His first poem was addressed to Nellie Kilpatrick, daughter of the blacksmith. He was in love with Ellison Begbie, offered her his heart and was refused. She was a servant, working in a family and living on the banks of the Cessnock. Jean Armour, his wife, was the daughter of a tailor, and Highland Mary, a servant--a milk-maid.
He did not make women of goddesses, but he made goddesses of women.
POET OF LOVE.
Burns was the poet of love. To him woman was divine. In the light of her eyes he stood transfigured. Love changed this peasant to a king; the plaid became a robe of purple; the ploughman became a poet; the poor laborer an inspired lover.
In his "Vision" his native Muse tells the story of his verse:
"When youthful Love, warm-blushing strong, Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, Th' adored Name, I taught thee how to pour in song, To soothe thy flame."
Ah, this light from heaven: how it has purified the heart of man!
Was there ever a sweeter song than "Bonnie Doon"?
"Thou'lt break my heart thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate, For sae I sat and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate."
or,
"O, my luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June; O, my luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune."
It would consume days to give the intense and tender lines--lines wet with the heart's blood, lines that throb and sigh and weep, lines that glow like flames, lines that seem to clasp and kiss.
But the most perfect love-poem that I know--pure the tear of gratitude--is "To Mary in Heaven:"
"Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
"That sacred hour can I forget?
Can I forget the hallow'd grove Where, by the winding Ayr, we met, To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
"Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on ev'ry spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.
"Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!
Where is thy blissful place of rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?"
Above all the daughters of luxury and wealth, above all of Scotland's queens rises this pure and gentle girl made deathless by the love of Robert Burns.
POET OF HOME
He was the poet of the home--of father, mother, child--of the purest wedded love.
In the "Cotter's Saturday Night," one of the noblest and sweetest poems in the literature of the world, is a description of the poor cotter going from his labor to his home:
"At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher through To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, And makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil."
And in the same poem, after having described the courtship, Burns bursts into this perfect flower:
"O happy love! where love like this is found!
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare: If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale."
Is there in the world a more beautiful--a more touching picture than the old couple sitting by the ingleside with clasped hands, and the pure, patient, loving old wife saying to the white-haired man who won her heart when the world was young:
"John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.
"John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither; Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo."
Burns taught that the love of wife and children was the highest--that to toil for them was the noblest.
"The sacred lowe o' weel placed love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt the illicit rove, Though naething should divulge it."
"I waine the quantum of the sin, The hazzard o'concealing; But och! it hardens all within, And petrifies the feeling."
"To make a happy fireside clime To weans and wife, That's the true pathos, and sublime, Of human life."
FRIENDSHIP.
He was the poet of friendship:
"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' auld lang syne?"
Wherever those who speak the English language assemble--wherever the Anglo-Saxon people meet with clasp and smile--these words are given to the air.
SCOTCH DRINK.
The poet of good Scotch drink, of merry meetings, of the cup that cheers, author of the best drinking song in the world:
"O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, And Rob and Allen came to see; Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, Ye wadna find in Christendie.
Chorus.