CHAPTER XV.SIR WALTER SCOTT.

O let me in this ae night,This ae, ae, ae night;For pity's sake this ae night,O rise and let me in, Jo!Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet;Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet.Tak' pity on my weary feet,And shield me frae the rain, Jo.The bitter blast that 'round me blawsUnheeded howls, unheeded fa's;The cauldness o' thine heart's the causeOf a' my grief and pain, Jo.O let me in this ae, ae night,This ae, ae, ae night;For pity's sake this ae nightO rise and let me in, Jo.

O let me in this ae night,This ae, ae, ae night;For pity's sake this ae night,O rise and let me in, Jo!

O let me in this ae night,

This ae, ae, ae night;

For pity's sake this ae night,

O rise and let me in, Jo!

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet;Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet.Tak' pity on my weary feet,And shield me frae the rain, Jo.

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet;

Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet.

Tak' pity on my weary feet,

And shield me frae the rain, Jo.

The bitter blast that 'round me blawsUnheeded howls, unheeded fa's;The cauldness o' thine heart's the causeOf a' my grief and pain, Jo.

The bitter blast that 'round me blaws

Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's;

The cauldness o' thine heart's the cause

Of a' my grief and pain, Jo.

O let me in this ae, ae night,This ae, ae, ae night;For pity's sake this ae nightO rise and let me in, Jo.

O let me in this ae, ae night,

This ae, ae, ae night;

For pity's sake this ae night

O rise and let me in, Jo.

Mr. Jo's pleadings were in vain, to judge from Mrs. Jo's answer, which is as follows:

O tell na me o' wind and rain!Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain!Gae back the gate ye came again—I winna let you in, Jo.

O tell na me o' wind and rain!

Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain!

Gae back the gate ye came again—

I winna let you in, Jo.

I haven't the least idea where Jo spent the night, but it surely wasn'twith Mrs. Jo. There are lots of husbands who get full and don't know when to go home. Let them paste this poem in their hats. It may do them good.

Here is an old song revised by Puir Rabbie, whose magic touch has made it better and more famous than it ever was before. It is entitled: "Will ye go to the Highlands, Leezie Lindsay?"

Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay,Will ye go to the Hielands wi' me?Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay,My pride and my darling to be?To gang to the Hielands wi' you, sir,I dinna ken how that may be;For I ken na the land that ye live in,Nor ken I the lad I'm gaun wi'.O Leezie, lass, ye maun ken little,If sae that ye dinna ken me;My name is Lord Ronald McDonald,A chieftain o' high degree.She has kilted her coats o' green satin,She has kilted them up to the knee;And she's off wi' Lord Ronald McDonaldHis bride and his darling to be.

Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay,Will ye go to the Hielands wi' me?Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay,My pride and my darling to be?

Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay,

Will ye go to the Hielands wi' me?

Will ye go to the Hielands, Leezie Lindsay,

My pride and my darling to be?

To gang to the Hielands wi' you, sir,I dinna ken how that may be;For I ken na the land that ye live in,Nor ken I the lad I'm gaun wi'.

To gang to the Hielands wi' you, sir,

I dinna ken how that may be;

For I ken na the land that ye live in,

Nor ken I the lad I'm gaun wi'.

O Leezie, lass, ye maun ken little,If sae that ye dinna ken me;My name is Lord Ronald McDonald,A chieftain o' high degree.

O Leezie, lass, ye maun ken little,

If sae that ye dinna ken me;

My name is Lord Ronald McDonald,

A chieftain o' high degree.

She has kilted her coats o' green satin,She has kilted them up to the knee;And she's off wi' Lord Ronald McDonaldHis bride and his darling to be.

She has kilted her coats o' green satin,

She has kilted them up to the knee;

And she's off wi' Lord Ronald McDonald

His bride and his darling to be.

A whole lot of human nature about this little poem and a fine swing to it. Burns had a touch that no one has ever imitated or ever can imitate. It is a twist, which for want of a better name, I would call "a French Twist." Imitate it, ye who can!

Everyone knows "Auld Lang Syne." It is an old song that didn't amount to much until Burns got a hold of it and put his twist to it. Here it is:

AULD LANG SYNE.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,And never brought to min'?Should auld acquaintance be forgotAnd days o' auld lang syne?For auld lang syne, my dear,For auld lang syne,Well tak' a cup o' kindness yetFor auld lang syne.We twa ha'e run about the braesAnd pu'd the gowans fine;But we've wandered many a weary footSin' auld lang syne;We two ha'e paid'lt i' the burnFrae mornin' sun till dine;But seas between us braid ha'e roar'dSin auld lang syne.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to min'?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

And days o' auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

Well tak' a cup o' kindness yet

For auld lang syne.

We twa ha'e run about the braesAnd pu'd the gowans fine;But we've wandered many a weary footSin' auld lang syne;We two ha'e paid'lt i' the burnFrae mornin' sun till dine;But seas between us braid ha'e roar'dSin auld lang syne.

We twa ha'e run about the braes

And pu'd the gowans fine;

But we've wandered many a weary foot

Sin' auld lang syne;

We two ha'e paid'lt i' the burn

Frae mornin' sun till dine;

But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd

Sin auld lang syne.

Chorus.

And here's a hand, my trusty fren,And gie us a hand o' thine;And we'll take a right good wallie-waughtFor auld lang syne.

And here's a hand, my trusty fren,

And gie us a hand o' thine;

And we'll take a right good wallie-waught

For auld lang syne.

Chorus.

And surely ye'll be your pint stoup,And surely I'll be mine;And we'll take a cup o' kindness yetFor auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint stoup,

And surely I'll be mine;

And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet

For auld lang syne.

Following is a composition that is famous the world over and is used as a recitation, not only in this country but in every other English-speaking country. It is entitled: "Bruce at Bannockburn":

BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN.

Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled;Scots, whom Bruce has often led;Welcome to your gory bed,Or to glorious victorie!Now's the day, and now's the hour;See the front o' battle lower;See approach proud Edward's power—Edward! chains and slaverie!Wha will be a traitor knave?Wha can fill a coward's grave?Wha sae base as be a slave?Traitor! Coward! turn and flee.Wha for Scotland's king and lawFreedom's sword will strongly draw,Freemen stand or freemen fa',Caledonian! on wi' me!By oppression's woes and pains!By your sons in servile chains!We will drain our dearest veins,But they shall—they shall be free!Lay the proud usurper low!Tyrants fall in every foe!Liberty's in every blow!Forward! Let us do or die.

Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled;Scots, whom Bruce has often led;Welcome to your gory bed,Or to glorious victorie!

Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled;

Scots, whom Bruce has often led;

Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to glorious victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;See the front o' battle lower;See approach proud Edward's power—Edward! chains and slaverie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;

See the front o' battle lower;

See approach proud Edward's power—

Edward! chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?Wha can fill a coward's grave?Wha sae base as be a slave?Traitor! Coward! turn and flee.

Wha will be a traitor knave?

Wha can fill a coward's grave?

Wha sae base as be a slave?

Traitor! Coward! turn and flee.

Wha for Scotland's king and lawFreedom's sword will strongly draw,Freemen stand or freemen fa',Caledonian! on wi' me!

Wha for Scotland's king and law

Freedom's sword will strongly draw,

Freemen stand or freemen fa',

Caledonian! on wi' me!

By oppression's woes and pains!By your sons in servile chains!We will drain our dearest veins,But they shall—they shall be free!

By oppression's woes and pains!

By your sons in servile chains!

We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall—they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurper low!Tyrants fall in every foe!Liberty's in every blow!Forward! Let us do or die.

Lay the proud usurper low!

Tyrants fall in every foe!

