You will
probably
have another scrawl from me in a stage or two.
Robert Forst
_
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. ]
_Dumfries, 1794. _
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, Sir. Peter
Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves,
exactly as he did the Laird of Glenriddel's, that I may insert every
anecdote I can learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks on
the songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to
publish at some after period, by way of making the Museum a book
famous to the end of time, and you renowned for ever.
I have got an Highland dirk, for which I have great veneration; as it
once was the dirk of _Lord Balmerino.
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. ]
_Dumfries, 1794. _
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, Sir. Peter
Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves,
exactly as he did the Laird of Glenriddel's, that I may insert every
anecdote I can learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks on
the songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to
publish at some after period, by way of making the Museum a book
famous to the end of time, and you renowned for ever.
I have got an Highland dirk, for which I have great veneration; as it
once was the dirk of _Lord Balmerino.
