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\centerline{\bigtitle The Immortal Memory}
\vskip 2pc
\centerline{\smallertitle of}
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\centerline{\bigtitle Robert Burns}
\vskip 2pc
\centerline{---{}---{}---{}---{}---}
\vskip 1pc
\centerline{\sciii By JOHN STIRLING}
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\centerline{---{}---{}---{}---{}---}
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Proposed at the Annual Burns Celebration of
Whitburn Ex-Servicemen, held in the Masonic
Temple.  Mr Hugh Clarkson, M.A., presided
over a large attendance.  An orchestra (under
Mr Angelo Marsden, A.R.M.C.M.) rendered
selections;  while songs and recitations from
the Poet's works were given with much
acceptance during the course of the evening.
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\centerline{\title{The Immortal Memory}}
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Why is it that Burns, to Scotsmen, is
what no other man of letters is\thinspace?  Why is it
that not alone in this country, but everywhere
throughout the civilised world, that his memory
is kept green\thinspace?  It is because he has made for
himself an imperishable place in the hearts of
his countrymen, that he still lives amongst us.
There is no man who has laid bare his life, his
thoughts, his failings, his passions, moods and
tempers, as he has done.
\poem{
Time but the impression stronger make\\
As streams their channels deeper wear.\\
}
His early years were spent in extreme poverty
in the wee clay biggin' near the Brig o' Doon,
where he was born on the 25th January, 1759.
In the farm of Mount Oliphant and the farm
of Lochlea, near Tarbolton, his lot was one of
constant toil.

But still, there were some bright spots in
an otherwise hard lot.  He was blest with a
most excellent and Christian father---a father
% page 4
who made companions of his boys.  In many
ways this must have been, despite the toil, the
happiest time of the Poet's life.

\wantheadtrue

At this time his writing was done in a
wee garret up a ladder stair, with its solitary
bed shared by his brother Gilbert.  In the
drawer of a plain table he kept his masterpieces,
which were to astound the world.

As a poet, Burns stands in the first rank.
His thoughts are new\thinspace; his manner unborrowed\thinspace;
his language his own.  All his topics are simple
and natural.  He was the first who taught his
fellow-countrymen that in lowly subjects high
poetry resided\thinspace; and, touched by him, they
were lifted at once into the realms of inspiration.
He is one of the truest and most stirringly
heart-reaching of poets.  In ease, fire,
and passion, he is second to none.  The nature
he infused into all he wrote deals with human
emotions.  His best poems deal with rural and
pastoral life.

He displayed great powers of imagination,
yet the subjects he wrote on are seldom
imaginary.  In the higher powers of imagination,
instances may be found in the poem
entitled ``Death and Dr Hornbrook,'' and in
almost every stanza of his ``Address to the
Deil''---one of the happiest of his productions.

His poems may be considered as the
effusions of his sensibility, and the transcript
of his musings as the real incidents of his
% page 5
humble life.  The Poet does not confine himself
to the descriptive, the humorous, or the
pathetic\thinspace; he rises, as occasion offers, with ease
into the terrible and the sublime.  His descriptive
powers, whether the objects on which
they are employed be comic or serious, are of
the highest order.  His humour is irresistibly
amusing.

At the age of 26 he had composed such
literary gems as ``The Cottar's Saturday
Night,'' ``The Two Dougs,'' ``The Jolly Beggars,''
``Address to the Deil,'' etc.
\vskip 2pc
\centerline{---{}---{}---{}---{}---}
\vskip 2pc

When the Poet decided on his tour to
Edinburgh, he rode on a horse borrowed from
a friend\thinspace; calling at various farms on the way,
his approach was always signalled, the farmers
and servants turning out to welcome him.  He
astonished the members of his own rank and
station by his extraordinary powers in
conversation.

On the night of the 28th November, 1786,
he arrived at Baxter's Close, in the Lawnmarket
of Edinburgh, there to share a humble
room with his friend John Richmond.  All that
memorable winter it was his abode.  He was
received into the abodes, and was a welcome
% page 6
guest with all the most notable, literary, and
fashionable people of Edinburgh.

He was straight from the plough, never
having earned more than \pounds 7 a year, dined on
the simplest fare, associated with the humblest
of subjects, and was suddenly projected into
the most learned, most accomplished, and most
fashionable people in Scotland.  It would have
turned the head of any man, but it had no
effect upon our Bard.

All Edinburgh was agog at the Poet's
arrival.  The very children in the streets were
anxious to get a look at him.  Jeffrey tells us
that one day, when a lad, on the streets of
Edinburgh, a man passed him whose appearance
attracted his attention\thinspace; and while he was
gazing at him a shopkeeper said---``Ah, laddie,
ye may weel look at that man, for it is Rabbie
Burns.''

Sir Walter Scott met him---he was then a
lad of 15---at the home of Professor Adam
Ferguson.  There were but two sentences exchanged
between these two of Scotland's
greatest literary sons.  Burns was looking at
a picture of a soldier lying dead on the snow,
with explanatory lines underneath, and enquired
who the author was.  No one knew but
young Scott, and he hesitatingly told the Poet
the author's name.  Burns shook him by the
hand, and, looking at him, said---``This boy will
% page 7
be heard of yet.''  A prediction that most
assuredly came true.

The great Wizard of the North was proud
to tell in his old age that while yet a lad in his
teens he had earned the approving smile of
the Poet.

The gay Duchess of Gordon declared that
Burns' conversation had completely carried her
off her feet.