Liberty's in every blow!

Forward! Let us do or die.

Here is a love song to Jennie, entitled, "Come, Let Me Take Thee!"

COME, LET ME TAKE THEE.

Come, let me take thee to my breastAnd pledge we ne'er shall sunder;And I shall spurn as vilest dustThe world's wealth and grandeur;And do I hear my Jennie ownThat equal transports move her?I ask for dearest life aloneThat I may live to love her.Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,I clasp my countless treasure;I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to shareThan sic a moment's pleasure;And by thy een sae bonnie blueI swear I'm thine forever!And on thy lips I seal my vow,And break it I shall never.

Come, let me take thee to my breast

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder;

And I shall spurn as vilest dust

The world's wealth and grandeur;

And do I hear my Jennie own

That equal transports move her?

I ask for dearest life alone

That I may live to love her.

Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,I clasp my countless treasure;I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to shareThan sic a moment's pleasure;And by thy een sae bonnie blueI swear I'm thine forever!And on thy lips I seal my vow,And break it I shall never.

Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,

I clasp my countless treasure;

I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share

Than sic a moment's pleasure;

And by thy een sae bonnie blue

I swear I'm thine forever!

And on thy lips I seal my vow,

And break it I shall never.

One day Burns was called upon for a toast during a dinner which was given by the Dumfries Volunteers, in honorof their anniversary. The poet got up and spoke the following lines extempore:

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast—Here is the memory of those on the 12th that we lost!That we lost, did I say; nay, by heaven, that we found;For their fame it shall last while the world goes around.The next in succession I'll give you—the King!Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing!And here's the grand fabric, our Free Constitution,As built on the base of the great Revolution.And longer with politics not to be crammed,Be anarchy cursed and be tyranny damned;And who would to Liberty e'er be disloyal,May his son be a hangman and he his first trial.

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast—

Here is the memory of those on the 12th that we lost!

That we lost, did I say; nay, by heaven, that we found;

For their fame it shall last while the world goes around.

The next in succession I'll give you—the King!

Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing!

And here's the grand fabric, our Free Constitution,

As built on the base of the great Revolution.

And longer with politics not to be crammed,

Be anarchy cursed and be tyranny damned;

And who would to Liberty e'er be disloyal,

May his son be a hangman and he his first trial.

A GRACE BEFORE MEAT.

Some ha'e meat and canna eat it,And some wad eat that want it;But we ha'e meat and we can eat,And sae the Lord be thankit.

Some ha'e meat and canna eat it,

And some wad eat that want it;

But we ha'e meat and we can eat,

And sae the Lord be thankit.

TO A HEN-PECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE.

As father Adam first was fooled,A case that's still too common,Here lies a man a woman ruled—The devil ruled the woman.

As father Adam first was fooled,

A case that's still too common,

Here lies a man a woman ruled—

The devil ruled the woman.

The poet's father, William Burness, lies buried in a graveyard at Alloway. The following lines were written by his son to his memory:

LINES TO HIS FATHER.

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,Draw near with pious reverence and attend.Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,The tender father and the generous friend.The pitying heart that felt for human woe;The dauntless heart that feared no human pride;The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;"For e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side."

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,Draw near with pious reverence and attend.Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,The tender father and the generous friend.

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,

Draw near with pious reverence and attend.

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,

The tender father and the generous friend.

The pitying heart that felt for human woe;The dauntless heart that feared no human pride;The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;"For e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side."

The pitying heart that felt for human woe;

The dauntless heart that feared no human pride;

The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;

"For e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side."

I believe there are some husbands who grow tired of the married state after they have been in it a while. They came to find out that it isn't all "beer and skittles," as they first imagined it would be. Even "Puir Rabbie" had troubles of his own, as the following will show, for it is written about himself:

"Oh, that I had n'er been married!I would never had nae care;Now I've gotten wife and bairns,And they cry crowdie ev'ry mair;Ance crowdie, twice crowdie,Three times crowdie in a day;Gin ye crowdie ony mair,Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away.Waefu' want and hunger fley me,Glowrin' by the hallan en';Sair I fecht them at the door,But aye I'm eerie the come ben."

"Oh, that I had n'er been married!I would never had nae care;Now I've gotten wife and bairns,And they cry crowdie ev'ry mair;

"Oh, that I had n'er been married!

I would never had nae care;

Now I've gotten wife and bairns,

And they cry crowdie ev'ry mair;

Ance crowdie, twice crowdie,Three times crowdie in a day;Gin ye crowdie ony mair,Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away.

Ance crowdie, twice crowdie,

Three times crowdie in a day;

Gin ye crowdie ony mair,

Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away.

Waefu' want and hunger fley me,Glowrin' by the hallan en';Sair I fecht them at the door,But aye I'm eerie the come ben."

Waefu' want and hunger fley me,

Glowrin' by the hallan en';

Sair I fecht them at the door,

But aye I'm eerie the come ben."

The poet had lots of cronies and friends, and he was as loyal to some of them as they were to him. He was a good boon companion and liked "a wee drappie" (nip) himself as well as anyone. Many an alehouse proudly proclaims that he visited it and preserves the chair or bench that he sat on, the glass he drank out of or the table he sat at, to this day, and any and every thing that is familiar with his presence is sacred and treasured. William Muirof Tarbolton is the friend to whom the following lines were written:

ON A FRIEND.

An honest man here lies at rest,As e'er God with his image blest;The friend of man, the friend of truth;The friend of age, the guide of youth;Few hearts like his with virtue warmed,Few heads with knowledge so informed;If there's another world, he lives in bliss;If there is none he made the best of this.

An honest man here lies at rest,

As e'er God with his image blest;

The friend of man, the friend of truth;

The friend of age, the guide of youth;

Few hearts like his with virtue warmed,

Few heads with knowledge so informed;

If there's another world, he lives in bliss;

If there is none he made the best of this.

Mr. John Dove kept an inn at Mauchline called the "Whiteford Arms," and the poet pays his respects to him in the following fashion:

ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER.

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon;What was his religion?Whae'er desires to ken,To some other warl'Maun follow the carl,For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane.Strong ale was ablution—Small beer persecution—A dram was momento mori;But a full flowing bowlWas the saving his soul,And port was celestial glory.

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon;What was his religion?Whae'er desires to ken,To some other warl'Maun follow the carl,For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane.

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon;

What was his religion?

Whae'er desires to ken,

To some other warl'

Maun follow the carl,

For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane.

Strong ale was ablution—Small beer persecution—A dram was momento mori;But a full flowing bowlWas the saving his soul,And port was celestial glory.

Strong ale was ablution—

Small beer persecution—

A dram was momento mori;

But a full flowing bowl

Was the saving his soul,

And port was celestial glory.

To judge from the following, the poet did not have a great respect for all ruling elders of the church. Souter Hood was a miserly one.

TO A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.

Here Souter Hood in death doth sleep;To hell, if he's gone thither;Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,He'll hand it weel thegither.

Here Souter Hood in death doth sleep;

To hell, if he's gone thither;

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,

He'll hand it weel thegither.

TO ANOTHER HEN-PECKED HUSBAND.

O Death, hadst thou but spared his lifeWhom we this day lament,We freely wad exchanged the wifeAn' a' been weel content.

O Death, hadst thou but spared his life

Whom we this day lament,

We freely wad exchanged the wife

An' a' been weel content.

The poet was hospitably entertained at a place one day called for short and sweet Dahna Cardoch. In appreciation he got off the following:

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er,A time that surely shall come—In heaven itself I'll ask no moreThan just a Highland Welcome.

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er,

A time that surely shall come—

In heaven itself I'll ask no more

Than just a Highland Welcome.

