"The poor man weeps-here Gavin sleeps, But with such as he-where'er he be, We all know those in this world with whom we should be willing to take our chances in the next, now that Burns has put the idea into our heads; but who else would have gone so far as to print it for the first time? We have not yet touched upon his songs. Take Bruce's Address, which Carlyle has called "the war-hymn of the ages.' The first stanza of Scots wha hae,'" said mediocrity, in the person of Thompson, the publisher, "will never do; no leader would dare offer as an alternative to victory a gory bed to troops he wished to encourage." Death has been hailed, but death seems vague in comparison, and carries with it the suggestion of immediate passage to the abode of heroes. But Barns knew better than his critic, and replied: "That line must stand." And it stands for all time. "Welcome to your gory bed "Scotland's right" or the " Igory bed," the last welcome if the first fell. He stood for Scotland, body and soul, future or no future, Walhalla or Annihilation-it mattered not. At that supreme moment it was "Scotland forever!" In that well-known song, "John Anderson, my jo," we have the spark. Has any poet ever given in one verse such a picture of the union of two hearts as this? "Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go; Up the hill, down the hill, through life, through death; "until death us do part" is the vow of marriage; but when true marriage comes, death itself forces no separation. Through the dark shadow hand in hand,-and this much for comfort and content, we shall "sleep thegither at the foot," certain as we lie down that there can be no heaven for one without the other, and prepared for anything in the future so we share it together. "To Mary in Heaven" seems not only so perfect, but so sacred that one instinctively hesitates to quote from it. It is the ideal lover's lament as clearly as "Scots wha hae" is the war song, or "Auld Lang Syne" the song of good fellowship, or "A man's a man for a' that" the song of democracy. But four lines I must quote, which follow the description of the meeting on the banks of Ayr, which, "gurgling, kissed its pebbled shore": "Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, What Burns might have been had Mary lived to be his wife opens the field of boundless conjecture. The history of this incomparable lament is fittingly touching. His wife tells that the poet not coming in at the usual evening hour she went in search of him, and found him lying on his back on a hayrick gazing at the evening star, so absorbed that she did not disturb him. He came in later, and going to his table, took pen and wrote this lament. The rapid change of mood in Burns has given rise to much surprise. Scott's devotion to his first love, whose sacred name he was discovered carving in Runic characters when he was an old man, tells the tale in his case. This is contrasted with the succession of favorites of Burns; but he too, though he sighed to many, loved but one. How sorry one is for the woman who was his wife: in the heart of her husband another sits enthroned. And what a line is that first one of the lament-six words of exquisite beauty, and such rhythm, shedding around the kindly light of genius: "Thou ling ring star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early moru, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn." Truly, "Who says he has loved has never loved at all." And here comes "Holy Willie's Prayer." But this is no spark, the torch of genius illuminates every verse. We cannot pass it over altogether, and we might as well take the first stanza as any other : "O thou, wha in the heavens does dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel', Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, A' for thy glory, And no for ony guid or ill They've done afore thee!" In the "Twa Herds", there is the spark "Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, And Learning in a woodie dance, Be banished o'er the sea to France: Common sense does bite indeed! Matthew Arnold declares the " Jolly Beggars" the greatest work of Burns. Shakspere alone, says he, has equaled it for dramatic force. It is the veteran's turn to amuse the old tatterdemalions, and he gives them a rollicking song indeed. "I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, The one line again. If there be in literature such a picture as that suggested by the last line, I have not met with it. Did Burns painfully think that out? Muse over it? Labor away t that part or this part of it? Or did the idea flash upon him ike a stroke of lightning, and reveal that veteran moved to ancing upon his stumps at the very sound of the drum? I elieve it burst upon the poet at once, and that he was afraid Le might lose the flash before he could write it down. But we aust pass to the closing song which is sung as an encore by he bard of the gang, after which the curtain falls. The first nd last verses I quote: Νο There is an amen chorus for you! The most gloriously wild ant in literature, as far as I know it, is this cantata. wonder it was not published until after the death of the poet. If any man ever lived but Burns who could have written it, I have not heard of him. If he never had written anything else but this, he could never have been ignored as a poet. In the next we strike my favorite of all songs. I confess that with songs and tunes I am as fickle as Burns was with his favorite lassies; one queen gives place to another with surprising facility. Every summer spent on the moors among the heather brings a new favorite. But there also comes a loyal return to a former love now and then; one that has reigned before and been dethroned for a time is restored and reigns again. Though not hereditary monarchs, these queens are eligible for reëlection. Thus "My Nannie 's Awa'" has served more terms than any, and is now again in the high office of Queen of Song. is a shame to quote only a part of it, because every line seems a necessary step leading higher and higher until the region of fire is entered; but two verses must be singled out from this prime favorite of the hour, as the highest crests where all is mountainous. "The snaw-drop and primrose our woodlands adorn, It |