In a description of the meeting with
Burns, Scott says---``His person was strong
and robust, a sort of dignified plainness and
simplicity which received part of its effect
from ones knowledge of his extraordinary % sic one's
talents.  I would have taken the Poet, had I
not known what he was, for a sagacious farmer
of the Old School.  The eye alone delineated
the poetic character\thinspace: it was large, and of a
cast which glowed with feeling.  I never saw
such another eye in a human head.  His conversation
expressed perfect self-confidence
without the slightest presumption.  Among
men who were the most learned he expressed
himself with firmness, but without the least
intrusive forwardness.''

Such was the man as depicted by the
great Sir Walter.

While in Edinburgh he met the genial and
witty Henry Erskine, the great lawyer, who
spent his declining years in his country house at
%page 8
Almondell, and is buried in Uphall Parish
Church.  Here is how Burns dashed him off---

\poem{
Collected, Harry stood a wee,\\
Then opened out his arms, man,\\
His Lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e,\\
And ey'd the gathering storm, man.\\
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail\\
As torrents owre a linn, man\thinspace;\\
The bench sae wise lift up their eyes\\
Half-waken'd wi' the din, man.\\
}

The Poet spent another winter in Edinburgh\thinspace;
this time he lived in the top storey of No.~2
St.~James' Square.  This was when he met the
charming and fascinating Mrs M`Lehose
(Clarinda) with whom he kept up a memorable
correspondence.

It would be a long story to tell you of the
tours he took to the Highlands and to the
Lowlands of Scotland---a record of which the
Poet kept.  He visited Linlithgow Palace,
Loch, and the Auld Kirk of St.~Michael's.  He
was made an honorary member of the Ancient
Brazen Lodge of Freemasons.

He crossed the Borders into England\thinspace;
and while walking with his old friend Ainslie,
he turned round, uncovered his head, and
recited the following lines from ``The Cottar's
Saturday Night''---
\vskip -1em
\tightpoem{
\null\hbox to 1em{\hss}O Scotia\thinspace!  my dear, my native soil\thinspace!\\
\null\hbox to 1.5em{\hss}For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent,\\
\null\hbox to 0.001em{\hss}Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil\\
\null\hbox to 1.5em{\hss}Be blessed with health, and peace, and sweet content\thinspace!\\
}
% page 9

On his third tour through the Midlands of
Scotland he was accompanied by Dr Adair, a
relative of Mrs Dunlop.  They called at Clackmannan
Tower, where dwelt an old lady of 90,
Mrs Bruce, a lineal descendant of King Robert
the Bruce.  She was in possession of the
Bruce's two-handed sword, and which is now
in the keeping of the Earl of Elgin.

After dinner, she stated that she had more
right than some folks to bestow knighthoods.
In due course she commanded Burns and Dr
Adair to kneel before her, lightly touched each
on the shoulder with the sword, and ordered
them to rise as Knights.  When about to take
their departure, Burns,\break characteristic of his
gallantry, lifted the old dame's hand to kiss it,
when she exclaimed---``And what ails ye at
my mou', Robin\thinspace?''

\vskip 1.5pc
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\vskip 1.5pc

For imaginary poems there is nothing in
the language to compare with ``Tam o' Shanter,''
his longest poem, in which he depicts the
scenes of witches and warlocks with a spirit
of abandonment.  The tale runs with increditable
speed and ease---from gay to grave, from
lively to severe---and includes nearly every
species of literary excellence\thinspace: the humourous,
the picturesque, the grotesque, the sublime,
the playful, the horrible and awful---all expressed
in the most terse and felicitous language---every
line a picture.

In ``Tam o' Shanter'' Burns felt that he
had produced his masterpiece.  I will only
quote two passages.  When passing auld
Alloway Kirk, Tam looked in at the window
and observed Auld Nick in the shape of a
beast, and
\poem{
Coffins stood round like open presses\\
That show's the dead in their last dresses,\\
And by some devilish cantraip sleight,\\ % Cantraip: Scottish noun. 1. a magic spell. 2. (often plural). a mischievous trick. adjective. 3. (of an effect) produced by black magic.
Each in his cauld hand held a light.\\
}
In the same poem we have these oft-quoted
beautiful lines---
\poem{
But pleasures are like poppies spread,\\
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed\thinspace;\\   % sic sieze
Or like the snowfall on the river,\\
A moment white---then melts for ever.\\
}

The production of ``Tam o' Shanter'' was the
work of a single day.

``Death and Dr Hornbrook'' is a satire
which depicts the Poet in his severest mood.
He had been attending a meeting of Lodge
St.~James Freemasons, Tarbolton, and composed
it on his way home from the meeting.
He makes Death say---

\poem{
It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed,\\
Sin' I began to nick the thread,\\
\quad An' choke the breath\thinspace;\\
Folk main dae something for their bread,\\
\quad And sae maun Death.\\
}

One might dwell for a considerable time on
this class of poem.  Let me quote to you
%page 11
from his ``Address to the Deil,'' for whom, in
his largeness of heart, he even had sympathy---

\poem{
Then fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-Ben\thinspace!\\
O wad ye tak' a thought an' men'\thinspace;\\
Ye aiblins micht---I dinna ken---\\
\quad Still hae a stake\thinspace;\\
I'm wae tae think upon yon den,\\
\quad E'en for your sake.\\
}

``Hallowe'en'' is a happy mixture of the
dramatic and the descriptive, and bears the
impress of the customs and superstitions of
the people.  The whole poem hovers between
the serious and the ludicrous.  The scene is
laid in the last night of harvest, at a husband\-man's
fireside, whose corn is gathered into the
stackyard and barn, and the hands which
assisted in the labour are met

\poem{
To burn their nits an pu' their stocks,\\
\quad And haud their Hallowe'en.\\
}

