Here's its stuff and lining, A' the wale o' lead. Here's a little wadset, Buy braw troggin, &c. Here's an honest conscience Buy braw troggin, &c. Here's armorial bearings, Buy braw troggin, &c. Here is Satan's picture, Buy braw troggin, &c. Here's the font where Douglas Christening Murray's] crimes. Here's the worth and wisdom By a thievish midge 1 Gordon, of Cardoness. They had been nearly lost. 2 Rev. George Maxwell, minister of Buittle. A bitter allusion to Mr Bushby. choice mortgage kite toad gnat This appears to have been the retaliation for the epigram launched by the Rev. Mr Muirhead against Burns after the election of last year. 5 Walter Sloan Lawrie, of Redcastle. 6 Copland, of Collieston. Here is Murray's fragments To get them aff his hands. Saw ye e'er sic troggin? Buy braw troggin Frae the banks o' Dec; Wha wants troggin Let him come to me. the Devil It gives a new idea of Burns, that he should have been able to put such a keen edge upon his satiric weapon, and wield it with such power, within a few weeks of his death. Mr Heron was also successful in this contest, an event which did not happen till the poor bard had been laid in the dust. The election being subjected to the judgment of a committee, Mr Heron was unseated. He died on his way down to Scotland. Allan Cunningham says: 'It was one of the dreams of his day-in which Burns indulged-that, by some miraculous movement, the Tory councillors of the king would be dismissed, and the Whigs, with the Prince of Wales at their head, rule and reign in their stead. That Heron aided in strengthening this "devout imagination" is certain but then the Laird of Kerroughtree was the victim of the delusion himself." Dr Currie says: "The sense of his poverty, and of the approaching distress of his infant family, pressed heavily on Burns as he lay on the bed of death; yet he alluded to his indigence, at times, with something approaching to his wonted gaiety. "What business," said he to Dr Maxwell, who attended him with the utmost zeal, “has a physician to waste his time on me? I am a poor pigeon not worth plucking. Alas! I have not feathers enough upon me to carry me to my grave." In even a gayer spirit, he would sometimes scribble verses of compliment to sweet young Jessy Lewars, as she tripped about on her missions of gentle charity from hall to kitchen and from kitchen to hall. His surgeon, Mr Brown, one day brought in a long sheet, containing the particulars of a menagerie of wild beasts which he had just 1 John Bushby. been visiting. As Mr Brown was handing the sheet to Miss Lewars, Burns seized it, and wrote upon it a couple of verses with red chalk; after which he handed it to Miss Lewars, saying that it was now fit to be presented to a lady. She still possesses the sheet. Talk not to me of savages From Afric's burning sun; No savage e'er could rend my heart, Not even to view the heavenly choir On another occasion, while Miss Lewars was waiting upon him in his sick-chamber, he took up a crystal goblet containing wine and water, and after writing upon it the following verses, in the character of a Toast, presented it to her : Fill me with the rosy wine, At this time of trouble, on Miss Lewars complaining of indisposition, he said, to provide for the worst, he would write her epitaph. He accordingly inscribed the following on another goblet, saying: "That will be a companion to the Toast :' Say, sages, what's the charm on earth Can turn Death's dart aside? It is not purity and worth, Else Jessy had not died. On Miss Lewars recovering a little, the poet said: 'There is a poetic reason for it,' and wrote the following: But rarely seen since Nature's birth, The natives of the sky; Yet still one seraph's left on earth, For Jessy did not die. Then he would also jest about her admirers, and speculate on her matrimonial destiny. 'There's Bob Spalding,' he would say; 'he has not as much brains as a midge could lean its elbow on: he won't do.' And so on with the rest, generally ending with the declaration, that being a poet, he was also a prophet-for anciently they were the same thing-and he could therefore foretell that James Thomson would be the man'-a prediction which time fulfilled.1 At the approach of the 4th of June, Mrs Walter Riddel, to whom he had become in some measure reconciled, desired him to go to the Birthday Assembly, to shew his loyalty, and at the same time asked him for a copy of a song he had lately written. He answered as follows: TO MRS RIDDE L. DUMFRIES, 4th June 1796. I am in such miserable health, as to be utterly incapable of shewing my loyalty in any way. Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every face with a greeting, like that of Balak to Balaam: 'Come, curse me, Jacob; and come, defy me, Israel!' So say I: Come, curse me that east wind; and come, defy me the north! Would you have me in such circumstances copy you out a lovesong? Can I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I will not be at the ball. Why should I?-' man delights not me, nor woman either!' you supply me with the song, Let us all be unhappy together?-do, if you can, and oblige le pauvre misérable, R. B. The progress of the unhappy poet's disease, and the gradual setting of his hopes of life, are best shewn in the letters he wrote at this time. What immediately follows was addressed to his worthy friend the schoolmaster of Forfar, whom we have scen writing to Burns in February, with a small instalment towards the payment of a debt due to him. It is a letter of some importance, from the light which it throws upon the bard's present circumstances. He had requested money from Clarke in February; a small sum to account had been promptly sent, and he now asked for a further instalment. Such a fact at once shews the straits to which he was reduced by his illness and the reduction of his salary, and how little was required to help him through the difficulty. The amiable Jessy Lewars, by marriage Mrs James Thomson, spent the whole of her life in Dumfries, and died there in May 1855. TO MR JAMES CLARKE, SCHOOLMASTER, FOR FAR. DUMFRIES, 26th June 1796. MY DEAR CLARKE-Still, still the victim of affliction! Were you to see the emaciated figure who now holds the pen to you, you would not know your old friend. Whether I shall ever get about again, is only known to Him, the Great Unknown, whose creature I am. Alas, Clarke! I begin to fear the worst. As to my individual self, I am tranquil, and would despise myself if I were not ; but Burns's poor widow, and half a dozen of his dear little oneshelpless orphans !-there I am weak as a woman's tear.' Enough of this! 'Tis half of my disease. I duly received your last, enclosing the note.2 It came extremely in time, and I am much obliged by your punctuality. Again I must request you to do me the same kindness. Be so very good as, by return of post, to enclose me another note. I trust you can do it without inconvenience, and it will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I shall leave a few friends behind me, whom I shall regret while consciousness remains. I know I shall live in their remembrance. Adieu, dear Clarke. That I shall ever see you again is, I am afraid, highly improbable. R. B. TO MR JAMES JOHNSON, EDINBURGH. DUMFRIES, 4th July 1796. How are you, my dear friend, and how comes on your fifth volume? You may probably think that for some time past I have neglected you and your work; but, alas! the hand of pain, and sorrow, and care, has these many months lain heavy on me. Personal and domestic affliction have almost entirely banished that alacrity and life with which I used to woo the rural Muse of Scotia. You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and have a good right to live in this world-because you deserve it. Many a merry meeting this publication has given us, and possibly it may give us more, though, alas! I fear it. This protracting, slow, consuming illness which hangs over me, will, I doubt much, my ever-dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well reached his middle career, and will turn over the poet to far more important concerns than studying the brilliancy of wit or the pathos of sentiment. However, hope is But I am weaker than a woman's tear.'-Troilus and Cressida. 2 Pound-notes are so much the current money of Scotland, that the term a note is constantly used to signify twenty shillings. |