I was going to give some extracts out of this composition in support of what I have said, but I find them too tedious. Indeed (if I may be allowed to speak my whole mind, under correction) Mr. Wordsworth could not be in any way expected to tolerate or give a favourable interpretation to Burns's const.i.tutional foibles--even his best virtues are not good enough for him. He is repelled and driven back into himself, not less by the worth than by the faults of others. His taste is as exclusive and repugnant as his genius. It is because so few things give him pleasure, that he gives pleasure to so few people. It is not every one who can perceive the sublimity of a daisy, or the pathos to be extracted from a withered thorn!

To proceed from Burns's patrons to his poetry, than which no two things can be more different. His "Twa Dogs" is a very spirited piece of description, both as it respects the animal and human creation, and conveys a very vivid idea of the manners both of high and low life. The burlesque panegyric of the first dog,

"His locked, lettered, braw bra.s.s collar Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar"--

reminds one of Launce's account of his dog Crabbe, where he is said, as an instance of his being in the way of promotion, "to have got among three or four gentleman-like dogs under the Duke's table." The "Halloween" is the most striking and picturesque description of local customs and scenery. The Brigs of Ayr, the Address to a Haggis, Scotch Drink, and innumerable others are, however, full of the same kind of characteristic and comic painting. But his master-piece in this way is his Tam o'Shanter. I shall give the beginning of it, but I am afraid I shall hardly know when to leave off.

"When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, And folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousing at the nappy, And getting fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o'Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter; (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpa.s.ses, For honest men and bonny la.s.ses.)

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!

She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, bl.u.s.tering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October Ae market-day thou was na sober; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday-- She prophesy'd, that late or soon, Thou wad be found deep drown'd in Doon; Or catch't wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale: Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither.

The night drave on wi' sangs an clatter, And aye the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious: The Souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy; As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills of life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r--its bloom is shed; Or like the snow, falls in the river, A moment white--then melts for ever; Or like the Borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form, Evanishing amid the storm.-- Nae man can tether time or tide, The hour approaches, Tam maun ride; That hour o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in, And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast, The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd, Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd: That night a child might understand, The Deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles haulding fast his gude blue bonnet; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glowring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.--

By this time Tam was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw, the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.-- Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll: Whan, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!

What dangers thou canst make us scorn!

Wi' Tippenny, we fear nae evil, Wi' Usqueba, we'll face the devil!

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he car'd na de'ils a boddle.

But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light, And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance, Nae light cotillion new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels.

As winnock-bunker, in the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A touzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge; He screw'd the pipes, and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.-- Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And, by some devilish cantrip slight, Each in its cauld hand held a light-- By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet-airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft, The grey hairs yet stack to the heft; Wi' mair, o' horrible and awfu', Which e'en to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd amaz'd, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The Piper loud and louder blew; The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, Till ilka Carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans A' plump and strapping in their teens; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hundred linen!

Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Louping and flinging on a crummock, I wonder did na turn thy stomach.

But Tam ken'd what was what fu' brawly, There was ae winsome wench and waly, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after ken'd on Carrick sh.o.r.e; For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear--) Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn, That while a la.s.sie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vaunty.-- Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun cour; Sic flights are far beyond her power: To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was, and strang) And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd; Ev'n Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch't, and blew wi' might and main; Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty Sark!"

And in an instant all was dark; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the h.e.l.lish legion sallied.

As bees biz out wi' angry fyke When plundering herds a.s.sail their byke; As open p.u.s.s.ie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager rins the market-crowd, When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie rins--the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow,

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou 'll get thy fairin'!

In h.e.l.l they'll roast thee like a herrin'!

In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'!

Kate soon will be a waefu' woman!

Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane o' the brig; There, at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross; But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake!

For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon n.o.ble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle-- Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind, her ain grey tail: The Carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son tak heed: Whane'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or Cutty Sarks rin in your mind, Think, ye may buy the joys owre dear; Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare."

