descendant of Wallace, and many heroes of his truly illustrious line and herself the mother of several soldiers-needs neither preface nor apology. SONG OF DEATH. AIR-Oran an Aoig. Scene-A Field of Battle-Time of the day, Evening-The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song: Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties— Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy foe! Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know Thou strik'st the dull peasant-he sinks in the dark, Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark! In the field of proud honour-our swords in our hands, Oh! who would not die with the brave? The circumstance that gave rise to the foregoing verses waslooking over with a musical friend M'Donald's collection of Highland airs, I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, entitled Oran an Aoig, or The Song of Death, to the measure of which I have adapted. my stanzas. I have of late composed two or three other little pieces, which, ere yon full-orbed moon, whose broad impudent face. now stares at old Mother Earth all night, shall have shrunk into a modest crescent, just peeping forth a dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to transcribe for you. A Dieu je vous commende. R. B. It may perhaps be allowable to express a doubt, if Burns was truly happy in the selection of this subject for a song. The ardour of the advancing host, as in Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled, is a theme which we all can contemplate with interest, and which will never fail to furnish fitting work for the Muse. But the pitcous condition of the wounded and dying after the tide of battle has rolled past, is invested with associations of a different kind. It is difficult, even in the instance of the most patriotic cause, to suppose these victims of the chances of war as joining in a sentimental effusion like that which Burns has supplied for them. Nevertheless, I feel bound to state that, according to the report of my late friend, Mr James Ballantyne of Edinburgh, Thomas Campbell used to speak of this Song of Death as, in his opinion, one of the most brilliant effusions of our poet. We have seen that so early as January 1790, after a little more than a year and a half's experience of his farm, the poet had become alarmed at its unprofitableness. His statement to Lady Elizabeth Cunningham in spring 1791 is, that, but for the support he had from his Excise income, he must have sunk under the bad bargain of his farm. It is difficult now to imagine such a farm as ruinous at £50, or even £70 a year, when the existing tenant pays £170, notwithstanding that it is now less by a few acres than in Burns's time, and that the markets are even lower than they were then. But some explanation is hinted when we hear Burns speaking of wandering out among the broom in his neighbourhood: the land was not then in its present state of cultivation; high, or even tolerable farming, was not understood or practised; and, accordingly, it might be more difficult to wring £70 out of this farm for the landlord in 1791, than it is now to pay him £100 more. However this may be, Burns now only waited for a somewhat better appointment in the Excise, to throw up his ungrateful acres.1 His third versified epistle to Mr Graham, which is here placed in summer 1791, expresses, though hintingly, the eager wishes of the poet for such an appointment, and at length, by the kindness of that gentleman, it was obtained towards the close of the year. He had expected, as we have seen, a supervisorship; but this was to remain a hope deferred. The arrangement was, that Burns should perform duty in Dumfries as an ordinary exciseman, and enjoy a salary of £70 per annum. This was an advance of £20 upon his Ellisland income, and as he did not now require to keep a horse, the advantage must be reckoned at a still higher sum. However this was, Burns considered himself as for the meantime independent of the farm. The income was indeed a small one, and it was something of a declension to be the common exciseman only; but hope at this time made up for all-he was led to expect an advance in the service which, though increasing his toils, 1 In a conversation I had with Mr Kirkpatrick, the present tenant, in June 1850, he spoke of the farm as one which would be a pretty good bargain at £140, even under the new prospects of British agriculture. The land has been much improved since Burns's time, but still is not of first-rate quality. would put him comparatively at ease in his circumstances. On this occasion he composed his FOURTH EPISTLE TO MR GRAHAM OF FINTRY. I call no goddess to inspire my strains, A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns; Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres, As a first step, he had to get Ellisland taken off his hands by Mr Miller. It had pleased Heaven to bring these two remarkable men into a sort of friendship, but to 'decrease it upon better acquaintance.' Burns quickly found that Mr Miller's relation to him was that of the patron: he expected deference, and when Burns would not submit to such terms, the landlord and his gifted tenant became comparatively estranged. Yet there is no evidence of Mr Miller having ever acted otherwise than generously and leniently with Burns, or of Burns having ever acted ungratefully or with open disrespect