But poverty was not the worst of the poet's misfortunes. One day his dog ran over some clothes which a young woman named Jean Armour, a rustic belle of some note, was spreading on the grass. She threw a stone at the dog, and Burns quoted the well-known proverb. From this trifling incident rose an acquaintance which rapidly ripened into love and then into an imprudent intimacy. When the consequences became evident, Burns gave Jean a written promise, which the Scotch law accepts as evidence of an irregular marriage. But her father's wrath was unbounded. He destroyed the document, put Burns under bonds for the maintenance of the twins that had been born, and then persecuted him relentlessly, probably to drive him out of the country.

When Burns could endure it no longer, he made an engagement as assistant overseer on a West India plantation, at a salary of £30 a year. But he had no money to pay his passage thither, and to raise a little he published his poems, in the summer of 1786, at Kilmarnock. It was a small volume of about two hundred pages, and included "The Cotter's Saturday Night," "The Vision," "To a Mouse," and "To a Daisy." Six hundred copies were printed, of which more than half had been subscribed for, and he made a profit of about £20.

He at once engaged a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde, and while skulking about to avoid being thrown into jail, he composed his farewell to his native country, beginning, "The gloomy night is gathering fast." He had taken leave of his friends, and his chest was on the way to Greenock, when a letter from Dr. Blacklock turned the whole course of affairs. Burns says: "The doctor belonged to a set of critics for whose applause I had not dared to hope. His opinion that I would meet with encouragement in Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so much, that away I posted for that city, without a single acquaintance, or a single letter of introduction. The baneful star that had so long shed its blasting influence in my zenith, for once made a revolution to the nadir; and a kind Providence placed me under the patronage of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of Glencairn."

The poems were admired wherever they were read, both by the critical and by the unlearned, and the edition was exhausted in a month. Burns arrived in Edinburgh in November, 1786, and prepared an enlarged edition of his poems, which was published the next April. There he made the acquaintance of numerous authors and critics, by whom he was warmly welcomed. He spent that year in travelling about Scotland, visiting nearly all the places noted for their history or natural beauty.

Meanwhile he had wooed, won, and lost Mary Campbell, the dairy-maid of Colonel Montgomery, whom he has immortalized as Highland Mary. His own account of the closing scene is as follows: "After a pretty long trial of the most ardent reciprocal affection, we met, by appointment, on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot on the banks of the Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farewell be

fore she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of the autumn following, she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to her grave in a few days, before I could even learn of her illness."

From the sale of his poems he received £500 in February, 1788, and two months later he married Jean Armour and took a farm on the Nith, six miles from Dumfries. There he wrote "To Mary in Heaven" and "Tam O'Shanter." In 1791 he gave up the farm, and removed to Dumfries, being appointed an officer of excise. His house there stood in a narrow, disagreeable street. It is thus described by one who saw it in 1803: "It has a mean appearance, whitewashed, dirty about the doors, as all Scotch houses are; the parlor walls were washed with blue-wash, on one side of the fire was a mahog any desk, opposite the window a clock, and over the desk a print from the 'Cotter's Saturday Night.' The house was cleanly and neat in the inside; the stairs of stone scoured white, the kitchen on the right hand of the passage, the parlor on the left." That Burns was a mere child in business and political affairs, a single incident of his life at Dumfries will show. The coasts of Galloway and Ayrshire were the haunts of smugglers, whom it was the especial duty of the revenue officers to watch and intercept. In February, 1792, an armed brig appeared in the Solway Frith, and got into shallow water. Α party of dragoons, led by Burns, dashed up to the brig and captured her. At the public sale of the vessel, he bought four guns, which he sent with a flattering assurance of his esteem to the French Convention. The gift was stopped at Dover, but the folly of the exciseman reached the ears of the Board. Scared by the vision of a helpless wife, and children turned adrift into the world, Burns told his grief to Mr. Graham, and readily found the protection which he asked.