One Sunday while in the northern part of Scotland with Nicol, a friend of his, he visited the Carron Works which they had traveled some distance to see. There was a sign on the gate: "No Admittance to Strangers," which barredthe poet and his friend. Here is an apostrophe by Burns in regard to the matter:

NO ADMITTANCE TO STRANGERS.

We cam' na here to view your warksIn hopes to be mair wise,But only, lest we gang to hell,It may be nae surprise;But when we tirled at your door,Your porter dought na hear us;Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come,Your billy Satan serve us.

We cam' na here to view your warksIn hopes to be mair wise,But only, lest we gang to hell,It may be nae surprise;

We cam' na here to view your warks

In hopes to be mair wise,

But only, lest we gang to hell,

It may be nae surprise;

But when we tirled at your door,Your porter dought na hear us;Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come,Your billy Satan serve us.

But when we tirled at your door,

Your porter dought na hear us;

Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come,

Your billy Satan serve us.

LORD GREGORY.

O, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,And loud the tempest roar;A waeful wanderer seeks thy tower—Lord Gregory, ope the door.An exile frae her father's ha',And a' for loving thee;At least some pity on me show,If love it may na be.Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the groveBy bonnie Irwine side,Where first I owned that virgin loveI lang, lang had denied!How often didst thou pledge and vowThou wad for aye be mine;And my fond heart, itself sae true,It ne'er mistrusted thine.Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,And flinty is thy breast—Thou dart of heaven that flashed by,O, wilt thou give me rest!Ye mustering thunders from above,Your willing victim see!But spare and pardon my fause loveHis wrangs to Heaven and me!

O, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,And loud the tempest roar;A waeful wanderer seeks thy tower—Lord Gregory, ope the door.

O, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,

And loud the tempest roar;

A waeful wanderer seeks thy tower—

Lord Gregory, ope the door.

An exile frae her father's ha',And a' for loving thee;At least some pity on me show,If love it may na be.

An exile frae her father's ha',

And a' for loving thee;

At least some pity on me show,

If love it may na be.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the groveBy bonnie Irwine side,Where first I owned that virgin loveI lang, lang had denied!

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove

By bonnie Irwine side,

Where first I owned that virgin love

I lang, lang had denied!

How often didst thou pledge and vowThou wad for aye be mine;And my fond heart, itself sae true,It ne'er mistrusted thine.

How often didst thou pledge and vow

Thou wad for aye be mine;

And my fond heart, itself sae true,

It ne'er mistrusted thine.

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,And flinty is thy breast—Thou dart of heaven that flashed by,O, wilt thou give me rest!

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,

And flinty is thy breast—

Thou dart of heaven that flashed by,

O, wilt thou give me rest!

Ye mustering thunders from above,Your willing victim see!But spare and pardon my fause loveHis wrangs to Heaven and me!

Ye mustering thunders from above,

Your willing victim see!

But spare and pardon my fause love

His wrangs to Heaven and me!

MARY MORISON.

O, Mary, at thy window be,It is the wished, the trysted hour!Those smiles and glances let me seeThat makes the miser's treasure poor.How blithely wad I bide the stoureA weary slave frae sun to sun,Could I the rich reward secure—The lovely Mary Morison.Jestreen, when to the trembling stringThe dance gaed through the lighted ha',To thee my fancy took its wing—I sat, but neither heard nor saw;Though this was fair, and that was braw,And you the toast of a' the town,I sighed and said amang them a'"Ye are na Mary Morison."O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,Wha for thy sake wad gladly die;Or canst thou break that heart of hisWhose only faut is loving thee?If love for love thou wilt na gi'eAt least be pity to me shown,A thought ungentle canna beThe thought o' Mary Morison.

O, Mary, at thy window be,

It is the wished, the trysted hour!

Those smiles and glances let me see

That makes the miser's treasure poor.

How blithely wad I bide the stoure

A weary slave frae sun to sun,

Could I the rich reward secure—

The lovely Mary Morison.

Jestreen, when to the trembling stringThe dance gaed through the lighted ha',To thee my fancy took its wing—I sat, but neither heard nor saw;Though this was fair, and that was braw,And you the toast of a' the town,I sighed and said amang them a'"Ye are na Mary Morison."

Jestreen, 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;

Though this was fair, and that was braw,

And you the toast of a' the town,

I sighed and said amang them a'

"Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,Wha for thy sake wad gladly die;Or canst thou break that heart of hisWhose only faut is loving thee?If love for love thou wilt na gi'eAt least be pity to me shown,A thought ungentle canna beThe thought o' Mary Morison.

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die;

Or canst thou break that heart of his

Whose only faut is loving thee?

If love for love thou wilt na gi'e

At least be pity to me shown,

A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o' Mary Morison.

TO A LAIRD.

When —— deceased to the devil went down'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown;Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall wear never,Grant thou'rt wicked but not quite so clever.

When —— deceased to the devil went down

'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown;

Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall wear never,

Grant thou'rt wicked but not quite so clever.

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, O!

O, open the door some pity to show,O, open the door to me, O!Though thou has been fause, I'll ever prove true,O, open the door to me, O!Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,But caulder thy love for me, O!The frost that freezes the life at my heartIs naught to my pains frae thee, O!The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,And time is setting with me, O!False friends, false love, farewell! for mairI'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, O!She has opened the door, she has opened it wide;She sees his pale corse on the plain, O!My true love! she cried, and sank down by his sideNever to rise again, O!

O, open the door some pity to show,

O, open the door to me, O!

Though thou has been fause, I'll ever prove true,

O, open the door to me, O!

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,

But caulder thy love for me, O!

The frost that freezes the life at my heart

Is naught to my pains frae thee, O!

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,

And time is setting with me, O!

False friends, false love, farewell! for mair

I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, O!

She has opened the door, she has opened it wide;

She sees his pale corse on the plain, O!

My true love! she cried, and sank down by his side

Never to rise again, O!

TO CARDONESS.

Bless the Redeemer, Cardoness,With grateful lifted eyes;Who said that not the soul aloneBut body, too, must rise.For had he said, "The soul aloneFrom death I shall deliver,"Alas! alas! O Cardoness,Then thou hadst slept forever.

Bless the Redeemer, Cardoness,With grateful lifted eyes;Who said that not the soul aloneBut body, too, must rise.

Bless the Redeemer, Cardoness,

With grateful lifted eyes;

Who said that not the soul alone

But body, too, must rise.

For had he said, "The soul aloneFrom death I shall deliver,"Alas! alas! O Cardoness,Then thou hadst slept forever.

For had he said, "The soul alone

From death I shall deliver,"

Alas! alas! O Cardoness,

Then thou hadst slept forever.

YOUNG JESSIE.

True hearted was he, the said swain o' the Yarrow,And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr,But by the sweet side of the Nith's winding riverAre lovers as faithful and maidens as fair;To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over,To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain;Grace, beauty and elegance fetter her lover,And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.O, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy morning,And sweet is the lily at evening close;But in the fair presence o' lovely young JessieUnseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring,Enthroned in her een, he delivers his law;And still to her charms she alone is a stranger,Her modest demeanor's the jewel of a'.

True hearted was he, the said swain o' the Yarrow,

And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr,

But by the sweet side of the Nith's winding river

Are lovers as faithful and maidens as fair;

To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over,

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain;

Grace, beauty and elegance fetter her lover,

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.

O, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy morning,

And sweet is the lily at evening close;

But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.

Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring,

Enthroned in her een, he delivers his law;

And still to her charms she alone is a stranger,

Her modest demeanor's the jewel of a'.

DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE.