towards Mr Miller. When the crisis arrived which caused the poet to wish to part with the farm, the landlord was fortunately in such circumstances as to render him more than willing to take back the lease. A neighbour, Mr Morine, was willing to purchase for £2000 what Burns could not profitably lease at £70. Mr Miller was not unwilling to part on such terms with a piece of his property, which was awkwardly detached from the rest by the river. Accordingly, on the 19th November, Mr Morine became proprietor of 'the forty-shilling or three-merk land of old extent of Ellisland,' and Burns at the same time renounced his concern in the ground. He soon after sold off his stock and implements, and taking a small house in Dumfries, moved thither with his family and his furniture-'leaving nothing at Ellisland,' says Allan Cunningham, but a putting-stone with which he had loved to exercise his strength, a memory of his musings which can never die; and £300 of his money, sunk beyond redemption in a speculation from which all had augured happiness.' T must have been a sad change to the poet and his family, when leaving the beautiful knolls and haughs of Ellisland, and all the rough comforts of a farm, they had to take up their residence in the first floor of a small house in the 'Wee' Vennel of Dumfries, where the father no longer saw the sun rise over the beautiful river, the little ones had no longer the gowaned sod to sport over, and the mother found that every article of household necessity had to be purchased. How light, however, would present inconveniences have appeared, if any of the group could have known that they had taken the first but decisive step towards the tragic conclusion which stretched this noble poet on his death-bed less than five years after! Dumfries is a compact and rather elegant small town, situated on the Nith at the point where it becomes navigable. The environs are generally beautiful; one spot particularly so, where the ruins of Lincluden Church adorn the peninsula between the Nith and its tributary the Cluden. The curse of country towns is the partial and entire idleness of large classes of the inhabitants. There is always a cluster of men living on competencies, and a greater number of tradesmen whose shop-duties do not occupy half their time. Till a very recent period, dissipation, in greater or less intensity, was the rule and not the exception amongst these men; and in Dumfries, sixty years ago, this rule held good. In those days, tavern enjoyments were in vogue among men who do not now enter a public place of entertainment once in a twelvemonth. The weary waste of spirits and energy at these soaking evening meetings was deplorable. Insipid toasts, petty THE POET'S MIND KINDLES TO FRENCH POLITICS. 203 ET. 33.] raillery, empty gabble about trivial occurrences, endless disputes on small questions of fact, where an almanac or a dictionary would have settled all-these, relieved by a song when it was to be had, formed the staple of convivial life as I remember it in such places in my own younger days. It was a life without progress, or profit, or any gleam of a tendency to moral elevation. The only redemption to be hoped for it, was in such scintillations of wit and eloquence as a man like Burns could give. For him, on the other hand, to do so was to sacrifice the bread of angels before blocks and dolts. Burns came into this society a comparatively pure man, for though the contrary has been asserted, there is no evidence that he had as yet acquired over-convivial habits. Now that he was thrown into Dumfries, it was of course to be feared that he would become much more a victim to such indulgences than formerly. The removal to Dumfries was a crisis in the fate of Burns in another respect. In the earlier years of the French Revolution, it does not appear that our poet felt much interest in that agitating subject; nor do we observe any traces of political liberalism in his writings or conduct up to the latter part of 1791. In this respect he was not different from the great bulk of British society, for certainly till the publication of Burke's pamphlet, the proceedings of the patriotic party in France had excited much less attention than might have been expected. There were as yet no democratic publications, no ultra-reforming societies. The active sympathisers were a small party of intelligent men, chiefly connected with the dissenting bodies. It was only now that the violent arrogations of the democratic party in the Legislative Assembly of France, began to be viewed with any serious uneasiness by the English government. Men of rank and state could not but sympathise with the unfortunate Louis, whom his subjects kept in an honourable but perilous captivity. Sober men began to fear that the new régime was not to settle to quiet or sober courses. On the other hand, the more ardent minds were loath to see danger. It is at this crisis that we find the mind of Burns beginning to kindle to French politics. Formerly ill affected, though in no serious way, to the Brunswick dynasty, it was with him, as with many other Jacobites, a simple change in the form of opposition, to take up with the doctrines which were now a subject of alarm to the English and all other reigning families. Not that he would have readily sanctioned any violent changes in the constitution of his country-such things were not generally |