The drama ``The Jolly Beggars,'' is considered
the most varied and characteristic of
the Poet's works.  The moment the curtain is
drawn up and shows the actors, the spirit of
Burns appears, kindling and animating.  The
scene is laid in Mauchline, and the actors are
strolling vagrants, who assemble in Poosie
Nancy's to ``toom their pocks and pawn their
duds,'' and enjoy themselves over the gill stoup
\poem{
Wi' quaffing and laughing,\\
\quad They ranted and they sang\thinspace;\\
Wi' jumping and thumping,\\
\quad The vera girdle rang.\\
}

%page 12
The characters are numerous --- the maimed
soldier, who bore scars for Scotland, and his
doxy, who lay between his arms wi' ``usquebaugh
and blankets warm,'' and who
\poem{
Aye gaed the toozie drab\\
\quad The tither skelpin' kiss,\\
While she held up her greedy gab,\\
\quad Just like an aumous dish.\\
}

The merry Andrew, who would venture his
neck for liquor\thinspace; the Highland dame, who had
lightened many a purse\thinspace; the sturdy tinker,
who had travelled round all Christian ground
in his occupation\thinspace; and last of all, the wight of
Homer's craft---
\poem{
He was a care-defying blade,\\
As ever Bacchus listed,---\\
}
% No indent here?  Check original...
\noindent who could allure crowds round him when he
sang of love and country.  All these---and
more---shout, sing, and act in character, and
unite in giving effect to the chorus of a song
which claims exemption from cares and worries,
and a happiness which banished all care.
The curtain drops as they shout and sing---

\poem{
A fig for those by law protected\thinspace!\\
\quad Liberty's a glorious feast\thinspace!\\
Courts for cowards were erected,\\
\quad Churches built to please to priest.\\
}

``The Cottar's Saturday Night'' is tender
and moral, solemn and devotional, and rises
into a strain of grandeur and sublimity which
has not been surpassed.  It has no equal in
the language.  The description of the labourer
returning from the field, the young children
%page 13
running to meet him, and clamouring on his
knee, the elder dutifully depositing their gains
with their parents, and receiving their father's
blessing, the incidents of the courtship of
Jenny, the eldest daughter---and all uniting in
the worship of God --- are all most happily
delineated.
\tightpoem{
From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs,\\
\quad That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad.\\
}

``A Winter Night'' begins with a description
of a dreadful storm\thinspace: the Poet imagines
himself lying in bed and listening to its howling,
his thoughts turning to the ourie cattle % 1. chiefly Scottish : depressing, dismal. 2. chiefly Scottish : shivering with cold.
and silly sheep exposed to the violence of the
tempest---the wee birds touching the tenderest
chords of the Poet's heart\thinspace; after lamenting
their fate, he proceeds---
\poem{
Ilk happing bird---wee helpless thing\thinspace!\\
That in the merry months o' Spring,\\
Delighted me to hear thee sing,\\
\quad What comes o' thee\thinspace?\\
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing,\\
\quad An' close thy e'e\thinspace!\\
}

The ``Address to a Mouse'' is one of the
happiest and most finished of his productions.
The descriptive part is admirable, and the
moral reflections beautiful---
\vskip -0.05in
\poem{
Wee sleekit cowrin', tim'rous beastie,\\
O what a panic's in thy breastie\thinspace!\\
Thou needna start awa' sae hasty,\\
\quad Wi' brickerin' brattle\thinspace;\\
I wad be laith tae rin and chase thee,\\
\quad Wi' murderin' prattle.\\
}
\vskip -0.08in
%page 14
In that exquisite gem ``To a Mountain Daisy''
he addresses himself thus---
\vskip -0.01in
\poem{
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,\\
Thou'st met me in an evil hour\thinspace;\\
For I maun crush among the stoure,\\
\quad Thy slender stem\thinspace;\\
To save thee now is past my pow'r,\\
\quad Thou bonnie gem.\\
}\hfill\break\vskip -0.65in
The Poet buried the opening bloom with the
plough, and regrets that he cannot save a thing
so lovely.
\vskip -0.05in
The verses ``To the Mouse'' and ``To the
Daisy'' were composed while the Poet was
holding the plough.
\vskip -0.05in
Among the Poet's many other\break numerous
works are---``The Holy Fair,''\break ``Holy Willie's
Prayer,'' ``Address to the Unco Guid,'' ``The
Two Dougs,'' ``The\break Wounded Hare,'' ``The
Vision,'' ``The Death and Dying Words of Poor
Mailie,'' and ``Man was Made to Mourn.''
\vskip -0.01in
\poem{
See yonder poor, o'er labour'd wight,\\
\quad So abject, mean, and vile,\\
Wha begs a brother of the earth\\
\quad To give him leave to toil.\\
\stanza
If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave---\\
\quad By Nature's law design'd---\\
Why was an independent wish\\
\quad E'er planted in my mind\thinspace!\\
\stanza
I've seen yon weary winter sun\\
\quad Twice forty times return\thinspace;\\
And ev'ry time has added proofs,\\
\quad That man was made to mourn.\\
}
\goodpage
%page 15
% \hbox to 1em{\vbox to 0in{}\hss}\break
%\vskip -0.69in
\centerline{\title{AS A SONG WRITER.}}
\vskip 0.75pc
As a Song writer, Burns excels any other.
His songs were of three classes---war songs,
domestic, and bacchanalian.  They have sung
their way into the life of the people, and have
become part of our great national inheritance.
There is a natural grace and fascination about
them\thinspace: all are earnest, and from the heart.
Of all lyric poets, he is the most prolific and
varied\thinspace; and his songs are a solace to Scottish
hearts at home and far across the seas.

