"Her smile's a gift frae boon the lift The man in arms 'gainst female charms, He hugs his chain, and owns the reign The loveliest of one of the loveliest families in Scotland he changed into a lowly lassie, aye "working her mammie's work," and her lover into Young Robie-" who gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, and danced wi' Jeanie on the down." In imagination he is still himself the happy man-his loves are short and rapturous as his lyrics-and while his constancy may be complained of, it is impossible to help admiring the richness of his genius that keeps for ever bringing fresh tribute to her whom he happens to adore. "Her voice is the voice of the morning, That wakes through the green-spreading grove That was the voice of one altogether lovely-a lady elegant and accomplished-and adorning a higher condition than his own; but though finer lines were never written, they are not finer than these four inspired by the passing by of a young woman, on the High Street of Dumfries, with her shoes and stockings in her hand, and her petticoats frugally yet liberally kilted to her knee. "Her yellow hair, beyond compare, Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck, And her two eyes; like stars in skies, Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck." It may be thought that such poetry is too high for the people -the common people" beyond the reaches of their souls;" but Burns knew better-and he knew that he who would be their poet must put forth all his powers. There is not a single thought, feeling, or image in all he ever wrote, that has not been comprehended in its full force by thousands and tens of thousands in the very humblest condition. They could not of themselves have conceived them-nor given utterance to anything resembling them to our ears. How dull of apprehension! how unlike gods! But let them be spoken to, and they hear. Their hearts delighted with a strange sweet music which by recognition they understand, are not satisfied with listening, but yearn to respond; and the whole land that for many years had seemed, but was not, silent, in a few months is overflowing with songs that had issued from highest genius it is true, but from the same source that is daily welling out its waters in every human breast. The songs that establish themselves among a people must indeed be simple -but the simplest feelings are the deepest, and once that they have received adequate expression, then they die not-but live for ever. Many of his Love-songs are, as they ought to be, untinged with earthly desire, and some of these are about the most beau. tiful of any-as "Wilt thou be my dearie? When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, Wilt thou let me cheer thee ! By the treasure of my soul, That's the love I bear thee! I swear and vow, that only thou "Lassie, say thou lo❜es me; Or if thou wilt na be my ain, Say na thou'lt refuse me : Let me, lassie, quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es me. Nothing can be more exquisitely tender-passionless from the excess of passion-pure from very despair-love yet hopes for love's confession, though it feels it can be but a word of pity to sweeten death. In the most exquisite of his Songs, he connects and blends the tenderest and most passionate emotions with all appearancesanimate and inanimate; in them all--and in some by a single - touch—we are made to feel that we are in the midst of nature. A bird glints by, and we know we are in the woods—a primrose grows up, and we are among the braes-the mere name of a stream brings its banks before us-or two or three words leave us our own choice of many waters. "Far dearer to me the lone glen of green bracken, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom." It has been thought that the eyes of "the laboring poor" are not very sensible-nay, that they are insensible to scenery-and that the pleasures thence derived are confined to persons of cultivated taste. True, that the country girl, as she "lifts her leglin, and hies her away," is thinking more of her lover's face and figure—whom she hopes to meet in the evening-than of the trysting tree, or of the holm where the grey hawthorn has been standing for hundreds of years. Yet she knows right well that they are beautiful; and she feels their beauty in the old song she is singing to herself, that at dead of winter recalls the spring time and all the loveliness of the season of leaves. The people know little about painting-how should they? for unacquainted with the laws of perspective, they cannot see the landscape-picture on which instructed eyes gaze till the imagination beholds a paradise. But the landscapes themselves they do see -and they love to look on them. The ploughman does so, as he "homeward plods his weary way;" the reaper as he looks at what Burns calls his own light-" the reaper's nightly beam, mild chequering through the trees." If it were not so, why should they call it "Bonnie Scotland "-why should they call him "Sweet Robbie Burns?" In his Songs they think of the flowers as alive, and with hearts: "How blest the flowers that round thee bloom!" In his Songs, the birds they hear singing in common hours with common pleasure, or give them not a thought, without losing their own nature partake of theirs, and shun, share, or mock human passion. He is at once the most accurate and the most poetical of ornithologists. By a felicitous epithet he characterizes each tribe according to song, plumage, habits, or haunts; often introduces them for the sake of their own happy selves; oftener as responsive to ours, in the expression of their own joys and griefs. Who was Jenny Cruikshank? Only child "of my worthy friend, Mr. William Cruikshank of the High School, Edinburgh." Where did she live? On a floor at the top of a common stair, now marked No. 30, in James' Square. Burns lived for some time with her father-his room being one which has a window looking out from the gable of the house upon the green behind the Register Office. There was little on that green to look at perhaps "a washing" laid out to dry. But the poet saw a vision and many a maiden now often sees it too-whose face may be of the coarsest, and her hair not of the finest—but who in spite of all that, strange to say, has an imagination and a heart. "A rose-bud by my early walk All on a dewy morning; Fre twice the shades o' dawn are fled, "Within the bush, her covert nest Sae early in the morning. "So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair! That tends thy early morning. That watch'd thy early morning." Indeed, in all his poetry, what an overflowing of tenderness, pity, and affection towards all living creatures that inhabit the earth, the water, and the air! Of all men that ever lived, Burns was the least of a sentimentalist; he was your true Man of Feeling. He did not preach to Christian people the duty of humanity to animals; he spoke of them in winning words warm from a manliest breast, as his fellow-creatures, and made us feel what we owe. What child could well be cruel to a helpless animal who had read "The Death and Dying Words of Poor Maillie"-or "The Twa Dogs?" "The Auld Farmer's Newyear's-day Address to his Auld Mare Maggie" has we know— humanized the heart of a Gilmerton carter. "Not a mouse stirring," are gentle words at that hour from Shakspeare-when thinking of the ghost of a king; and he would have loved brother Burns for saying "What makes thee startle, at me thy poor earth-born companion and fellow mortal!" Safe-housed at fall of a stormy winter night, of whom does the poet think, along with the unfortunate, the erring, and the guilty of his own race? |