The
subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme
is to me.
subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme
is to me.
Robert Burns
Collector Syme will
be at Glens about that time, and will meet us about dish-of-tea hour.
Syme goes also to Kerroughtree, and let me remind you of your kind
promise to accompany me there; I will need all the friends I can
muster, for I am indeed ill at ease whenever I approach your
honourables and right honourables.
Yours sincerely,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCVI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[Castle Douglas is a thriving Galloway village: it was in other days
called "The Carlinwark," but accepted its present proud name from an
opulent family of mercantile Douglasses, well known in Scotland,
England, and America. ]
_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 long 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 excuse
enough, though it is true. I am afraid that 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 framing as I passed along the road.
The
subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme
is to me. I design it as 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 the hallowed turf where Wallace lies!
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
Ye babbling winds in silence sweep,
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep.
with additions of
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.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCVII.
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON.
[The anxiety of Burns about the accuracy of his poetry, while in the
press, was great: he found full employment for months in correcting a
new edition of his poems.
be at Glens about that time, and will meet us about dish-of-tea hour.
Syme goes also to Kerroughtree, and let me remind you of your kind
promise to accompany me there; I will need all the friends I can
muster, for I am indeed ill at ease whenever I approach your
honourables and right honourables.
Yours sincerely,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCVI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[Castle Douglas is a thriving Galloway village: it was in other days
called "The Carlinwark," but accepted its present proud name from an
opulent family of mercantile Douglasses, well known in Scotland,
England, and America. ]
_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 long 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 excuse
enough, though it is true. I am afraid that 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 framing as I passed along the road.
The
subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme
is to me. I design it as 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 the hallowed turf where Wallace lies!
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
Ye babbling winds in silence sweep,
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep.
with additions of
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.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCVII.
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON.
[The anxiety of Burns about the accuracy of his poetry, while in the
press, was great: he found full employment for months in correcting a
new edition of his poems.