As down the burn they took their wayAnd thro' the flowery dale,His cheek to hers he aft did lay,And love was aye the tale."O, Mary, when shall we returnSic pleasure to renew?"Quoth Mary, "Love, I like the burn,And aye shall follow you."

As down the burn they took their way

And thro' the flowery dale,

His cheek to hers he aft did lay,

And love was aye the tale.

"O, Mary, when shall we return

Sic pleasure to renew?"

Quoth Mary, "Love, I like the burn,

And aye shall follow you."

A BIT OF ADVICE.

Deluded swain, the pleasureThe fickle Fair can give theeIs but a fairy treasure—Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.The billows on the ocean,The breezes idly roaming,The clouds' uncertain motion—They are bu t types of women.O! art thou not ashamedTo doat upon a feature?If man thou wouldst be named,Despise the silly creature.Go, find an honest fellow—Good claret set before thee—Hold on till thou'rt mellow—And then to bed in glory.

Deluded swain, the pleasure

The fickle Fair can give thee

Is but a fairy treasure—

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.

The billows on the ocean,

The breezes idly roaming,

The clouds' uncertain motion—

They are bu t types of women.

O! art thou not ashamed

To doat upon a feature?

If man thou wouldst be named,

Despise the silly creature.

Go, find an honest fellow—

Good claret set before thee—

Hold on till thou'rt mellow—

And then to bed in glory.

MY SPOUSE NANCY.

Husband, husband, cease your strife,No longer idly rave, sir;Though I am your wedded wife,Yet I am not your slave, sir."One of two must still obey,Nancy, Nancy;Is it man or woman, say?My spouse Nancy!""If it is still the lordly word,Service and obedience;I'll desert my sovereign lord—And so, good by, allegiance!""Sad will I be, so bereft;Nancy, Nancy!Yet I'll try to make a shift,My spouse Nancy!""My poor heart, then break it must,My last hour I am near it;When you lay me in the dust,Think, think how you will bear it."

Husband, husband, cease your strife,

No longer idly rave, sir;

Though I am your wedded wife,

Yet I am not your slave, sir.

"One of two must still obey,

Nancy, Nancy;

Is it man or woman, say?

My spouse Nancy!"

"If it is still the lordly word,

Service and obedience;

I'll desert my sovereign lord—

And so, good by, allegiance!"

"Sad will I be, so bereft;

Nancy, Nancy!

Yet I'll try to make a shift,

My spouse Nancy!"

"My poor heart, then break it must,

My last hour I am near it;

When you lay me in the dust,

Think, think how you will bear it."

O, CAN YE SEW CUSHIONS?

O, can ye sew cushions and can ye sew sheets,And can ye sing bal-lu-loo when the bairn greets?And hee and baw birdie, and hee and baw lamb!And hee and baw birdie, my bonnie wee lamb!Hee, O, wee! O, what would I do wi' you;Black is the life that I lead wi' you!Money o' you—little for to gie you!Hee, O, wee! O, what would I do wi' you?

O, can ye sew cushions and can ye sew sheets,

And can ye sing bal-lu-loo when the bairn greets?

And hee and baw birdie, and hee and baw lamb!

And hee and baw birdie, my bonnie wee lamb!

Hee, O, wee! O, what would I do wi' you;

Black is the life that I lead wi' you!

Money o' you—little for to gie you!

Hee, O, wee! O, what would I do wi' you?

WOMAN, COMPLAIN NOT!

Let not woman e'er complainOf inconstancy in love;Let not woman e'er complainFickle man is apt to rove.Look abroad through Nature's range—Nature's mighty law is change;Ladies, would it not be strange,Man should then a monster prove?Mark the winds and mark the skies,Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow;Sun and moon but set to rise—Round and round the seasons go.Why, then, ask of silly manTo oppose great Nature's plan?We'll be constant while we can—You can be no more, you know.

Let not woman e'er complainOf inconstancy in love;Let not woman e'er complainFickle man is apt to rove.

Let not woman e'er complain

Of inconstancy in love;

Let not woman e'er complain

Fickle man is apt to rove.

Look abroad through Nature's range—Nature's mighty law is change;Ladies, would it not be strange,Man should then a monster prove?

Look abroad through Nature's range—

Nature's mighty law is change;

Ladies, would it not be strange,

Man should then a monster prove?

Mark the winds and mark the skies,Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow;Sun and moon but set to rise—Round and round the seasons go.

Mark the winds and mark the skies,

Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow;

Sun and moon but set to rise—

Round and round the seasons go.

Why, then, ask of silly manTo oppose great Nature's plan?We'll be constant while we can—You can be no more, you know.

Why, then, ask of silly man

To oppose great Nature's plan?

We'll be constant while we can—

You can be no more, you know.

JENNIE.

The following was written to Jean Jeffrey, daughter of a minister, who afterward became Mrs. Renwick, and emigrated to New York with her husband:

When first I saw fair Jennie's faceI couldna tell what ailed me;My heart went fluttering pit-a-pat—My een, they almost failed me.She's aye sae neat, sae trim, sae tightAll grace does 'round her hover,Ae look deprived me o' my heartAnd I became a lover.Had I Dundas' whole estateOr Hopetown's wealth to shine in—Did warlike laurels crown my browOr humbler bays entwining—I'd lay them a' at Jennie's feet,Could I but hope to move herAnd prouder than a belted knight,I'd be my Jennie's lover.But sair I fear some happier swainHas gained sweet Jennie's favor;If so, may every bliss be hers,Tho' I maun never have her.But gang she east or gang she west,'Twixt Forth and Tweed all over,While men have eyes, or ears, or tasteShe'll always find a lover.

When first I saw fair Jennie's face

I couldna tell what ailed me;

My heart went fluttering pit-a-pat—

My een, they almost failed me.

She's aye sae neat, sae trim, sae tight

All grace does 'round her hover,

Ae look deprived me o' my heart

And I became a lover.

Had I Dundas' whole estateOr Hopetown's wealth to shine in—Did warlike laurels crown my browOr humbler bays entwining—I'd lay them a' at Jennie's feet,Could I but hope to move herAnd prouder than a belted knight,I'd be my Jennie's lover.

Had I Dundas' whole estate

Or Hopetown's wealth to shine in—

Did warlike laurels crown my brow

Or humbler bays entwining—

I'd lay them a' at Jennie's feet,

Could I but hope to move her

And prouder than a belted knight,

I'd be my Jennie's lover.

But sair I fear some happier swainHas gained sweet Jennie's favor;If so, may every bliss be hers,Tho' I maun never have her.But gang she east or gang she west,'Twixt Forth and Tweed all over,While men have eyes, or ears, or tasteShe'll always find a lover.

But sair I fear some happier swain

Has gained sweet Jennie's favor;

If so, may every bliss be hers,

Tho' I maun never have her.

But gang she east or gang she west,

'Twixt Forth and Tweed all over,

While men have eyes, or ears, or taste

She'll always find a lover.

The poet one day was taking a ride through the country on horseback and when he got to the town of Carlisle became thirsty and stopped at a tavern for a drink. He tethered his horse outside in the village green where it was espied by the poundmaster, who took it to the pound. When Burnsie came out he was mad clear through and this is what he wrote:

Was e'er puir poet sae befitted?The maister drunk—the horse committed,Puir harmless beast, tak thee nae care,Thou'lt be a horse when he's nae mair (mare).

Was e'er puir poet sae befitted?

The maister drunk—the horse committed,

Puir harmless beast, tak thee nae care,

Thou'lt be a horse when he's nae mair (mare).

Andrew Turner was not highly appreciated by the poet, if we may judge from the following:

In seventeen hundred and forty-nineSatan took stuff to make a swineAnd cuist it in a corner;But wilely he changed his planAnd shaped it something like a manAnd called it Andrew Turner.