Of War Odes, the finest in the language
of any nation in the world is ``Scots Wha
Hae.''  It was composed while the Poet was
riding through a moss on a stormy night--- % Moss n., a peat-bog, a marsh
\poem{
Wha will be a traitor knave\thinspace?\\
Wha can fill a coward's grave\thinspace?\\
Wha sae base as be a slave\thinspace?\\
\quad Let him turn and flee\thinspace!\\
\stanza
By Oppression's woes and pains\thinspace!\\
By your Sons in servile chains\thinspace!\\
We will drain our dearest veins\thinspace!\\
\quad But---they shall be free\thinspace!\\
\stanza
Lay the proud Usurpers low\thinspace!\\
Tyrants fall in every foe\thinspace!\\
Liberty's in every blow\thinspace!\\
\quad Let us Do---or Die\thinspace!\\
}\hfill\break
In the words of Carlyle, ``So long as there is
warm blood in the heart of Scotsmen, it will
move in fierce thrills under this war ode.''

%page 16
As a specimen of his Bacchanalian\break Songs,
I think ``Willie Brew'd a Peck o' Maut,'' would
be difficult to beat.  William Nicol, of the
High School, Edinburgh, was spending the
autumn vacation at Moffat.  Honest Allan
Masterson and the Poet went to pay Nicol a
visit.  They had such a joyous and happy
meeting that Burns composed the song to
celebrate the occasion---
\poem{
Here are we met, three merry boys,\\
\quad Three merry boys, I trow, are we\thinspace;\\
And mony a night we've merry been,\\
\quad And mony mae we hope tae be\thinspace!\\
\stanza
We are na fou, we're nae that fou,\\
\quad But just a drappie in our e'e\thinspace;\\
The cock may craw, the day may daw,\\
\quad And aye we'll taste the barley bree.\\
\stanza
It is the moon, I ken her horn,\\
\quad That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie\thinspace;\\ % LIFT, n.1 Also luft (Arg. 1939 Scots Mag. (Feb.) 372), lyft (s.Sc. 1857 H. S. Riddell Psalms xix. 1), luift. The sky, the upper air, the firmament, the heavens
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,\\
\quad But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee\thinspace!\\
\stanza
What first shall rise tae gang awa',\\
\quad a cuckold, coward loon is he\thinspace!\\
Wha last beside his chair shall fa'\\
\quad He is the King amang us three.\\
}

``The Lass o' Ballochmyle'' was a compliment
to Miss Alexander, a young lady of great
beauty.  Burns sent the fine lyric to her,
accompanied by a letter, in which he stated
that he had observed her wandering on the
Banks of Ayr.  The lady paid no attention to
his effusions, which wounded the Poet.  However,
the heroine lived to think that the honours
%page 17
of the Muse were the highest that could be
conferred on her.  She had the song elegantly
framed and hung in her chamber, and it was
carried with her whenever she travelled---
\poem{
With careless step I onward stray'd,\\
\quad My heart rejoic'd in Nature's joy\thinspace;\\
When, musing in a lonely glade,\\
\quad A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy\thinspace;\\
Her look was like the morning's eye,\\
Her air like Nature's vernal smile\thinspace;\\
Perfection whisper'd, passing by,\\
\quad Behold the Lass o' Ballochmyle\thinspace!\\
\stanza
O had she been a country maid,\\
\quad And I the happy country swain,\\
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed\\
\quad That ever rose on Scotland's plain\thinspace!\\
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain,\\
\quad With joy, with rapture, I would toil,\\
And nightly to my bosom strain\\
\quad The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.\\
}\hfill\break
The Poet always gives us the finished image
of female loveliness, with the accompaniment
of blooming flowers, running streams, and the
melody of singing birds.

``To Mary in Heaven'' was written near
the close of September, 1789.  Mary Campbell,
the heroine of this and some of his finest songs,
was a beautiful girl, and good as she was
beautiful.  Burns had busied himself all day
with the shearers in the field and was in capital
spirits, but when the gloamin' came he grew
sad.  He wandered up and down the waterside
and into the barn yard.  Jean requested
% page 18
him to go into the house as he was ill with a
cold.  He was deeply dejected, and sat down
and wrote---
\tightpoem{
Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray,\\
\quad That lov'st to greet the early morn,\\
Again thou usher'st in the day\\
\quad My Mary from my soul was torn.\\ % sic sould
O Mary\thinspace! dear departed shade\thinspace!\\
\quad Where is thy place of blissful rest\thinspace?\\
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid\thinspace?\\
\quad Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast\thinspace?\\
\stanza
That sacred hour can I forget\thinspace?\\
\quad Can I forget the hallow'd grove,\\
Where, by the winding Ayr, we met,\\
\quad To live one day of parting love\thinspace?\\
Eternity can not efface\\
\quad Those records dear of transports past,\\
Thy image at our last embrace,\\
\quad Ah\thinspace! little thought we 'twas our last\thinspace!\\
}

\hsize 23pc
The world-renowned production ``A\break Man's
a Man for a' That,'' was\break composed in January
1795---
\hsize 25pc
\poem{
What though on hamely fare we dine,\\
\quad Wear hoddin gray, an' a' that\thinspace;\\
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,\\
\quad Is king o' men for a' that.\\  % sic: o' that
\stanza
A prince can mak' a belted knight,\\
\quad A marquis, duke, an' a' that\thinspace;\\
But an honest man's aboon his might,\\
\quad Guid faith, he mauna fa' that\thinspace!\\
}

