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same kind with those, the comparative reception they would meet with would mortify me. I have turned my thoughts on the drama. I do not mean the stately buskin of the tragic muse.

Does not your ladyship think that an Edinburgh theatre would be more amused with affectation, folly, and whim of true Scottish growth, than manners which by far the greatest part of the audi ence can only know at second hand?

I have the honour to be

Your ladyship's ever devoted

And grateful humble servant.

No. LVII.

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN,

With a Copy of "Bruce's Address to his Troops at Bannockburn.”

My lord,

Dumfries, 12th Jan. 1794.

Will your lordship allow me to present you with the inclosed little composition of mine, as a small tribute of gratitude for that acquaintance with which you have been pleased to honour me? Independent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman, I have rarely met with any thing in history which interests my feelings as a man, equal with the story of Bannockburn. On the one hand, a cruel, but able usurper, leading on the finest army in Eu rope to extinguish the last spark of freedom among a greatly-daring, and greatly-injured people; on the other hand, the desperate relics of a gallant nation, devoting themselves to rescue their bleeding country, or perish with her.

Liberty! thou art a prize truly, and indeed invaluable !-for never canst thou be too dearly › bought!

I have the honour to be, &c.

No. LVIII.

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

My lord,

When you cast your eye on the name at the bottom of this letter, and on the title-page of the book I do myself the honour to send your lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my vanity tells me, that it must be a name not entirely unknown to you. The generous patronage of your late illustrious brother found me in the lowest obscurity he introduced my rustic muse to the partiality of my country; and to him I owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the anguish of my soul at losing my truly noble protector and friend, I have endeavoured to express in a poem to his memory, which I have now published. This edition is just from the press; and in my gratitude to the dead, and my respect for the living (fame belies you, my lord, if you possess not the same dignity of man, which was your noble brother's characteristic feature), I had destined a copy for the earl of Glencairn. I learnt just now that you are in town: allow me to present it you.

I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal contagion which pervades the world of letters, that professions of respect from an author, particularly from a poet, to a lord, are more than suspicious. I claim my by-past conduct, and my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to the too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honours of your lordship's name, and unnoted as is the obscurity of mine; with the uprightness of an honest man, I come before your lordship, with an offering, how

ever humble, 'tis all I have to give, of my grateful respect; and to beg of you, my lord,-'tis all I have to ask of you, that you will do me the honour to accept of it.

I have the honour to be, &c.*

Sir,

No. LIX.

To Dr. ANDERSON.

I am much indebted to my worthy friend Dr. Blacklock for introducing me to a gentleman of Dr. Anderson's celebrity; but when you do me the honour to ask my assistance in your purposed publication, alas, sir! you might as well think to cheapen a little honesty at the sign of an advocate's wig, or humility under the Geneva band. I am a miserable hurried devil, worn to the marrow in the friction of holding the noses of the poor publicans to the grindstone of excise; and like Milton's Satan, for private reasons, am forced

"To do what yet tho' damn'd I would abhor;"

and except a couplet or two of honest execration

The original letter is in the possession of the honourable Mrs. Holland, of Poynings. From a memorandum, on the back of the letter, it appears to have been written in May, 1794.

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No. LX.

To Mrs. DUNLOP.

Castle Douglas, 25th June, 1794.

Here, in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy as I may. Solitary confinement, you know, is Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners; so let me consider by what fatality it happens that I have so Jong been so exceeding sinful as to neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have on earth. To tell you that I have been in poor health, will not be exeuse enough, though it is true. I am afraid I am about to suffer for the follies of my youth. My medical friends threaten me with a flying gout; but I trust they are mistaken.

I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first sketch of a stanza I have been The subject framing as I paeed along the road. is liberty. You know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design it an irregular ode for General Washington's birth-day. After having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms, I come to Scotland thus:

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;

Where is that soul of freedom fled?

Immingled with the mighty dead!

Beneath that hallowed turf where Wallace lies!
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
Ye babbling winds, in silence weep;
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,

Nor give the coward secret breath.-
Is this the power in freedom's war
That wont to bid the battle rage?
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,
Crushing the despot's proudest hearing,

That arm, which, nerved with thundering fate,
Braved usurpation's boldest daring!

One quenched in darkness like the sinking star, And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age.

You will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or two.

No. LXI.

To Mr. JAMES JOHNSON.

My dear friend,

You should have heard from me long ago; but over and above some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I have all this winter been plagued with low spirits and blue devils, so that I have almost hung my harp on the willow trees.

I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems, and this, with my ordinary business, finds me in full employment*.

I send you by my friend Mr. Wallace forty-one songs for your fifth volume; if we cannot finish it in any other way, what would you think of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs? In the mean time, at your leisure, give a copy of the Museum to my worthy friend Mr. Peter Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly as he did the laird of Glenriddelst, that I may in

*Burns's anxiety with regard to the correctness of his writings was very great. Being questioned as to his mode of composition, he replied, “Al my poetry is the effect of easy composition, but of laborious correction."

+ This is the manuscript book, containing the remarks on Scottish songs and ballads, presented to the public, with considerable additions, in this volume.

56520B

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