LINES

SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED.

THE friend whom wild from wisdom's way,
The fumes of wine infuriate send ;
(Not moony madness more astray ;)
Who but deplores that hapless friend?

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part,
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive!
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!

'Tis thine to pity and forgive.

"The insensate frenzied part," which the Poet intimates he had acted under the influence of wine, was at the too hospitable table of Mrs. Riddel: he was unsparing in speech, and on this occasion spoke of thrones and dominations, and "epauletted puppies" with a sarcastic vehemence offensive to many. These midnight

quarrels, when the wine is lord of the ascendant, should be allowed to pass unless they are personal. Burns had suffered much, and was then suffering on account of his unbridled licence of speech: the power of utterance was not given to him that he might conceal his thoughts. The reparation offered in these lines was warmly accepted, and the current of friendship ran smooth as before.

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT.

STILL anxious to secure your partial favour,
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies,
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed;
And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted.

66

Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes "I know your bent-these are no laughing times: Can you but, Miss, I own I have my fears, Dissolve in pause-and sentimental tears

With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance; Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, Waving on high the desolating brand,

Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?”

I could no more-askance the creature eyeing,
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying?
I'll laugh, that's poz-nay more, the world shall
know it;

And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet!

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief,
That Misery's another word for Grief;

I also think-so may I be a bride!

That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye;
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive-
To make three guineas do the work of five:
Laugh in Misfortune's face-the beldam witch!
Say, you'll be merry,
tho' you can't be rich.

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love,
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ;
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project,
Measur'st in desperate thought-a rope-thy neck-
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap:
Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf?
Laugh at her follies-laugh e'en at thyself:
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
And love a kinder-that's your grand specific.

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ;

And as we're merry, may we still be wise.

On the 4th of December, 1795, this address was spoken by Miss Fontenelle, at the Dumfries theatre.

Some of the audience who knew or guessed the poetic condition of the Bard's affairs sympathized in the lines on Misfortune :

"Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye;
Doomed to the sorest task of man alive-

To make three guineas do the work of five."

At this time be it remembered that Burns had suffered much affliction in the loss of a favourite child, and from ill-health in his own person, and in his own words :—

"In faith sma' heart had he to sing."

"We have had a brilliant theatre here this season," the Poet writes to Mrs. Dunlop; "only, as all other business does, it experiences a stagnation of trade from the epidemical complaint of the country, want of cash. I mention our theatre merely to lug in an Occasional Address which I wrote for the benefit night of one of the actresses."

ON

SEEING MISS FONTENELLE

IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER.

SWEET naïveté of feature,

Simple, wild, enchanting elf,
Not to thee, but thanks to nature,
Thou art acting but thyself.

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected,
Spurning nature, torturing art;

Loves and graces all rejected,

Then indeed thou'd'st act a part.

R. B.

Miss Hyslop of Dumfries-to whom these volumes are under other obligations than this-transmitted to the Editor these clever lines: the original in the Poet's own hand is still preserved. I know not to what character Burns alludes; but he was a person not easily pleased; he loved natural acting, such as we are not often favoured with.