``Sic a Wife as Willie had'' was the wife
of a farmer who lived near Burns at Ellisland.
She was a very singular woman.  ``Tea,'' said
she, ``would be the ruin of the nation, and
sugar was a sore evil.''  The words of the song
%page 19
resemble chaunts of the old rustic ballad-makers\thinspace:
the unsonsie dame is not painted in
kindly colours---
\poem{
She has an e'e, she has but ane,\\
\quad The cat has two the very colour\thinspace;\\
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,\\
\quad A clapper tongue was deave a miller\thinspace;\\
A whiskin' beard about her mou',\\
\quad Her nose and chin they threaten ither\thinspace;\\
Sic a wife as Willie had,\\
\quad I wadna gie a button for her.\\
\stanza
She's bow-houg'd, she's hen-shin'd,\\
\quad Ae limpin' leg a hand-breed shorter\thinspace;\\
She's twisted right, she's twisted left,\\
\quad To balance fair in ilka quarter\thinspace;\\
She has a hump upon her breast,\\
\quad The twin o' that upon her shouther\thinspace;\\
Sic a wife as Willie had,\\
\quad I wadna gie a button for her.\\
}\hfill\break
``Duncan Gray'' went a-wooing in a pleasant
time --- on guid yule night --- when all were
joyous, but
\poem{
Maggie coost her head fu' heigh,\\
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,\\
Gart poor Duncan stand abiegh.\\
}\hfill\break
He was not, however, to be daunted\thinspace: he knew
woman better---
\poem{
Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd,\\
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig\thinspace;\\
Duncan sigh'd bath oot and in,\\
Grat his e'en baith blear't an' blin',\\
Spak' o' lowpin' owre a linn---\\
\quad Ha, ha, the wooin' o't.\\
}\hfill\break
The song finishes by Maggie relenting, and
``now they're crouse and canty baith.''

%page 20
The immortal lyric, ``Ae Fond Kiss,'' was
addressed to Clarinda---his farewell to her---
\poem{
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever---\\
Ae farewell, and then, for ever,\\
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee\thinspace!\\
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee\thinspace!\\
\stanza
Had we never lov'd sae kindly---\\
Had we never lov'd sae blindly---\\
Never met---or never parted---\\
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.\\
}\hfill\break
Sir Walter Scott said these four lines contained
the essence of a thousand love tales.

Then we have the sprightly and cheerful
``Corn Riggs,'' when he held awa' to Annie, % possibly 'hied'?
amidst the moon's unfaded light---
\poem{
I lock'd her in my fond embrace,\\  % sic loc'd
\quad her heart was beating rarely\thinspace;\\
My blessings on that happy place,\\
\quad Amang the Rigs o' Barley\thinspace!\\
I ken't her heart was a' my sin,\\
\quad I lov'd her most sincerely\thinspace;\\
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,\\
\quad Amang the Rigs o' Barley.\\
}

There has been some doubt expressed as
to who was the lovely ``Mary Morrison'' of the
Poet's youthful days.  His brother Gilbert
was of the opinion that Peggie Allison, Mary
Morrison, and Ellison Begbie were one and
the same person---
\poem{
O Mary, at thy window be,\\
\quad It is the wish'd, the trysted hour\thinspace!\\
Those smiles and glances let me see\\
\quad That make the miser's treasure poor\thinspace:\\
%page 21
\stanza
How blythely wad I bide the stoure,\\
\quad A weary slave frae sun to sun,\\
Could I the rich reward secure---\\
\quad The lovely Mary Morrison.\\
}\hfill\break
This is one of the sweetest of love songs,
trembling with tenderness, radiant with sentiment,
and full of love.

There is also some doubt as to who was
the heroine of the fine song ``Afton Water.''
Currie and Cunningham both say that the song
was written in honour of Mrs Dunlop, of Afton
House\thinspace: but Gilbert, who was not likely
to err, affirms that he has heard his brother
say that it was a tribute to his dear Highland
Mary.

The story of their parting is most tragic.
The true-hearted girl stood on one side of a
small brook, and the Poet on the other, holding
a Bible between them, and they vowed eternal
fidelity to each other.  It was their final parting,
for she died shortly after of a malignant
fever.  ``Sweet Afton'' is a lyric of incomparible
beauty, and deepest, truest sorrow---
\tightpoem{
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,\\
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise\thinspace;\\
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,---\\
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.\\
\stanza
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen,\\
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den\thinspace;\\
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,---\\
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.\\
\stanza
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,\\
Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow\thinspace;\\
There oft, as wild ev'ning weeps over the lea,\\
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.\\
}
% page 22

There is a sweet tenderness in ``O Wert
Thou in the Cauld Blast,'' composed in honour
of Jessie Lewars, who attended the Poet during
his last illness.  The beautiful air to which
the song is sung was composed by Felix
Mendelssohn, the eminent composer and
conductor---
\poem{
O wert thou in the cauld blast,\\
\quad On yonder lea, on yonder lea,\\
My plaidie to the angry airt,\\
\quad I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee\thinspace;\\
Or did Misfortune's bitter storms\\
\quad Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,\\
Thy bield should be my bosom,\\
\quad To share it a', to share it a'.\\
\stanza
Or were I in the wildest waste,\\
\quad Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,\\
The desert were a Paradise,\\
\quad If thou wert there, if thou wert there\thinspace;\\
Or were I Monarch o' the globe,\\
\quad Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,\\
The brightest jewel in my crown,\\
\quad Wad be my Queen, wad be my Queen.\\
}\hfill\break
As Miss Lewars was moving with a light foot
about the house, lest she should disturb him,
the Poet took up a crystal goblet which contained
wine and water for moistening his lips,
and wrote on it with a diamond---
\poem{
Fill me with the rosy wine\thinspace:\\
Call a toast---a toast divine---\\
Give the Poet's darling flame,\\
Lovely Jessie be her name\thinspace;\\
Then thou mayest freely boast\\
Thou has given a peerless toast.\\
}\hfill\break
That other dying song ``Here's a health to ane
I lo'e dear'' was also composed in her honour.
% page 23

