As Burns went whistling behind his plow, thoughts of nature and its beauties, of love and its tender emotions, would gradually shape themselves into words and rhythm, such as would suit exactly the very tunes he was whistling. Thus, song-making was his earliest effort as a poet. As his mind expanded, his life as a plowman became tiresome and disagreeable, and at last utterly unendurable. He consequently left it, tried farming on his own account, and failed. Dis gusted with everything about him, he resolved to leave Scotland, and to try his fortune in the West Indies, where so many Scots had already reaped an abundance of wealth. In order to pay the expense of the voyage out, Burns published a collection of his poems. This was so successful that he received more than enough money, and great popularity. Under these circumstances, ROBERT BURNS he gave up the idea of going abroad; and the Ayrshire poet was invited by the great people of Edinburgh to pay them a visit. They gave him a most cordial reception when he came, feasting and lionizing him; and he, plowman though he was, conducted himself as if he were the finest gentleman among them. When this grand time was over, the poet went back to his old life, which did not look more pleasant after his brilliant holiday experiences in Edinburgh. Troubles came upon him, and he had at last to accept the humble office of exciseman. Unfortunately, this was the very worst employment he could have engaged in. He craved strong drink, and in the fulfillment of his duties as exciseman he had too many opportunities of indulging himself. One night in January he caught cold. The cold brought on fever; and at the age of thirty-seven the great but unfortunate poet died, in 1796, at Dumfries, leaving a wife and six children in poverty. Burns is best known as a lyric poet. His songs are mostly about love, patriotism, and pleasure. Of the first, that beginning "Ae fond kiss, and then we sever," is a good example; of the second, "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled"; and of the third, the songs which occur throughout "The Jolly Beggars." The characteristics of his style are humor, careful and loving study of nature, and an ability to express the emotions of the human heart which Shakspeare alone has been able to excel. His songs, for this reason, are known and sung in all regions of the globe. In speaking of Burns, Sir Walter Scott thus describes his personal appearance: "His person was strong and robust; his manners rustic, a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its effect, perhaps, from one's knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His countenance was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits. There was a strong expression of sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments; the eye alone indicated the poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast, which glowed when he spoke with feeling or interest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen the most distinguished men of my time." THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays : With honest pride I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise : To you I sing in simple Scottish lays The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. The short'ning winter day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose : The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, 5 10 15 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through 20 His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 25 Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out amang the farmers roun'; 30 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman n-grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite 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 weelfare kindly spiers: The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. 35 40 The mother wi' her needle an' her sheers Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 45 Their master's an' their mistress's command The younkers a' are warnèd to obey; An' mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : An' oh! be sure to fear the Lord alway, 50 "An' mind your duty, duely, morn an' night! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!" But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor 55 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; 60 With heartstruck, anxious care, inquires his name, Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But, blate and 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. O happy love! where love like this is found! 65 70 I've paced much this weary mortal round, 75 "If Heaven a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale 80 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale." Is there, in human form, that bears a heart A wretch a villain! lost to love and truth! That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth! Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? 85 Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild! 90 Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? But now the supper crowns their simple board, The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallen snugly chows her cood; |