The same year he was applied to by George Thomson, of Edinburgh, for assistance in setting words to a collection of original Scotch airs. He entered into the project enthusiastically, composing at race-horse speed, and furnished sixty songs, among which are some of his best. But he had fallen into evil ways; his convivial habits had grown upon him, and fits of unbounded indulgence were alternated with fits of the wildest remorse. His health was soon undermined, his whole constitution shattered, and he died on the 21st of July, 1796.

The first collected edition of the poems and letters of Burns, with a life by Dr. Currie, was published in London, 1800, in four volumes. Allan Cunninghamn published a more complete collection, in eight volumes, in 1834. An edition published in Edinburgh in 1852, edited by Robert Chambers, gives the poems in chronological order in the narrative of the poet's life. In 1859 the Burns centenary was enthusiastically celebrated in every village of Scotland, and in all the chief cities of England, Ireland, and the United States.

THE TWA DOGS,

A TALE.

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, That bears the name o' Auld King coil, Upon a bonnie day in June,

When wearing through the afternoon, Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, Forgather'd ance upon a time.

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar, Was keepit for his honour's pleasure: His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod.

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, Show'd him the gentleman and scholar; But though he was o' high degree, The fient a pride, na pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, E'en wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, But he wad stawn't, as glad to see him, And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.

The tither was a ploughman's collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, After some dog in Highland sang,* Was made lang syne-Lord knows how lang.

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.

His breast was white, his towzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swurl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' thick thegither; Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit, Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit; Whyles scour'd awa' in lang excursion, An' worry'd ither in diversion; Until wi' daffin weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression About the lords o' the creation.

CESAR.

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; An' when the gentry's life I saw What way poor bodies liv'd ava.

Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a' his stents;

Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal.

He rises when he likes himsel;
His flunkies answer at the bell;

He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse;
He draws a bonnie silken purse

As lang's my tail, whare, through the stecks,
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.

Frae morn to e'en it's naught but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' though the gentry first are stechin, Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sicklike trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant man

His honour has in a' the lan':

An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,

I own it's past my comprehension.

LUATH.

Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fash't eneugh;
A cottar howkin in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,

Baring a quarry, and sic like,
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,

An' naught but his han' darg, to keep
Them right and tight in thack an' rape.

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger;
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented;
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.

CÆSAR.

But then to see how ye're negleckit,
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit!
L-d, man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor fo'k,
As I wad by a stinking brock.

I've noticed on our laird's court-day,
An' mony a time my heart's been wae,
Poor tenant bodies scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash:
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear,
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun staun', wi' aspect humble,
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble.

I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches?

LUATH.

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think;
Though constantly on poortith's brink:
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,
The view o't gies them little fright.

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided;
An' though fatigued wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.

The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a' their fire side.

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy; They lay aside their private cares, To mend the kirk and state affairs; They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, Or tell what new taxation's coming, An' ferlie at the folk in Lon❜on.

As bleak-faced Hallowmass returns, They get the jovial, ranting kirns, When rural life, o' ev'ry station, Unite in common recreation;

Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, Forgets there's care upo' the earth.

That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty winds;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi' richt guid will;
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,
The young anes rantin through the house,-
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.

Still it's owre true that
ye
hae said,
Sic game is now oyre aften play'd.
There's monie a creditable stock,
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k,
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin,
For Britain's guid his saul indentin-

CESAR.

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it;
For Britain's guid! guid faith! I doubt it,
Say rather, gaun as premiers lead him,
An' saying ay or no's they bid him,
At operas an' plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading;
Or may be, in a frolic daft,

To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To make a tour, an' tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, an' see the warl'.

There, at Vienna or Versailles He rives his father's auld entails; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles; Then bouses drumly German water, To mak himsel look fair and fatter, An' clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of carnival signoras.

For Britain's guid! for her destruction! Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction.

LUATH.

Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an' harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last!

O would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themsels wi' kintra sports, It wa'd for every ane be better, The laird, the tenant, and the cotter! For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; Except for breakin o' their timmer, Or speakin lightly o' their limmer, Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock, The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor fo'k.

But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, The vera thought o't need na fear them.

CESAR.