The plaintive ``My Nannie's Awa','' soon
commanded attention by its beauty.  It
is generally considered to be one if the Clarinda
effusions.  The air ro which it is sung is the
production of Alexander Hume, the composer
of the air to ``Afton Water''---
\tightpoem{
Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays,\\
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes,\\
And birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw,\\
But to me it's delightless---my Nannie's awa'.\\
\stanza
The snawdrap and primrose our woodlands adorn,\\
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn\thinspace;\\
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,\\
They mind me o' Nannie---and Nannie's awa'.\\
\stanza
Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn\\
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn,\\
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa',\\
Give over for pity---my Nannie's away'.\\
\stanza
Come Autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and gray,\\
And soothe me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay\thinspace;\\
The dark, dreary Winter, and wild-driving snaw\\
Alane can delight me---now Nannie's awa'.\\
}

Tibbie Steven was the daughter of a
proprietor of three acres in Kyle, and thought
herself rich enough to treat the ploughman
Bard with contempt.  Burns, in an independent
spirit, addresses her thus---
\poem{
Yestreen, I met ye on the moor,\\
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure\thinspace;\\ % sic: spakna,  the like stoure
Ye geck at me, because I'm poor,\\
\quad But fient a hair care I\thinspace!\\
}

This was composed when the Poet was 17
years of age.

%page 24
The heroine of ``My Nannie O'' was Agnes
Fleming, a servant lass of Lochlea.  This fine
old song is not often sung as it should be.
In the words of the Bard---``Compared with
these, Italian trills are tame.''
\poem{
Behind yon hills where Lugar flows,\\
\quad 'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,\\
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,\\
\quad And I'll awa' to Nannie, O.\\
\stanza
My Nannie's charming, sweet an' young,\\
\quad Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O\thinspace;\\
May ill befa' the flattering tongue\\
\quad That wad beguile my Nannie, O.\\
\stanza
Her face is fair, her heart is true,\\
\quad As spotless as she's bonnie, O\thinspace;\\
The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,\\
\quad Nae purer is than Nannie, O.\\
}

The beautiful and melting strains of ``Of a'
the Airts the wind can blaw'' was composed
out of compliment to the Poet's Bonnie Jean.
It was the fruit of one of his horse-back
meditations, when riding from Mossgiel to
Ellisland, with the charms of Jean Armour's
company in his mind.  He made it by the way,
and sung it to his wife when he got home.
They are most beautiful---
\poem{
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,\\
\quad I dearly lo'e the west,\\
For there the bonnie lassie lives,\\
\quad The lassie I lo'e the best\thinspace;\\
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,\\
\quad And mony a hill between\thinspace:\\
But day and night my fancy's flight\\
\quad Is ever wi' my Jean.\\
%page 25
\stanza
I see her in the dewy flowers,\\
\quad I see her sweet and fair\thinspace;\\
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,\\
\quad I hear her charm the air\thinspace;\\
There's not a bonnie flower that springs\\
\quad By fountain, shaw or green\thinspace;\\
There's not a bonnie bird that sings\\
\quad But minds me o' my Jean.\\
}\hfill\break
There are other two excellent stanzas, composed
by John Hamilton, music seller, Edinburgh\thinspace;
they are frequently taken for a portion
of Burns' song.

In the song ``John Anderson, my Jo,''
where, I ask, will you find such stanzas outside
of Burns' songs.  The old couple have lived
their youthful days in loving wedlock, now
grown so old that John's pow is frosty and his
locks like snaw, yet each as fond of the other
as when they first entered matrimony.  Think
of the way the old wife reminds John of the
changes which have passed over his appearance
since the day when they were first acquainted,
of the loving way in which she declares to go
hand in hand with him till the end, and sleep
with him at the foot of the hill, when life's
over.  Could you wish a song bearing a finer
domestic sentiment \thinspace?---
\poem{
John Anderson, my jo, John,\\
\quad When we were first acquent,\\
Your locks were like the raven,\\
\quad Your bonnie brow was brent\thinspace;\\
But now your brow is beld, John,\\
\quad Your locks are like the snaw\thinspace;\\
But blessings on your frosty pow,\\
\quad John Anderson, my jo.\\
%page 26
\stanza
John Anderson, my jo, John,\\
\quad We clamb the hill thegither\thinspace;\\
And mony a canty day, John,\\
\quad We've had wi' yin anither\thinspace;\\
Now we maun trotter down, John,\\
\quad And hand in hand we'll go,\\
And sleep thegither at the foot,\\
\quad John Anderson, my jo.\\
}

The national Hymn, ``Auld Lang Syne,''
is sung at the close of all social functions, not
only in Scotland, but throughout the civilized
world.  The Poet spoke of it as a song that
had often thrilled through his soul.  Scottish
hearts in far lands respond to the following
lines---
\poem{
We twa ran about the braes,\\
\quad And pou'd the gowans fine\thinspace;\\
But we've wandered mony a weary fit,\\
\quad Sin' auld lang syne.\\
\stanza
We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,\\
\quad Frae mornin' sun till dine\thinspace;\\
But seas between us braid hae roar'd,\\
\quad Sin' auld lang syne.\\
}

Wherever Scotsmen have planted their
feet, the songs of Burns have been sung, and
have made the merry welkin ring.  They have
cheered the hearts of his countrymen, in every
clime under the sun, and have proved one of
the strongest links that bind them to their
native land.
\poem{
While rolling years shall onward speed,\\
\quad Scotsmen in every clime\\
Shall worship at the shrine of Burns\\
\quad Until the end of time\thinspace;\\
His songs---inspiring, tender, true---\\
\quad With fervour shall be sung,\\
Until auld Scotland's sons and maids\\
\quad Forget their mother tongue.\\
}
\goodpage
\thinspace
\hbox to 1em{\vbox to 0.1pc{}\hss}
\vskip -1pc
\centerline{\title{THE EVENING OF HIS LIFE.}}
\vskip -1.5pc
\hfill\break
Jessie Lewars, a devoted daughter of one of
Burns' Dumfries friends, attended the Poet
in 1796, at the Brow, during his last illness.
The sun shining in at the window of the bed
chamber, Jessie was in the act of drawing the
window blind to screen the sun from the Poet's
eyes, when he said---``Let the sun shine in
upon us\thinspace: he has not long to shine for me.''