In seventeen hundred and forty-nine

Satan took stuff to make a swine

And cuist it in a corner;

But wilely he changed his plan

And shaped it something like a man

And called it Andrew Turner.

A MOTHERS ADDRESS TO HER INFANT.

My blessing upon thy sweet wee lippie,My blessing upon thy bonnie e'e brie!Thy smiles are sae like my blithe sodger laddieThou's aye the dearer and dearer to me.

My blessing upon thy sweet wee lippie,

My blessing upon thy bonnie e'e brie!

Thy smiles are sae like my blithe sodger laddie

Thou's aye the dearer and dearer to me.

NATIONAL THANKSGIVING ON A NAVAL VICTORY.

Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks,To murder men and gi'e God thanks?For shame gi'e o'er! proceed no further—God won't accept your thanks for murther.

Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks,

To murder men and gi'e God thanks?

For shame gi'e o'er! proceed no further—

God won't accept your thanks for murther.

TO FOLLY.

The graybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures—Give me with gay Folly to live;Grant him calm-blooded, time-settled pleasuresBut Folly has raptures to give.

The graybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures—

Give me with gay Folly to live;

Grant him calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures

But Folly has raptures to give.

TO LORD GALLOWAY.

What dost thou in that mansion fair?Flit, Galloway, and findSome narrow, dirty dungeon cave,The picture of thy mind!No Stewart art thou, Galloway—The Stewarts all were brave;Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,Not one of them a knave.Bright ran thy line, O Galloway!Through many a far-famed sire;So ran the far-famed Roman way—So ended—in a mire!Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway—In quiet let me live;I ask no kindness at thy hand,For thou hast none to give.

What dost thou in that mansion fair?Flit, Galloway, and findSome narrow, dirty dungeon cave,The picture of thy mind!

What dost thou in that mansion fair?

Flit, Galloway, and find

Some narrow, dirty dungeon cave,

The picture of thy mind!

No Stewart art thou, Galloway—The Stewarts all were brave;Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,Not one of them a knave.

No Stewart art thou, Galloway—

The Stewarts all were brave;

Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,

Not one of them a knave.

Bright ran thy line, O Galloway!Through many a far-famed sire;So ran the far-famed Roman way—So ended—in a mire!

Bright ran thy line, O Galloway!

Through many a far-famed sire;

So ran the far-famed Roman way—

So ended—in a mire!

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway—In quiet let me live;I ask no kindness at thy hand,For thou hast none to give.

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway—

In quiet let me live;

I ask no kindness at thy hand,

For thou hast none to give.

The poet subscribed for a paper which he didn't receive regularly, so he told the editor about it in this fashion:

Dear Peter, dear Peter,We poor sons of meterAre aften negleckit, ye ken;For instance, your sheet, man,Tho' glad I'm to see it, man,I get no ae day in ten.

Dear Peter, dear Peter,

We poor sons of meter

Are aften negleckit, ye ken;

For instance, your sheet, man,

Tho' glad I'm to see it, man,

I get no ae day in ten.

HONEST POVERTY.

Is there for honest poverty,That hangs its head and a' that;The coward slave, we pass him by,We dare be poor for a' that;For a' that and a' that!Our toil's obscure and a' that,The rank is but the guinea's stampThe man's the gowd for a' that.What though on hamely fare we dineWear hoddin grey and a' that;Give fools their silks and knaves their wineA man's a man for a' that!For a' that and a' that,Their tinsel show and a' that;The honest man, though e'er sae poor,Is king o' men for a' that!Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,Wha' struts and stares and a' that?Though hundreds worship at his word,He's but a coof for a' that;For a' that and a' that;His riband, star and a' that,The man of independent mindHe looks and laughs at a' that!A prince can mak' a belted knight,A marquis, duke and a' that;But an honest man's aboon his might—Guid faith he maunna fa' that;For a' that and a' that,Their dignities and a' that.The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,Are higher ranks than a' that.Then let us pray that come it may,As come it will for a' that,That sense and worth, o'er a' the earthMay bear the gree, and a' that!For a' that and a' thatIt's coming yet for a' that,That man to man, the warld o'er,Shall brothers be for a' that.

Is there for honest poverty,

That hangs its head and a' that;

The coward slave, we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a' that;

For a' that and a' that!

Our toil's obscure and a' that,

The rank is but the guinea's stamp

The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dineWear hoddin grey and a' that;Give fools their silks and knaves their wineA man's a man for a' that!For a' that and a' that,Their tinsel show and a' that;The honest man, though e'er sae poor,Is king o' men for a' that!

What though on hamely fare we dine

Wear hoddin grey and a' that;

Give fools their silks and knaves their wine

A man's a man for a' that!

For a' that and a' that,

Their tinsel show and a' that;

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that!

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,Wha' struts and stares and a' that?Though hundreds worship at his word,He's but a coof for a' that;For a' that and a' that;His riband, star and a' that,The man of independent mindHe looks and laughs at a' that!

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha' struts and stares and a' that?

Though hundreds worship at his word,

He's but a coof for a' that;

For a' that and a' that;

His riband, star and a' that,

The man of independent mind

He looks and laughs at a' that!

A prince can mak' a belted knight,A marquis, duke and a' that;But an honest man's aboon his might—Guid faith he maunna fa' that;For a' that and a' that,Their dignities and a' that.The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,Are higher ranks than a' that.

A prince can mak' a belted knight,

A marquis, duke and a' that;

But an honest man's aboon his might—

Guid faith he maunna fa' that;

For a' that and a' that,

Their dignities and a' that.

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,

Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,As come it will for a' that,That sense and worth, o'er a' the earthMay bear the gree, and a' that!For a' that and a' thatIt's coming yet for a' that,That man to man, the warld o'er,Shall brothers be for a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a' that,

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth

May bear the gree, and a' that!

For a' that and a' that

It's coming yet for a' that,

That man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that.

Here are a few facts concerning the personal and family history of the poet:

His father's name was William Burness, and was born November 11, 1721, at Clockenhill, Scotland. I suppose that Burness was the old-fashioned way of spelling Burns, hence the difference in the names of the son and father. The poet's name was Robert Burns and the father's William Burness, or Burns.

His mother's name was Agnes Brown and she was born in the Carrick district, Scotland, March 17, 1732.

Robert Burns, the great poet, was born January 25, 1759, and died July 21, 1796, being therefore not thirty-eight years of age at the time of his death. He was the eldest of seven children who were named consecutively Robert, Gilbert, Agnes, Arabella, William, John and Isabel.

The wife of the poet, as I havepreviously stated in this volume, was Jean Armour, and she was born at Mauchline in 1763 and died at Dumfries in 1834. She survived the poet many years and died at the ripe old age of 71. She was a national character and was made much of, as was everyone else intimately or even remotely connected with the National Bard. This is the reward of greatness, and thus any man or woman who achieves honorable greatness, leaves distinction behind them and throws a halo of glory over those with whom they have been connected or associated.

The following children were born to the great poet and his wife:

Twins in 1786. The boy, Robert, lived, but the girl died in infancy.

Twins in 1788. Both died in infancy.

Francis Wallace died at the age of 14.

William Nicol, born in 1791.

Elizabeth Riddell, born in 1792. Died at the age of two years.

James Glencairne, born in 1794, died in 1865.

Maxwell, born in 1796, died at the age of two.

It will be seen that the poet was the father of quite a number of children, some of whom lived to a ripe old age. Whether he was the father of any more children I am sure I don't know. If he was, almost any Scot will know it and can tell you more about it than I can. Bobbie was a very handsome man and was greatly admired by almost everyone, including the ladies. Some of his poems would lead one to believe that, like Byron,

He was unskilled to cozen,And shared his love among a dozen.

