CXI.

TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN.

[Cleghorn was a farmer, a social man, and much of a musician. The poet wrote the Chevalier's Lament to please the jacobitical taste of his friend; and the musician gave him advice in farming which he neglected to follow:--"Farmer Attention," says Cleghorn, "is a good farmer everywhere."]

_Mauchline, 31st March, 1788._

Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding through a track of melancholy, joyless muirs, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs; and your favourite air, "Captain O'Kean," coming at length into my head, I tried these words to it. You will see that the first part of the tune must be repeated.

I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it with you to try if they suit the measure of the music.

I am so hara.s.sed with care and anxiety, about this farming project of mine, that my muse has degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that ever picked cinders, or followed a tinker. When I am fairly got into the routine of business, I shall trouble you with a longer epistle; perhaps with some queries respecting farming; at present, the world sits such a load on my mind, that it has effaced almost every trace of the poet in me.

My very best compliments and good wishes to Mrs. Cleghorn.

R. B.

CXII.

TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR,

EDINBURGH.

[This letter was printed for the first time by Robert Chambers, in his "People's Edition" of Burns.]

_Mauchline, 7th April, 1788._

I have not delayed so long to write you, my much respected friend, because I thought no farther of my promise. I have long since give up that kind of formal correspondence, where one sits down irksomely to write a letter, because we think we are in duty bound so to do.

I have been roving over the country, as the farm I have taken is forty miles from this place, hiring servants and preparing matters; but most of all I am earnestly busy to bring about a revolution in my own mind.

As, till within these eighteen months, I never was the wealthy master of 10 guineas, my knowledge of business is to learn; add to this my late scenes of idleness and dissipation have enervated my mind to an alarming degree. Skill in the sober science of life is my most serious and hourly study. I have dropt all conversation and all reading (prose reading) but what tends in some way or other to my serious aim. Except one worthy young fellow, I have not one single correspondent in Edinburgh. You have indeed kindly made me an offer of that kind. The world of wits, and _gens comme il faut_ which I lately left, and with whom I never again will intimately mix--from that port, Sir, I expect your Gazette: what _Les beaux esprit_ are saying, what they are doing, and what they are singing. Any sober intelligence from my sequestered walks of life; any droll original; any pa.s.sing reward, important forsooth, because it is mine; any little poetic effort, however embryoth; these, my dear Sir, are all you have to expect from me. When I talk of poetic efforts, I must have it always understood, that I appeal from your wit and taste to your friendship and good nature. The first would be my favourite tribunal, where I defied censure; but the last, where I declined justice.

I have scarcely made a single distich since I saw you. When I meet with an old Scots air that has any facetious idea in its name, I have a peculiar pleasure in following out that idea for a verse or two.

I trust that this will find you in better health than I did last time I called for you. A few lines from you, directed to me at Mauchline, were it but to let me know how you are, will set my mind a good deal [at rest.] Now, never shun the idea of writing me because perhaps you may be out of humour or spirits. I could give you a hundred good consequences attending a dull letter; one, for example, and the remaining ninety-nine some other time--it will always serve to keep in countenance, my much respected Sir, your obliged friend and humble servant,

R. B.

CXIII.

TO MISS CHALMERS.

[The sacrifice referred to by the poet, was his resolution to unite his fortune with Jean Armour.]

_Mauchline, 7th April, 1788._

I am indebted to you and Miss Nimmo for letting me know Miss Kennedy.

Strange! how apt we are to indulge prejudices in our judgments of one another! Even I, who pique myself on my skill in marking characters--because I am too proud of my character as a man, to be dazzled in my judgment for glaring wealth; and too proud of my situation as a poor man to be biased against squalid poverty--I was unacquainted with Miss K.'s very uncommon worth.

I am going on a good deal progressive in _mon grand bt_, the sober science of life. I have lately made some sacrifices, for which, were I _viva voce_ with you to paint the situation and recount the circ.u.mstances, you should applaud me.

R. B.

CXIV.

TO MISS CHALMERS.

[The hint alluded to, was a whisper of the insolvency of Creech; but the bailie was firm as the Ba.s.s.]

_No date._

Now for that wayward, unfortunate thing, myself. I have broke measures with Creech, and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter. He replied in terms of chastis.e.m.e.nt, and promised me upon his honour that I should have the account on Monday; but this is Tuesday, and yet I have not heard a word from him. G.o.d have mercy on me! a poor d--mned, incautious, duped, unfortunate fool! The sport, the miserable victim of rebellious pride, hypochondriac imagination, agonizing sensibility, and bedlam pa.s.sions?

"I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to die!" I had lately "a hair-breadth 'scape in th' imminent deadly breach" of love too. Thank my stars, I got off heart-whole, "waur fleyd than hurt."--Interruption.

I have this moment got a hint: I fear I am something like--undone--but I hope for the best. Come, stubborn pride and unshrinking resolution; accompany me through this, to me, miserable world! You must not desert me! Your friendship I think I can count on, though I should date my letters from a marching regiment. Early in life, and all my life I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Seriously though, life at present presents me with but a melancholy path: but--my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on.

R. B.

CXV.