L-d, man, were ye but whyles where I am The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em.

granes:

It's true they need na starve or sweat, Through winter's cauld, or simmer's heat; They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, An' fill auld age wi' gripes an' But human bodies are sic fools, For a' their colleges and schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They make enow themselves to vex them; An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion less will hurt them. A country fellow at the pleugh, His acres till'd, he's right eneugh; A kintra lassie at her wheel, Her dizzens done, she's unco weel: But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; Though deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days, insipid, dull, an' tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless; An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races, Their galloping through public places. There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches, Then sowther a' in deep debauches; Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring. Niest day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great and gracious a' as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, They sip the scandal portion pretty Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil's pictured beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. There's some exception, man an' woman; But this is gentry's life in common.

An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye
Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glow'r
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi' a' my power,
I set mysel;
But whether she had three or four,
I cou'd na tell.
I was come round about the hill,
And toddlin down on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

To keep me sicker:
Though leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker.

I there wi' something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither;
An awfu' sithe, out-owre ae showther,

Clear-dangling, hang;

A three-tae'd leister on the ither

Lay, large an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,

The queerest shape that e'er I saw,
For fient a wame it had ava!

And then, its shanks,

They were as thin, as sharp an' sma'

As cheeks o' branks.

"Guid-e'en," quo' I; "Friend! hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin ?”* It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',

But naething spak;

At length, says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun,
Will ye go back?"

This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785.

It spak right howe,-" My name is Death, But be na fley'd.”—Quoth I, “Guid faith, Ye're may be come to stap my breath;

But tent me, billie:

I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,

See, there's a gully!"

"Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle;

But if I did, I wad be kittle

To be mislear'd,

I wad na mind it, no, that spittle

Out-owre my beard."

"Well, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; We'll ease our sharks; an' tak a seat,

Come, gies your news; This while* ye hae been monie a gate At monie a house." "Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head, "It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the thread,

An' choke the breath: Folk maun do something for their bread, An' sae maun Death. "Sax thousand years are near hand fled Sin' I was to the butching bred, An' monie a scheme in vain's been laid,

"See, here's a sithe, and there's a dart, They hae pierced mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art,

And cursed skill, Has made them baith not worth a f―t, Damn'd haet they'll kill.. ""Twas but yestreen, nae further gaen, I threw a noble throw at ane; Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; But deil-ma-care, It just play'd dirl on the bane,

But did nae mair.

"Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, And had sae fortified the part, That when I looked to my dart,

It was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierced the heart Of a kail-runt.

* An epidemical fever was then raging in that country This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally, brother of the sovereign order of the ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary, sur geon, and physician.

Buchan's Domestic Medicine.

"I drew my sithe in sic a fury, I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry; But yet the bauld apothecary

Withstood the shock; I might as weel hae try'd a quarry

O' hard whin rock.

"E'en them he canna get attended, Alto' their face he ne'er had kend it, Just- in a kail-blade, and send it,

As soon he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it At once he tells't.

"And then a' doctors' saws and whittles,
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles,
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles,
He's sure to hae;
Their Latin names as fast he rattles
As A B C.

"Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees;
True Sal-marinum o' the seas;
The Farina of beans and pease,

He has❜t in plenty;

"Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole* now,"
Quo' I, "if that the news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,
Sae white and bonnie,
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew;
They'll ruin Johnie!"

The creature grain'd an eldrich laugh,
And says, "Ye need na yoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear:
They'll a' be trench'd wi' monie a sheugh
In twa-three year.

"Whare I killed ane a fair strae-death,
By loss o' blood or want o' breath,
This night I'm free to tak my aith,

That Hornbook's skill

THE simple bard, rough at the rustic plough,
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough,
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn
bush;

The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,
Or deep-toned plovers gray, wild-whistling o'ct
the hill;

Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed,
To hardy independence bravely bred,

By early poverty to hardship steel'd,

And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's field,
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?
Or labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the venal soul of dedicating prose?
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
He glows with all the spirit of the bard,
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still, if some patron's generous care he trace,
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;
When B********* befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,
With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming winter's biting, frosty breath;