He was unskilled to cozen,

And shared his love among a dozen.

but that may be mere poetic license.Poets, you know, have an eye for thebeautiful, whether it be in landscape scenery, flowers, architecture, painting, statuary, the human form or what not. At any rate "Puir Rabbie" was the daddy of the children whose names I have given, for that is a matter of history. To show that the poet loved a joke himself, no matter on what subject, I here quote a little rhyme of his gotten off on a friend named James Smith who lived at Mauchline:

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a'He aften did assist ye;For had ye stayed whole weeks awa'Your wives they n'er had missed ye.

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a'

He aften did assist ye;

For had ye stayed whole weeks awa'

Your wives they n'er had missed ye.

In my short career I have run up against lots of folks who cannot take a joke or see the point of one and these poor people I pity, but do not blame, for they were born that way. I have always been poor but never proud and couldtake a joke—that is, when I could see the point of it. When I couldn't see the point of it I did not get angry.

Burnsie was a farmer and lived on ranches the most of his life. He was a hayseed from way back but as soon as he got celebrated high society began to run after him and the poor fellow couldn't keep away from it if he tried. It didn't take him long to learn how to make a bow without upsetting the table, but he was out of his element among the grand folks. Did he need polish to make him shine? I trow not. Wasn't his genius just as great before he struck society? Sure! But just to please folks he hobnobbed with them though he was as much out of his element as a fish when out of water. No doubt he wore a biled shirt and black claw-hammer coat and made his coat tails fly around pretty lively as he skipped around in adance, but as society wanted him it got him. Had he lived long enough he might have been a baron, marquis, duke or count. Who can tell? While a plowman he scorned titles, but I wonder whether he would have rejected a patent of nobility had it been tendered him.

Genius is a complex quality. Samuel Smiles in his great work, "Self Help," says that genius is nothing more nor less than a capacity for taking infinite pains, and the world in general seems to have accepted his definition or explanation, but I, Windy Bill, an untutored savage from the Wild West, beg to differ wholly from Sam and I will "show you" why, and permit you to judge for yourself. Had Samuel definedartinstead of genius as "an infinite capacity for taking pains" he might have been nearer the truth. Let us take the case of Burns. Whileplowing he wrote rhymes, but as he knew little or nothing of the art of versification he set his thoughts in mellifluous language of his own. Was it his thoughts or their setting that captivated people? His thoughts, of course, though the jingle made them more harmonious. Genius is the thought; art the setting. Tell me then that genius is a capacity for taking pains. Nary time. It comes forth spontaneous, natural, can't help itself. It is a God-given quality which lots of people possess to a greater or less degree. Musicians have it, as have painters, architects, writers, sculptors and people in all walks of life. Lots of poets in Scotland had genius long before our great friend Rabbie was born, and lots since them have had more or less of a share of the "divine afflatus," as some writers call it, but were any of them gifted ashighly as Puir Rabbie? Not a one. Will another like him arise? Search me! There hasn't yet.

Notwithstanding that Rabbie was so highly gifted, he didn't know it. Don't you believe me? If you don't you needn't take my word for it, for I have evidence here that will prove it. I quote the preface that he wrote to the first book of his that ever was printed. Here it is:

"The following trifles are not the production of the poet, who, with all the advantages of learned art and perhaps amid the elegancies and idleness of upper life looks down for a rural theme with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poetry by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself and his rustic compeers around him, in his and their native language. Though a rhymer from his earlier years it was not till very lately that the applause (perhaps the partiality) of friendship awakened his vanity so as to make him think anything of his worth showing, for none of the poems were composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of hisown fancy amid the toil and fatigue of a laborious life, these were his motives for courting the muses. 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 shift to jingle a few doggerel Scottish rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, forsooth! 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 poetic abilities, otherwise the publishing, in the manner he has done, would be a maneuver below the worst character his worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of an Allan Ramsay or a Robert Ferguson he has not the least pretension, nor ever had, even in his highest pulse of vanity. These two justly admired Scottish poets he has often had in his eye but rather to kindle in 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 deservesit, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom—to be distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the polite who may 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."

"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 deservesit, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom—to be distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the polite who may 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."

It is a queer fact that those mortals who possessed the greatest genius were always the most simple and diffident, and dubious about their own powers. They had a feeling in them that they were born to soar but they were hesitating, doubtful and did not know their very simplicity was a part of their greatness. They didn't appreciate their own capacities at first any more than are their capabilities appreciated by less gifted mortals. Before Burns' time Allan Ramsay and Robert Ferguson were looked upon as the greatest poetsScotland had ever produced, and so great were they that even Burns looked upon them with awe; and yet, unknown to himself, he was far greater than they. His generation may not have known it, but this generation does. Was Shakespeare appreciated in his generation? He was not. Was any truly great man? Hardly.

The earliest book of Burns that ever was put in print consisted of his minor poems which were written while he was in the fields plowing.

Of course he wasn't plowing always, so some were written while he was outdoors, here, there and everywhere in the vicinity of his country home. They were put into book-form by the advice of his friends and John Wilson at Kilmarnock, was the man who volunteered to do the printing. The book was a thin one, about half as thick as the ordinarynovel of to-day, and it was agreed that only 612 books be struck off as a first edition. Mr. John Wilson was a long-headed printer and would not agree to print a single volume until at least 300 of the books had been subscribed for beforehand. He figured it out this way: "Suppose the book fails, where do I get off at? I set it up in type, do the binding, furnish the paper, pay the devil and the compositors, do the press work, make-up and all, so can I afford to take all the chances of getting any money out of this blooming poetry?" Mr. Wilson was a canny Scot and didn't propose to take any chances. He surely didn't lose anything in this venture, but whether he made anything I am unable to say.

Now, all of this is a very imperfect sketch of my old pard Burnsie, and if you care to know more about him I can refer you to quite a few biographiesthat have been written about him and are still being written about him by the score to this day. No less a personage than Sir Walter Scott has written a life history of him and so has the poet's own brother, Gilbert. Here is a list you can choose from:

Although Robert Burns is the idol of the Scotch people nowadays, it must not be supposed that he is the only one worshipped, for there is another man who isgreatly revered, honored and loved. This man is Sir Walter Scott. The Scotch people affectionately call him Sir Walter and he did as much for his country as did Puir Rabbie. Both were Scotch to the backbone and loved their country as fondly and devotedly as any patriot can, but in their work they were totally dissimilar. Sir Walter started out as a writer of ballads, and chose for his themes historical subjects, mainly those connected with the ancient and modern history of his country. Burns, as I said before, remodeled and improved the old Scotch folk songs and in his democratic way described life around him in tuneful periods. Had he not been cut off in the flower of his prime he, too, might have been a great novelist for his great genius was capable of anything. He sprang from the masses and his heart was with themasses, but Sir Walter, who came from the classes had a heart for all, and described the lowly and humble as well as the great. Sir Walter's delineations of human character stand unrivalled today. He surely was proud of the fact that he was of gentle birth, which well he might have been, for that was no disgrace to him, any more than it is disgraceful to be of lowly birth, although in the old country blood counts for something. To show what Sir Walter thought of himself I here quote an extract from one of his works which he wrote himself:

"My birth was neither distinguished nor sordid. According to the prejudices of my country, it was esteemed gentle, as I am connected, though remotely, with ancient families both by my father's and mother's side. My father's grandfather was Walter Scott, well known by the name of Beardie. He was the second son of Walter Scott, first lord of Raeburn, who was the third son of Sir WalterScott and the grandson of Walter Scott, commonly called in tradition Auld Watt of Harden. I am therefore lineally descended from that chieftain, whose name I have made to ring in many a ditty, and from his fair dame, the Flower of Yarrow, no bad genealogy for a Border Minstrel."