I take the following verses from a poem
written a few days before the Poet's death.
They came into my hands through Thomas
Anderson, a great Burns' enthusiast---who,
along with auld Starkie, celebrated the Poet's
natal day annually in the wee auld farrant % sic: annnually
thatch hoose in the High Street.  I do not
vouch for the authenticity of them\thinspace; they do
not appear in any published edition of Burns'
works.
\poem{
O, let the curtains bide, Jessie,\\
\quad And raise my head a wee,\\
And let the bonnie, setting sun\\
\quad Glint in on you and me.\\
The world looks fair and bright, Jessie,\\
\quad Near loving hearts like you\thinspace;\\
But puirtith's blast sifts summer love,\\ % Poverty, destitution, want (Sc. 1825 Jam.). Gen.Sc., obs. exc. in liter.
\quad And makes leal friendships few.\\ % LEAL, adj., n., adv. Also leall, leel, leil(l), liel. [Sc. lil, em.Sc.(a) lel] I. adj. 1. Loyal, faithful, adhering to one's allegiance, duty, etc. 
\stanza
O, Jessie, in the dreary nights,\\
\quad I clasp my burning hands\\
Upon those throbbing, sleepless lids,\\
\quad O'er eyes like glowing brands,\\
And wonder in my weary brain,\\
\quad If haply, when I'm dead,\\
My old boon friends, for love of me,\\
\quad Will give my children bread.\\
\stanza %page 28
O, wilt thou gang o' nights, Jessie,\\
\quad To my forsaken hearth,\\
And be as thou hast been to me---\\
\quad The truest friend on earth\thinspace?\\
Sae sweetly in your linnet voice,\\
\quad You'll sing my weans to rest,\\
While Jeanie leans her weary head\\
\quad Upon thy loving breast.\\
}

I know of nothing more pathetic, more
sad, than the evening of the Poet's life.  On
18th July, 1796, the pony trap of James
Gracie, banker in Dumfries, stopped at the
foot of the Millhole Brae, and Robert Burns
alighted from it, and walked, toilfully and with
assistance, up the short but steep ascent to his
own house---for the last time.

Before setting out for the Brow, in the
vain quest for health, he said to his wife with
confidence---``Don't be afraid, Jean.  I'll be
more thought of a hundred years after I am
dead.''

It was on the 4th July that he went to
the Brow, hoping almost against hope, that sea
bathing and the drinking of its medicinal
waters would enable him to conquer the illness
which had prostrated him since the beginning
of the year.

Some touching incidents of that visit to
the Brow have been preserved.

One was the meeting with Mrs Riddell,
of Woodley Park, like himself an invalid at
the time, between whom there had been an
%page 29
estrangement.  On her entering the room,
Burns said---``Madam, have you any commands
for the other wirld\thinspace?'' and spoke of his death
as an event likely to happen soon.  He
showed anxiety about the care of his literary
fame, expressing a fear that letters and verses
written with unguarded freedom would be
revived to the injury of his reputation.

In the latter days of his life, he was observed
walking along the shady side of the
street---an impressive and, in some respects, a
pathetic figure.  On the opposite side of the
street a gay throng were preparing for the hunt
ball.  He was accosted by a friend, who requested
him to join the party, but the Bard
remarked that his days of popularity with such
gay people were at an end.

There was no lack of appreciation, however,
on the part of the people of Dumfries
when it became known that the days of the
great figure amongst them was nearing his end.
Groups gathered in the street, and discussed,
with hushed voices, the latest news about
the Poet.

He breathed his last on Thursday, 21st
July, 1796, in the little side street known as
Burns Street.  It is now turned into a museum,
and contains a number of Burns relics, some
of them presented by Sir James Barrie, the
gifted Scottish author.

%page 30
His body lies in St.~Michael's Churchyard
in a beautiful mausoleum, with the graceful
figure of Coila throwing her mantle over the
Poet at the Plough.

Gentlemen, in the words of Alexander
Smith---``If we admire the Emperor who found
Rome brick, and left it marble, what shall we
say of the Poet who found the songs of his
country indelicate, and left them pure\thinspace?''
\poem{
Then let us pray that come it may,\\
\quad As come it will for a' that,\\
That man to man the world o'er,\\
\quad Shall brithers be for a' that.\\
}

Gentlemen, I ask you to rise and drink
with me, in solemn silence, to ``The Immortal
Memory of Scotland's Greatest Poet, Robert
Burns.''
\vfill\eject

% page 31
%%\wantheadfalse
%%\null\vfill\eject

% page 32
%%\wantheadfalse
%%\null\vfill\eject

\bye

I found the following article in an Australian newspaper from 1924.

It makes me wonder if John Stirling - or one of the
other Bathgate worthies - was the author of the poem
referred to above.  It seems entirely consistent with
John Stirling's sense of humour (and ability) to have
fabricated a spoof Burns poem, or at least been
involved in its creation, along with his friends
John `Starkie' Stark, Tom Anderson, and Henry Shanks---
The `Blind Poet of the Deans,' who every year between
them celebrated Burns' natal day with a wee willie waucht.
My suspicion for the author of the piece is Robert Fleming
who wrote the following:
  Oor Burns enthusiasts will greet,
    When they reca' the oors sae sweet,
  That they did spend when a' did meet,
    Tae weet their craggies,
  And fill their wames at Starkie's fete
    Wi' famous haggis.
  His guns and pistols, jugs and skulls,
    His dirks and swurds, an' auld snuff mulls,
  His picture books an' ancient quills,
    His nick nacks a',
  May a' be scattered tae the hills
    Sin' Stark's awa'.

