The works of Robert Burns: with an account of his life, and criticism on his writings. To which are prefixed. Some observations on the character and condition of the Scottish peasantry

Front matter

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Preface

TO THE FIRST EDITION

OF

BURNS' POEMS.

PUBLISHED AT KILMARNOCK IN 1786.

The following trifles are not the production of the poet, who, with all the advantages of learned art, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the author of this, these and other celebrated names, their countrymen, are, at least in the original language, a fcnintain shut up, and a hook sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself and in his rustic compeers around him, in his and their native language. Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulses of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him think anything of his worth showing; and none of the following works were composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe the various feeUngs, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own breast : to find some counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were his motives for courting the Muses, and m these he found poetry to be liis own reward.

Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does it with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as — An impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, forsooth !

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstoue, whose divine elegies do honor to our language, our nation, and our species, that " Hu' mility has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame !" If any critic catches at the word genius, the author tells him once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetical abilities, otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done, would be a maneuver below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemies will ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious drawings of the poor unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that, even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pretensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in eye in the following pieces : but rather with a view to kindle at their flame than for servile imitation.

To his Subscribers, the author returns his most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship, for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom — to be distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and polite, who will honor him with a perusal, that they will make every allowance for education and circumstances of life ; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dullness and nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that case do by others — let him be condemned, without mercy, to contempt and oblivion, vii

ON

THE DEATH OF BURNS

BY MR. ROSCOE.

Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills,

Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills,

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; But, ah! what poet now shall tread

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, Since he the sweetest bard is dead

That ever breath'd the soothing strain ?

As green thy towering pines may grow.

As clear thy streams may speed along ; As bright thy summer suns may glow.

And wake again thy feathery throng ; But now, unheeded is the song,

And dull and lifeless all around. For his wild harp lies all unstrung.

And cold the hand that wak'd its sound.

What tho^ thy vigorous offspring rise,

In arts and arms thy sons excel ; Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes,

And health in every feature dwell ; Yet who shall now their praises tell.

In strains impassion'd, fond, and free, Since he no more the song shall swell

To love, and liberty, and thee !

With step-dame eye and frown severe

His hapless youth why didst thou view ? For al4 thy joys to him were dear.

And all his vows to thee were due : Nor greater bliss his bosom knew.

In opening youth's delightful prime, Than when thy favoring ear he drew

To listen to his chanted rhyme.

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies

To him were all with rapture fraught ; He heard with joy the tempests rise

That wak'd him to sublimer thought ; And oft thy winding dells he sought.

Where wild flowers pour'd their rath perfume, And with sincere devotion brought

To thee the summer's earliest bloom.

But. ah ! no fond maternal smile

His unprotected youth enjoy 'd ; His limbs inur'd to early toil.

His days with early hardships tried :

And more to mark the gloomy void,

And bid him feel his misery.

Before his infant eyes would glide

Day-dreams of immortality.

Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd.

With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, Sunk with the evening sun to rest.

And met at morn his earliest smile. Wak'd by his rustic pipe, meanwhile

The powers of fancy came along. And soothed his lengthen'd hour of toil

With native wit and sprightly song.

Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled.

When vigorous health from labor springs. And bland contentment smooths the bed,

And sleep his ready opiate brings ; And hovering round on airy wings

Float the light forms of young desire. That of unutterable things

The soft and shadowy hope inspire.

Now spells of mightier power prepare,

Bid brighter phantoms round him dance : Let flattery spread her viewless snare.

And fame attract his vagrant glance : Let sprightly pleasure too advance,

Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone. Till lost in love's delirious trance.

He scorns the joys his youth has known.

Let friendship pour her brightest blaze,

Expanding all the bloom of soul ; And mirth concentre all her rays.

And point them from the sparkling bowl, And let the careless moments roll

In social pleasures unconfin'd. And confidence that spurns control.

Unlock the inmost springs of mind.

And lead his steps those bowers among.

Where elegance with splendor vies, Or science bids her favor'd throng

To more refin'd sensations rise ; Beyond the peasant's humbler joys.

And freed from each laborious strife There let him learn the bliss to prize

That waits the sons of polish' d. life.

ON THE DEATH OF BURNS,

Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high

With every impulse of delight, Dash from his lips the cup of joy,

And shroud the scene in shades of night ; And let despair, with wizard light,

Disclose the yawning gulf below, And pour incessant on his sight,

Her spectred ills and shapes of wo :

And show beneath a cheerless shed.

With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, In silent grief where droops her head,

The partner of his early joys ; And let his infant's tender cries

His fond parental succor claim, And bid him hear in agonies

A husband and a father's name.

'Tis done — the powerful charm succeeds ;

His high reluctant spirit bends ; In bitterness of soul he bleeds.

Nor longer with his fate contends. An idiot laugh the welkin rends

As genius thus degraded lies ; Till pitying Heaven the veil extends

That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes.

Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills,

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills.

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red But never more shall poet tread

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign. Since he the sweetest bard is dead

That ever breath' d the soothing strain.

Dedication

OF THE

SECOND EDITION OF THE

POEMS FORMERLY PRINTED.

Contents

Biographical Sketch of the Author, - iii

On the Death of Burns, by Mr. Roscoe, ix

Preface to the First Edition of Burns' Poems,