Well, my poor friend Rabbie didn't spring from any border minstrel, but he was a born minstrel himself and could concoct a tune with the best of them. Mind you, I am not decrying Sir Walter, for that would be sacrilege, but Burnsie had nothing to brag of in the way of ancestry. Would Sir Walter have been less great had he sprung from common stock or would Robbie have been greater had he been blue-blooded? I am an American, an ex-member of Coxey's unwashed army, so I don't want to say yes or nay to this question. Let others decide.

Sir Walter's earliest success as a writer was won by discarding theconventionalities of art and creating a style of art his own. It takes a genius to do that. His style was simple, plain, and direct and won followers very quickly because it gained favor. This goes to show that if one has anything to say it is not necessary to say it in involved language, but just simply. Sir Walter's good common sense told him this was the fact and he acted accordingly. To say the honest truth some of Sir Walter's novels here and there are a little prolix, but there was a reason for it. Sir Walter was getting paid for space-writing. You don't believe me? I'll prove it. He went broke and to pay his debts—or rather those of the publishing house he unfortunately was connected with—he ground out "copy" as fast as he could, for every word of his was worth money. He begged hisfinancial friends not to treat him like "a milch cow" but like a man, but as he was a money-maker they staid with him until all his money and property were gone and all he could earn until he died was swallowed up, too. His was another case like General Ulysses Simpson Grant.

Sir Walter was the ninth child in a very large family. His father was a methodical and industrious lawyer, and his mother a woman of much culture, refinement and imagination.

Of delicate health and lame from his second year, Sir Walter spent much of his childhood in the country with his relatives. At the fireside of neighbors he listened to the old ballads and stories of border warfare, which caused him at a very early age to acquire a taste for reading ancient history and to become imbued with a love for antiquarianresearch. When seven years of age he entered the High School of Edinburgh and attended it until twelve. When thirteen he entered the University of Edinburgh and decided on the profession of law. At the age of 21 he was admitted to the bar. He didn't like his profession, however, and spent much of his time in antiquarian research. When about 26 years of age he married Charlotte Margaret Carpenter, the daughter of a French Royalist, whose family after the death of the father had removed to England. Sir Walter and his wife lived first at Edinburgh and three years later rented a cottage at Lasswade. They remained at Lasswade six years and then took up their abode at Ashestiel. In 1799, when about 28 years of age, Sir Walter was made Deputy Sheriff of Selkirkshire to which was attached a salary of $1,500 per annum,and seven years afterward he was appointed a Clerk of Session with a salary of $3,500. He held down both jobs for 25 years, which proved he was a stayer. As his income was $5000 for 25 years it can be figured out about how much he earned. But Sir Walter wasn't a money-saver; he was a spender and a good provider. He kept open house and anyone who called received an old-fashioned Scotch welcome, and I know from my sojourn in Scotland what that means. It means you're welcome to stay or welcome to go, but while you do stay the best is none too good for you. Sir Walter's hospitality was of that sort and while holding down both jobs he was doing a little literary work on the side. First came ballads, then poems of romance and later novels. He was getting along first rate financially so he concluded to take up his residence atAbbottsford, a palatial mansion. By this time he had already gained fame and much lucre and was run after by the "hoi-polloi," the "would-be could-be's" and the Great. The doors of Abbottsford opened wide for all. Even the poor were given "a hand-out" of some kind. Too bad Billy and me wasn't alive then. But this was before our time, about a hundred years or so. Oh what a place for grafters Abbottsford must have been! Sir Walter was easy. So easy was he, in fact, that the publishing house of Ballantyne & Co., which roped him in as a side partner, went flewy and left Sir Walter to foot all the bills. Sir Walter was an honorable man and prized honor above wealth, so he turned over everything he had, including Abbottsford, to the alleged creditors, but there was not enough to satisfy claims. The debt amounted to several hundredthousand dollars. Thereupon he continued writing novels and wrote as he never wrote before. He ground out ten novels in six years and had paid up about $200,000, when his health began to fail. The pace was too swift for a man sixty years of age, which he was then. The creditors were insatiable and were greedy for the last farthing. Business is business, said they.

When a little over sixty years of age Sir Walter had a stroke of paralysis caused by overwork and worry, and was recommended by his physicians to take a sea voyage. He embarked for Italy in a frigate which was placed at his disposal by the English government, but sad to relate, the trip benefited him but little. He visited Rome, Venice and other places, but came home a few months afterward to die. "Man's inhumanity to man" killed Sir Walter before his time.

Sir Walter's manner was that of a gentleman and he was amiable, unaffected and polished. He was simple and kindly and approachable by all. Much of his literary work was done at Ashestiel, but more at Abbottsford. He kept open house everywhere. He arose at five o'clock in the morning and wrote until eight o'clock. He then breakfasted with his family and after putting in an hour or so with them returned to his writings. He worked until noon and then was his own man, to do as he liked. During the afternoon he put in some time with his guests, gave reporters interviews, was snap-shotted by cameras, saw that the dogs got enough to eat, gave orders to the servants that if too many 'bos came around to sick the dogs on them and then he went a horseback or a carriage riding. In the evening there was some social chat, after whichSir Walter retired early. That was the routine.

This master in the art of novel writing was fully six feet in height, well proportioned and well built with the exception of a slight deformity in the ankle, which I have alluded to before. His face was of a Scotch cast, heavy and full; the forehead was high and broad, the head lofty, the nose short, the upper lip long, and the expression of his features kindly. I have seen dead loads of pictures, images and statues of Sir Walter, yet hardly two of them were alike. I consider Sir Walter a handsome man and to me there seems to be something grand and noble in the cast of his countenance. Iknowthe light of genius was there, and maybe that is why he so impresses me, but with it all his features have a noble cast. He is goodly to look upon, surely.

To tell the truth, I don't read much poetry, but some competent critic who has read Sir Walter's has this to say of it:

"The distinctive features of the poetry of Scott are ease, rapidity of movement, a spirited flow of narrative that holds our attention, an out-of-door atmosphere and power of natural description, an occasional intrusion of a gentle personal sadness and but little more. The subtle and mystic element so characteristic of the poetry of Wordsworth and Coleridge is not to be found in that of Scott, while in lyrical power he does not approach Shelley. We find instead an intense sense of reality in all his natural descriptions; it surrounds them with an indefinable atmosphere, because they are so transparently true. Scott's first impulse in the direction of poetry was given to him from the study of the German ballads, especially Burger's Lenore, of which he made a translation. As his ideas widened, he wished to do for Scottish Border life what Goethe had done for the ancient feudalism of the Rhine. He was at first undecided whether to choose prose or verse as the medium; but a legend was sent him by the Countess of Dalkeith with a request that he would put it in balladform. Having thus the framework for his purpose, he went to work, and "The Lay of the Last Minstrel" was the result. The battle scene in Marmion has been called the most Homeric passage in modern literature, and his description of the Battle of Beal au Duine from "The Lady of the Lake" is an exquisite piece of narration from the gleam of the spears in the thicket to the death of Roderick Dhu at its close. In the deepest sense Scott is one with the spirit of his time in his grasp of fact, in that steadily looking at the object which Wordsworth had fought for in poetry, which Carlyle had advocated in philosophy. He is allied, too, to that broad sympathy for man which lay closest to the heart of the age's literary expression. Wordsworth's part is to inspire an interest in the lives of men and women about us; Scott's to enlarge the bounds of our sympathy beyond the present, and to people the silent centuries. Shelley's inspiration is hope for the future; Scott's is reverence for the past."