If Burns did indeed request the blinds to be open on
his death-bed as reported above, it is *extremely*
unlikely that he would have then gone on to write
this long poem in his remaining hours.  However
it is quite conceivable that Stirling would have
used those words as inspiration for a supposed
death-bed poem to be attributed to Burns.

I note, having now typeset five of his booklets,
that the typesetting of the poem in the original
copy of the Australian newspaper is *extremely*
similar to that of John Stirling.

---

The bulletin.
Vol. 45 No. 2322 (14 Aug 1924) 
Sydney, Australia.


Burns---and Another  

If anything were wanted to prove the small  
real appreciation that Scotland has for the  
work of her chief poet it might be found  
in the acceptance at sight in so many Scot-  
tish quarters of certain verses recently found  
in Maoriland. Burns is supposed to have  
written the lines to Jessie Lewars during his  
last days, and it is asserted that they have  
been secretly treasured since 1796 by rela-  
tives and friends of relatives who never  
thought it worth while to bring them to light.  
On the face of it the story is hard to be-  
lieve. Any relic of Burns which any Scotch-  
man possessed would in the ordinary nature  
ot things have long ago been brought forth  
and acclaimed. The poorest snatches of  
obscene doggerel which were thought to have  
any connection with him have been published  
in his collected works; and much of the  
attributed verse is without a semblance of  
merit or distinction. But here is a poem  
with a good deal of feeling, and written  
vulh some skill, alleged to have been brought  
to light after a century and a quarter, and  
described by a Scottish paper as “worthy  
of Burns at his best” !  
   Scotland has produced but one poet who  
takes first rank ; of her other bards few, if any  
could claim more than a slightly distinguished  
mediocrity.  It ought be thought that tens  
of thousands of people in Scotland would  
have so deep a feeling for the distinctive  
work of their one great man that they would  
recognise his mark anywhere. But such  
does not appear to be the case. The inner  
knowledge of a poet’s work is only possible  
to those who know the work of many poets.
It is by comparison that distinctiveness is  
shown; and the inference is that Scotland  
does not read poetry and is only devoted to  
the Burns tradition, not to the Burns song.
   Here are the verses found in Maoriland:  
The sun lies clasped in amber cloud,  
  Half-hidden in the sea;  
And o'er the sand the flowing tide  
  Comes racing merrily.  
The hawthorne hedge is white with bloom,  
  The wind is soft and lown,  
And sad and still you watch by me  
  Your hand clasped in my own.
  
Oh. let the curtains bide, Jessie,  
  And raise my head a wee ;  
And let the bonnie setting sun  
  Glint in on you and me.  
The world looks fair and bright, Jessie,
  Near loving hearts like you;  
But puirtith’s blast sifts summer love,  
  And makes leal friendships few.

Oh, Jessie, in the dreary nights  
  I clasp my burning hands  
Upon those throbbing sleepless lids  
  O'er eyes like glowing brands;  
And wonder in my weary brain  
  if haply when I’m dead,  
My old boon friends, for love of me,  
  Will give my bairnies bread.  

O! did the poor not help the poor,  
  Each in their simple way,  
With humble gift and kindly word---  
  God pity them, I say.  
For many a man, who clasped my hand  
  With pledges o’er the bowl,  
When the wine halo passed away  
  Proved but a niggard soul.  

O! blessed thought, ’midst our despair,  
  There is a promise made  
That in the day the rough wind blows  
  The east wind shall be stayed.  
A few short years and those I love  
  Will come again to me,  
To that bright realm without a sun,  
  That land without a sea.  

O! wilt thou gang o’ nights, Jessie,  
  To my forsaken hearth  
And be as thou hast been to me---  
  The truest friend on earth?  
Sae sweetly, in your linnet voice,  
  You'll sing my weans to rest,  
While Jeanie leans her weary head  
  Upon thy loving breast.
  
Ah! what is fame---its wealth of lays  
  Cools not the fevered brow;  
Will't tell his name, in future days,  
  Who whistled at the plough,
And wrote a simple song or two  
  For happier hearts to sing  
Among the shining sheaves of corn  
  Or round the household ring?  

Yet would I prize the bubble-fame,  
  If but my artless lays  
Bore thy sweet deeds and lovingness  
  For future time to praise.  
True soul, I bless the poet skill  
  Which won a friend like thee,  
Whose love, ’twixt thoughts of home and  
      Heaven,  
Is with me constantly.
  
Burns could not have written that. Not  
one verse of it is in his manner, nor in the  
manner of anybody else who wrote before  
the middle of the nineteenth century. Many  
of the phrases are of the well-known stock-in-  
trade of journalist poets who filled the maga-  
zines in the time of Mrs. Browning and  
Tennyson. The verses are full of a Scottish  
religiosity---sincere enough, but following a  
well-beaten track. It is more than probable  
that a diligent search through the old files  
of such magazines as “Good Words” would  
reveal the original in fair large print over  
a name that is not Burns. The thing is a  
piece of good workmanship, feminine in  
shape and expression, but without any hint  
of inspiration. It is, in fact, the imagining
of some good woman---who held the tradi-
tional reverence for Burns, but shuddered
at most of his work---about the spirit in
which she would have wished him to die.
Burns actually died cursing his creditors.  
D. M. W.
