more of the fire of native genius in it than half a dozen of modern English Bacchanalians. Now I am on my hobby horse, I cannot help inserting two other old stanzas which please me mightily. Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, An' fill it in a silver tassie; A service to my bonnie lassie ; The ship rides by the Berwick-law, The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar, It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. No. * Here follows the song of Auld lang syne, as printed vol. iv. p. 122. E. No. LXI. To MISS DAVIES. (A young Lady who had heard he had been making a Ballad on her, inclosing that Ballad.) December, 1788. MADAM, I u UNDERSTAND My very worthy neighbour, Mr. Riddel, has informed you that I have made you the subject of some verses. There is something so provoking in the idea of being the burden of a ballad that I do not think Job or Moses, though such patterns of patience and meekness, could have resisted the curiosity to know what that ballad was: so my worthy friend has done me a mischief, which, I dare say, he never intended; and reduced me to the unfortunate alternative of leaving your curiosity ungratified, or else disgusting you with foolish foolish verses, the unfinished production of a random moment, and never meant to have met your ear. I have heard or read somewhere of a gentleman, who had some genius, much eccentricity, and very considerable dexterity with his pencil. In the accidental group of life into which one is thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a character in a more than ordinary degree congenial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch of the face, merely, as he said, as a nota bene to point out the agreeable recollection to his memory. What this gentleman's pencil was to him, is my muse to me; and the verses I do myself the honour to send you are a memento exactly of the same kind that he indulged in. It may be more owing to the fastidiousness of my caprice than the delicacy of my taste, but I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt with the insipidity, affectation, and pride of mankind, that when I meet with a person "after my own heart," I positively feel what an orthodox protestant would call a species of idolatry, which acts on my fancy like inspiration; and I can no more desist rhyming on the impulse, than an Eolian harp can refuse its tones to the streaming air. A distich or two would be the consequence, though the object which hit my fancy were grey-bearded age: but but where my theme is youth and beauty, a young lady whose personal charms, wit, and sentiment, are equally striking and unaffected, by heavens! though I had lived threescore years a married man, and threescore years before I was a married man, my imagination would hallow the very idea; and I am truly sorry that the inclosed stanzas have done such poor justice to such a subject. VOL. II. No. No. LXII. From MR. G. BURNS. Mossgiel, 1st Jan. 1789. DEAR BROTHER, I HAVE just finished my new-year'sday breakfast in the usual form, which naturally makes me call to mind the days of former years, and the society in which we used to begin them; and when I look at our family vicissitudes, "thro' the dark postern of time long elapsed," I cannot help remarking to you, my dear brother, how good the God of SEASONS is to us; and that, however some clouds may seem to lour over the portion of time before us, we have great reason to hope that all will turn out well. Your mother and sisters, with Robert the second, join me in the compliments of the season to you and Mrs. Burns, and beg you will remember us in the same manner to William, the first time you see him. I am, dear brother, yours, GILBERT BURNS. No. |