I have read a few of Sir Walter's novels, and some of them several times, and every time I read them it is with renewed interest. His delineation of human character is so true to natureand so graphic that I feel the living, speaking person before me as I read. If that ain't writing I would like to know what is. Whether it be peasant, servant, knight, esquire, king, lord, lady or girl, all are shown up on the screen so plainly that I take it all as a matter of course and say nothing. It is all so plain and simple that there is nothing to say. That is art and the highest form of it. It is next to nature.

Art and genius are closely allied. It is not everyone who loves the "altogether" or the "realistic," which may be well. Were it not so, many poets, painters, sculptors, musicians and other handicraftsmen would be left out in the cold, with none to do him reverence. All tastes happily are catered to, so everyone is happy.

As I am neither a critic nor a biographer I shall endeavor to give myreaders an idea what Sir Walter was thought of by others and will quote the language they used.

George Tichnor, the author, says that Scott repeated to him the English translations of two long Spanish ballads which he had never seen, but which had been read to him twice.

Scott's college friend, John Irving, in writing of himself and Scott, says: "The number of books we thus devoured was very great. I forgot a great part of what I read; but my friend, notwithstanding he read with such rapidity, remained, to my surprise, master of it all, and could even, weeks and months afterwards, repeat a whole page in which anything had particularly struck him at the moment."

Washington Irving remarked: "During the time of my visit he inclined to the comic rather than to the grave in hisanecdotes and stories; and such, I was told, was his general inclination. He relished a joke or a trait of humor in social intercourse, and laughed with right good will.... His humor in conversation, as in his works, was genial and free from causticity. He had a quick perception of faults and foibles, but he looked upon human nature with an indulgent eye, relishing what was good and pleasant, tolerating what was frail and pitying what was evil.... I do not recollect a sneer throughout his conversation, any more than there is throughout his works."

Lord Byron said: "I think that Scott is the only very successful genius that could be cited as being as generally beloved as a man as he is admired as an author; and I must add, he deserves it, for he is so thoroughly good-natured, sincere and honest, that he disarms theenvy and jealousy his extraordinary genius must excite."

Leslie Stephen remarked: "Scott could never see an old tower, or a bank, or a rush of a stream without instantly recalling a boundless collection of appropriate anecdotes. He might be quoted as a case in point by those who would explain all poetical imagination by the power of associating ideas. He is thepoet of association."

Lockhart, who married the daughter of Sir Walter and who was therefore his son-in-law, wrote a biography of his father-in-law wherein he says that: "The love of his country became indeed a passion; no knight ever tilted for his mistress more willingly than he would have bled and died to preserve even the airiest surviving nothing of her antique pretensions for Scotland. But theScotland of his affections had the clanScottfor her kernel."

I believe the son-in-law is inclined to be facetious, but is hejustto his immortal father-in-law? I don't believe he is—therefore his criticisms are not worth a whoop.

Thomas Carlyle, the cynical philosopher and mugwump, condescended to give Sir Walter a sort of recommendation of character, which it renders me extremely happy to quote. Here it is. Read it carefully and ponder:

"The surliest critic must allow that Scott was a genuine man, which itself is a great matter. No affectation, fantasticality or distortion dwelt in him; no shadow of cant. Nay, withal, was he not a right brave and strong man according to his kind? What a load of toil, what a measure of felicity he quietly bore along with him! With whatquiet strength he both worked on this earth and enjoyed in it, invincible to evil fortune and to good!"

This cynic, this philosopher, this mugwump says Sir Walter was agenuine man. Good for Mr. Carlyle.

Everyone was proud to call Sir Walter "friend," and he was just great enough to be happy to call those who were worthy, his friend. Among his great friends were the following:

John Irving, who was an intimate college friend. I have quoted him in regard to the number of books read by Sir Walter.

Robert Burns came to Edinburgh when Sir Walter was fifteen years of age, and Sir Walter's boyish admiration for the National Bard was great. In after life, when Sir Walter became great, he wrote a great deal concerning Puir Rabbie. And it is worth reading.

James Ballantyne, Sir Walter's partner in the publishing business, was a good friend.

So was James Hogg, the poet peasant, sometimes called "The Ettrick Shepherd."

And so was Thomas Campbell, the poet, author of "The Pleasures of Hope."

The poet William Wordsworth was a lifelong friend.

Robert Southey, the poet, visited Sir Walter at Ashestiel and was admired by him greatly.

Joanna Baillie, the poetess, was a warm friend.

So was Lord Byron.

Sir Humphry Davy, the philosopher, visited Sir Walter and was well liked by him.

Goethe, the German poet, was a warm admirer and friend of Sir Walter.

So was Henry Hallam, the historian; Crabbe, the poet; Maria Edgeworth, the novelist; George Ticknor, the author; Dugald Stewart, Archibald Alison, Sydney Smith, Lord Brougham, Lord Jeffrey, Thomas Erskine, William Clerk, Sir William Hamilton, etc., etc.

Last but not least among those who regarded Sir Walter as a friend and who were so regarded by him was our own countryman, Washington Irving. Our own "Washy" was an author, too, and one not to be sneezed at. Sir Walter regarded him highly and Washy dropped in on him, casual like, at Abbottsford. Washy had written some good things himself, but had found it difficult to win recognition. Sir Walter stood sponsor for him and told the world it ought to be ashamed of itself not to recognize merit of so high an order. Thereupon the world promptlydid recognize our Washy. Did our Washy need a sponsor? Well, hardly. No American ever lived who was an abler or more polished writer than he. Will you please show me a man who can beat our Washy. You can't do it. Smile at me if you will, but I doubt if even Sir Walter himself was so much superior to him. Have you read Irving's Astoria, a true and lifelike history of the Northwest? or his Rip Van Winkle, or his sketches, the Alhambra, etc.? Irving's is another case where a great man failed of appreciation at first.

Well, my countrymen, our Washy is dead, but we appreciate him now just the same. The United States never produced a writer more polished and able than he, and it is rather humiliating to think that a great foreigner had to apprise us of his merits.

To wind up this chapter on SirWalter Scott I will give you a list of his writings, arranged in chronological order:

BALLADS.

Glenfinlas, 1799.Eve of St. John, 1799.The Grey Brothers, 1799.Border Minstrelsy, 1802-1803.Cadyow Castle, 1810.English Minstrelsy, 1810.The Battle of Sempach, 1818.The Noble Moringer, 1819.The Lay of the Last Minstrel, 1805.Marmion, 1808.The Lady of the Lake, 1810.Vision of Don Roderick, 1811.Rokeby, 1812.The Bridal of Triermain, 1813.The Lord of the Isles, 1815.

PROSE WORKS.

Waverley, 1814.Guy Mannering, 1815.The Antiquary, 1816.The Black Dwarf, 1816.Old Mortality, 1816.Rob Roy, 1818.The Heart of Mid-Lothian, 1818.The Bride of Lammermoor, 1819.The Legend of Montrose, 1819.Ivanhoe, 1820.The Monastery, 1820.The Abbott, 1820.Kenilworth, 1821.The Pirate, 1822.The Fortunes of Nigel, 1822.Peveril of the Peak, 1823.Quentin Durward, 1823.St. Ronan's Well, 1824.Red Gauntlet, 1824.The Betrothed, 1825.The Talisman, 1825.Woodstock, 1826.The Two Drovers, 1827.The Highland Widow, 1827.The Surgeon's Daughter, 1827.The Fair Maid of Perth, 1828.Anne of Geierstein, 1829.Count Robert of Paris, 1831.Castle Dangerous, 1831.

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