Burns has given the extremes of licentious eccentricity and convivial enjoyment, in the story of this scape-grace, and of patriarchal simplicity and gravity in describing the old national character of the Scottish peasantry. The Cotter's Sat.u.r.day Night is a n.o.ble and pathetic picture of human manners, mingled with a fine religious awe. It comes over the mind like a slow and solemn strain of music. The soul of the poet aspires from this scene of low-thoughted care, and reposes, in trembling hope, on "the bosom of its Father and its G.o.d." Hardly any thing can be more touching than the following stanzas, for instance, whether as they describe human interests, or breathe a lofty devotional spirit.

"The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise and glee.

His wee-bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant, prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun', Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebor town; Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers; The social hours, swift-winged, unnotic'd fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears: The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Antic.i.p.ation forward points the view; The mither, wi' her needle an' her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame.

The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake.

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappan youth; he taks the mother's eye; Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; The father craks of horses, pleughs, and kye.

The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.

But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: The soupe their only hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion wi' judicious care; And "Let us worship G.o.d!" he says, with solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the n.o.blest aim: Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; Or n.o.ble Elgin beets the heav'n-ward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise."--

Burns's poetical epistles to his friends are admirable, whether for the touches of satire, the painting of character, or the sincerity of friendship they display. Those to Captain Grose, and to Davie, a brother poet, are among the best:--they are "the true pathos and sublime of human life." His prose-letters are sometimes tinctured with affectation.

They seem written by a man who has been admired for his wit, and is expected on all occasions to shine. Those in which he expresses his ideas of natural beauty in reference to Alison's Essay on Taste, and advocates the keeping up the remembrances of old customs and seasons, are the most powerfully written. His English serious odes and moral stanzas are, in general, failures, such as The Lament, Man was made to Mourn, &c. nor do I much admire his "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled." In this strain of didactic or sentimental moralising, the lines to Glencairn are the most happy, and impressive. His imitations of the old humorous ballad style of Ferguson's songs are no whit inferior to the admirable originals, such as "John Anderson, my Joe," and many more. But of all his productions, the pathetic and serious love-songs which he has left behind him, in the manner of the old ballads, are perhaps those which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind. Such are the lines to Mary Morison, and those ent.i.tled Jessy.

"Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear-- Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear-- Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, And soft as their parting tear--Jessy!

Altho' thou maun never be mine, Altho' even hope is denied; 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, Than aught in the world beside--Jessy!"

The conclusion of the other is as follows.

"Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw.

Tho' this was fair, and that was bra', And yon the toast of a' the town, I sighed and said among them a', Ye are na' Mary Morison."

That beginning, "Oh gin my love were a bonny red rose," is a piece of rich and fantastic description. One would think that nothing could surpa.s.s these in beauty of expression, and in true pathos: and nothing does or can, but some of the old Scotch ballads themselves. There is in them a still more original cast of thought, a more romantic imagery-- the thistle's glittering down, the gilliflower on the old garden-wall, the horseman's silver bells, the hawk on its perch--a closer intimacy with nature, a firmer reliance on it, as the only stock of wealth which the mind has to resort to, a more infantine simplicity of manners, a greater strength of affection, hopes longer cherished and longer deferred, sighs that the heart dare hardly heave, and "thoughts that often lie too deep for tears." We seem to feel that those who wrote and sung them (the early minstrels) lived in the open air, wandering on from place to place with restless feet and thoughts, and lending an ever-open ear to the fearful accidents of war or love, floating on the breath of old tradition or common fame, and moving the strings of their harp with sounds that sank into a nation's heart. How fine an ill.u.s.tration of this is that pa.s.sage in Don Quixote, where the knight and Sancho, going in search of Dulcinea, inquire their way of the countryman, who was driving his mules to plough before break of day, "singing the ancient ballad of Roncesvalles." Sir Thomas Overbury describes his country girl as still accompanied with fragments of old songs. One of the best and most striking descriptions of the effects of this mixture of national poetry and music is to be found in one of the letters of Archbishop Herring, giving an account of a confirmation-tour in the mountains of Wales.