_
I am not gone to Elysium, most noble colonel, but am still here in
this sublunary world, serving my God, by propagating his image, and
honouring my king by begetting him loyal subjects.
I am not gone to Elysium, most noble colonel, but am still here in
this sublunary world, serving my God, by propagating his image, and
honouring my king by begetting him loyal subjects.
Robert Burns
CONSTABLE.
[The present alluded to was a gold snuff-box, with a portrait of Queen
Mary on the lid. ]
_Ellisland, 11th January, 1791. _
MY LADY,
Nothing less than the unlucky accident of having lately broken my
right arm, could have prevented me, the moment I received your
ladyship's elegant present by Mrs. Miller, from returning you my
warmest and most grateful acknowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I
shall set it apart--the symbols of religion shall only be more sacred.
In the moment of poetic composition, the box shall be my inspiring
genius. When I would breathe the comprehensive wish of benevolence for
the happiness of others, I shall recollect your ladyship; when I would
interest my fancy in the distresses incident to humanity, I shall
remember the unfortunate Mary.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCIII.
TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. S.
[This letter was in answer to one from Dunbar, in which the witty
colonel of the Crochallan Fencibles supposed the poet had been
translated to Elysium to sing to the immortals, as his voice had not
been beard of late on earth. ]
_Ellisland, 17th January, 1791.
_
I am not gone to Elysium, most noble colonel, but am still here in
this sublunary world, serving my God, by propagating his image, and
honouring my king by begetting him loyal subjects.
Many happy returns of the season await my friend. May the thorns of
care never beset his path! May peace be an inmate of his bosom, and
rapture a frequent visitor of his soul! May the blood-hounds of
misfortune never track his steps, nor the screech-owl of sorrow alarm
his dwelling! May enjoyment tell thy hours, and pleasure number thy
days, thou friend of the bard! "Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and
cursed be he that curseth thee! ! ! "
As a further proof that I am still in the land of existence, I send
you a poem, the latest I have composed. I have a particular reason for
wishing you only to show it to select friends, should you think it
worthy a friend's perusal; but if, at your first leisure hour, you
will favour me with your opinion of, and strictures on the
performance, it will be an additional obligation on, dear Sir, your
deeply indebted humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCIV.
TO MR. PETER HILL.
[The poet's eloquent apostrophe to poverty has no little feeling in
it: he beheld the money which his poems brought melt silently away,
and he looked to the future with more fear than hope.
[The present alluded to was a gold snuff-box, with a portrait of Queen
Mary on the lid. ]
_Ellisland, 11th January, 1791. _
MY LADY,
Nothing less than the unlucky accident of having lately broken my
right arm, could have prevented me, the moment I received your
ladyship's elegant present by Mrs. Miller, from returning you my
warmest and most grateful acknowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I
shall set it apart--the symbols of religion shall only be more sacred.
In the moment of poetic composition, the box shall be my inspiring
genius. When I would breathe the comprehensive wish of benevolence for
the happiness of others, I shall recollect your ladyship; when I would
interest my fancy in the distresses incident to humanity, I shall
remember the unfortunate Mary.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCIII.
TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. S.
[This letter was in answer to one from Dunbar, in which the witty
colonel of the Crochallan Fencibles supposed the poet had been
translated to Elysium to sing to the immortals, as his voice had not
been beard of late on earth. ]
_Ellisland, 17th January, 1791.
_
I am not gone to Elysium, most noble colonel, but am still here in
this sublunary world, serving my God, by propagating his image, and
honouring my king by begetting him loyal subjects.
Many happy returns of the season await my friend. May the thorns of
care never beset his path! May peace be an inmate of his bosom, and
rapture a frequent visitor of his soul! May the blood-hounds of
misfortune never track his steps, nor the screech-owl of sorrow alarm
his dwelling! May enjoyment tell thy hours, and pleasure number thy
days, thou friend of the bard! "Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and
cursed be he that curseth thee! ! ! "
As a further proof that I am still in the land of existence, I send
you a poem, the latest I have composed. I have a particular reason for
wishing you only to show it to select friends, should you think it
worthy a friend's perusal; but if, at your first leisure hour, you
will favour me with your opinion of, and strictures on the
performance, it will be an additional obligation on, dear Sir, your
deeply indebted humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCIV.
TO MR. PETER HILL.
[The poet's eloquent apostrophe to poverty has no little feeling in
it: he beheld the money which his poems brought melt silently away,
and he looked to the future with more fear than hope.
