EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

May

1786.

[The poet has printed "May, 1786," as the date of this very sensible memento, which has a good deal more of the sermon than the song in it. The only copy of this epistle known to exist in the author's MS. gives the date more minutely, thus-"Mossgiel, 15th May, 1786." That day was a Monday-the Term-day on which any maid-servant who has resolved on leaving her place, must "row up her wee kist wi' her a' in't," and go elsewhere. It has been established by a minute searcher into such matters, that on that Monday, a humble dairymaid at Coilsfield House, whose name has since become imperishable in the lustre thrown over it by the lyric genius of Burns, bade farewell to Ayrshire, and went home to reside with her parents in the West Highlands. It is extremely difficult to realize in our minds the fact-yet a fact it is, that the day preceding the one on which this shrewd and prudential epistle was penned, was that memorable "day of lasting love," regarding which the poet has left us this record in prose:"My Highland Lassie was a warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever blest a man with generous love. After a pretty long tract of the most ardent reciprocal attachment, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot on the banks of the Ayr, where we spent the day in taking a farewell, before she should embark for the West Highlands to arrange matters for our projected change of life." One naturally asks-Where is the room, and when could the poet find time, during this season of disquietude of restless activity and flowing inspiration, for "a pretty long tract" of courtship with one who resided several miles out of his road?-with one, too, whose name he was never known to whisper in mortal ear till she had been three years in her grave -one whom he did not allude to in his minute autobiography-never spoke of, even in his confidential unbosomings to Clarinda, and never once referred to until he had provoked enquiry by the production of his sublime Address to Mary in Heaven"? One answer, and only one, to all this is, that Burns, notwithstanding his apparent ingenuousness and candour, may not have been quite so open-hearted as his own COILA, "whose eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, beam'd keen with honor." Indeed, the very poem which has given rise to this note, inculcates secretiveness and cunning, of a very questionable kind :

"Ay free, aff han', your story tell, when wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can frae critical dissection;
But keek thro' ev'ry other man, wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection."

We quite concur with Robert Chambers in holding that Burns is neither philosophically nor morally right in giving such advice to his young friend. It remains to be noted that Andrew Aiken, to whom the epistle is addressed, was the son of Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, the early patron of the poet. He became a successful merchant, and died at Riga in 1831, while holding the office of English Consul there.]

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,

A Something to have sent you,

Tho' it should serve nae other end

Than just a kind memento;

But how the subject theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a Sang;
Perhaps, turn out a Sermon.

Ye'll try the world soon my lad,
And ANDREW dear believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev'n when your end's attained;
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

I'll no say, men are villains a' ;
The real, harden'd wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked:

But Och, mankind are unco weak,
An' little to be trusted;
If Self the wavering balance shake,
It's rarely right adjusted!

Yet they wha fa' in Fortune's strife,
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th' important end of life,
They equally may answer:
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' Poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neebor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

Ay free, aff han', your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can
Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro' ev'ry other man,
Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.

The sacred lowe o' weel plac'd love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;

But never tempt th’illicit rove,

Tho' naething should divulge it:

I wave the quantum o' the sin;
The hazard of concealing;
But Och! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling! *

To catch Dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by ev'ry wile,
That's justify'd by Honor:
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train-attendant;
But for the glorious priviledge
Of being independant.

The fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip,
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your Honor grip,
Let that ay be your border:
It's slightest touches, instant pause-
Debar a' side-pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.

The great CREATOR to revere,

Must sure become the Creature;

But still the preaching cant forbear,
And ev❜n the rigid feature :
Yet ne'er with Wits prophane to range,
Be complaisance extended;
An athiest-laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!

* Here, in the MS. occurs this additional stanza :—

"If ye hae made a step aside, some hap mistake o'ertane you,
Yet still keep up a decent pride, and ne'er o'er far demean you:
Time comes wi' kind oblivious shade, and daily darker sets it,
And if nae mair mistakes are made, the world soon forgets it."

Mr. Chambers well remarks, that although this verse throws a valuable light on the state of the poet's mind at this crisis, we should not desire to see it replaced in the poem from which the author excluded it in his book, as felt to be below the other stanzas in terseness and point.

When ranting round in Pleasure's ring,
Religion may be blinded;
Or if she gie a random-sting,
It may be little minded;

But when on Life we're tempest-driv❜n,
A Conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n,
Is sure a noble anchor!

Adieu, dear, amiable Youth!

Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May Prudence, Fortitude and Truth Erect your brow undaunting!

In ploughman phrase 'GOD send you speed,' Still daily to grow wiser;

And may ye better reck the rede,

Than ever did th' Adviser!

ON A SCOTCH BARD GONE TO THE

WEST INDIES.

[Whatever were the poet's feelings at this period, in reference to the hostility of the Armour family, he certainly made no secret of his intentions to go abroad. On July 17th, 1786, within a fortnight of the publication of his Book, he wrote thus to a friend: "I am now fixed to go to the West Indies in October, I have already appeared publicly in church, and was indulged in the liberty of standing in my own seat: do this to get a certificate as a bachelor, which Mr. Auld has promised me. Jean and her friends insisted much that she should stand along with me in the Kirk; but the minister would not allow it. I am very much pleased, for all that, not to have had her company.'

The present humorous poem, therefore, must have been dashed off, about this time, to help the filling up of his volume. The heart of the poet had grown lighter under the excitement of preparing and superintending the printing of his poems, and the present Lament forms a striking contrast to that mournful poem so named which he had composed not three months before. He now makes a laugh at those calamities which then wrung his very soul, and perhaps, after all, his later frame of spirit is the more philosophic and wholesome of the two. The mock tenderness of the following verse is irresistable:

"He saw Misfortune's cauld Nor-west,

Lang mustering up a bitter blast;

A Jillet brak his heart at last,

Ill may she be!

So, took a birth afore the mast,

An' owre the Sea."]

A'YE wha live by sowps o' drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A' ye wha live and never think,

Come, mourn wi' me

Our billie's gien us a' a jink,*

An' owre the Sea.

Lament him a' ye rantan core,
Wha dearly like a random-splore;
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar,
In social key;

For now he's taen anither shore,

An' owre the Sea!

The bonie lasses weel may wiss him,
And in their dear petitions place him:
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him,
Wi' tearfu' e'e;

For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him
That's owre the Sea!

In the MS.-"Our billie Rob has taen a jink."