I would give my best song to my worst enemy, I mean the merit of
making it, to have you and Charlotte by me.
making it, to have you and Charlotte by me.
Robert Burns
Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he!
--Up and to your looms, lads. "
R. B.
* * * * *
XCI.
TO MISS CHALMERS.
[The "Ochel-Hills," which the poet promises in this letter, is a song,
beginning,
"Where braving angry winter's storms
The lofty Ochels rise,"
written in honour of Margaret Chalmers, and published along with the
"Banks of the Devon," in Johnson's Musical Museum. ]
_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 12, 1787.
I am here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on
a cushion; and the tints of my mind vying with the livid horror
preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was the cause
of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil; misfortune, bodily
constitution, hell, and myself have formed a "quadruple alliance" to
guaranty the other. I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slowly
better.
I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got through the five
books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book.
I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him to get me an octavo
Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town; and bind it with
all the elegance of his craft.
I would give my best song to my worst enemy, I mean the merit of
making it, to have you and Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures,
and would pour oil and wine into my wounded spirit.
I enclose you a proof copy of the "Banks of the Devon," which present
with my best wishes to Charlotte. The "Ochel-hills" you shall probably
have next week for yourself. None of your fine speeches!
R. B.
* * * * *
XCII.
TO MISS CHALMERS.
[The eloquent hypochondriasm of the concluding paragraph of this
letter, called forth the commendation of Lord Jeffrey, when he
criticised Cromek's Reliques of Burns, in the Edinburgh Review. ]
_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 19, 1787.
I begin this letter in answer to yours of the 17th current, which is
not yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly
clearer than when I wrote you last. For the first time, yesterday I
crossed the room on crutches. It would do your heart good to see my
hardship, not on my poetic, but on my oaken stilts; throwing my best
leg with an air!
