{
  "schema": "tga.work.v1",
  "identifier": "dresden:vol-3:robert-burns",
  "slug": "robert-burns",
  "title": "Robert Burns",
  "subtitle": "The peasant poet of Scotland.",
  "excerpt": "A warm tribute to Robert Burns — peasant poet of Scotland, enemy of Calvinism, prophet of a tender, humane, democratic humanity.",
  "year": 1878,
  "volume": 3,
  "category": "Tribute",
  "author": {
    "name": "Robert G. Ingersoll",
    "wikidata": "Q360326",
    "viaf": "44331023"
  },
  "isPartOf": {
    "title": "The Works of Robert G. Ingersoll",
    "edition": "Dresden Edition",
    "publisher": "C. P. Farrell",
    "year": 1900
  },
  "license": "https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/",
  "url": "https://thegreatagnostic.com/works/robert-burns/",
  "wordCount": 8622,
  "body": "A facsimile of the original manuscript as written by Colonel Ingersoll\nin the Burns' cottage at Ayr, August 19, 1878.\n\n[Illustration: Burn's Manuscript]\n\nWe have met to-night to honor the memory of a poet—possibly the next to\nthe greatest that has ever written in our language. I would place one\nabove him, and only one—Shakespeare.\n\nIt may be well enough at the beginning to inquire, What is a poet? What\nis poetry?\n\nEvery one has some idea of the poetic, and this idea is born of his\nexperience—of his education—of his surroundings.\n\nThere have been more nations than poets.\n\nMany people suppose that poetry is a kind of art depending upon certain\nrules, and that it is only necessary to find out these rules to be a\npoet. But these rules have never been found. The great poet follows them\nunconsciously. The great poet seems as unconscious as Nature, and the\nproduct of the highest art seems to have been felt instead of thought.\n\nThe finest definition perhaps that has been given is this:\n\n\"As nature unconsciously produces that which appears to be the result\nof consciousness, so the greatest artist consciously produces that which\nappears the unconscious result.\"\n\nPoetry must rest on the experience of men—the history of heart and\nbrain. It must sit by the fireside of the heart. It must have to do with\nthis world, with the place in which we live, with the men and women we\nknow, with their loves, their hopes, their fears and their joys.\n\nAfter all, we care nothing about gods and goddesses, or folks with\nwings.\n\nThe cloud-compelling Jupiters, the ox-eyed Junos, the feather-heeled\nMercurys, or the Minervas that leaped full-armed from the thick skull of\nsome imaginary god, are nothing to us. We know nothing of their fears or\nloves, and for that reason, the poetry that deals with them, no matter\nhow ingenious it may be, can never touch the human heart.\n\nI was taught that Milton was a wonderful poet, and above all others\nsublime. I have read Milton once. Few have read him twice.\n\nWith splendid words, with magnificent mythological imagery, he musters\nthe heavenly militia—puts epaulets on the shoulders of God, and\ndescribes the Devil as an artillery officer of the highest rank.\n\nThen he describes the battles in which immortals undertake the\nimpossible task of killing each other.\n\nTake this line:\n    \"Flying with indefatigable wings over the vast abrupt.\"\n\nThis is called sublime, but what does it mean?\n\nWe have been taught that Dante was a wonderful poet.\n\nHe described with infinite minuteness the pangs and agonies endured by\nthe damned in the torture—dungeons of God.\n\nThe vicious twins of superstition—malignity and solemnity—struggle for\nthe mastery in his revengeful lines.\n\nBut there was one good thing about Dante: he had the courage, and what\nmight be called the religious democracy, to see a pope in hell.\n\nThat is something to be thankful for.\n\nSo, the sonnets of Petrarch are as unmeaning as the promises of\ncandidates. They are filled not with genuine passion, but with the\nfeelings that lovers are supposed to have.\n\nPoetry cannot be written by rule; it is nota trade, or a profession. Let\nthe critics lay down the laws, and the true poet will violate them all.\n\nBy rule you can make skeletons, but you cannot clothe them with flesh,\nput blood in their veins, thoughts in their eyes, and passions in their\nhearts.\n\nThis can be done only by following the impulses of the heart, the winged\nfancies of the brain—by wandering from paths and roads, keeping step\nwith the rhythmic ebb and flow of the throbbing blood.\n\nIn the olden time in Scotland, most of the so-called poetry was written\nby pedagogues and parsons—gentlemen who found out what little they knew\nof the living world by reading the dead languages—by studying epitaphs\nin the cemeteries of literature.\n\nThey knew nothing of any life that they thought poetic. They kept as far\nfrom the common people as they could. They wrote countless verses, but\nno poems. They tried to put metaphysics, that is to say, Calvinism, in\npoetry.\n\nAs a matter of fact, a Calvinist cannot be a poet. Calvinism takes all\nthe poetry out of the world.\n\nIf the existence of the Calvinistic, the Christian, hell could be\ndemonstrated, another poem never could be written. .\n\nIn those days they made poetry about geography, and the beauties of the\nScotch Kirk, and even about law.\n\nThe critics have always been looking for mistakes, not beauties—not for\nthe perfection of expression and feeling. They would object to the lark\nand nightingale because they do not sing by note—to the clouds because\nthey are not square.\n\nAt one time it was thought that scenery, the grand in nature, made the\npoet. We now know that the poet makes the scenery. Holland has produced\nfar more genius than the Alps. Where nature is prodigal—where the crags\ntower above the clouds—man is overcome, or overawed. In England\nand Scotland the hills are low, and there is nothing in the scenery\ncalculated to rouse poetic blood, and yet these countries have produced\nthe greatest literature of all time.\n\nThe truth is that poets and heroes make the scenery. The place where\nman has died for man is grander than all the snow-crowned summits of the\nworld.\n\nA poem is something like a mountain stream that flashes in light, then\nlost in shadow, leaps with a kind of wild joy into the abyss, emerges\nvictorious, and winding runs amid meadows, lingers in quiet places,\nholding within its breast the hills and vales and clouds—then running\nby the cottage door, babbling of joy, and murmuring delight, then\nsweeping on to join its old mother, the sea.\n\nThousands, millions of men live poems, but do not write them; but every\ngreat poem has been lived.\n\nI say to-night that every good and self-denying man, every one who lives\nand labors for those he loves, for wife and child, is living a poem. The\nloving mother rocking a cradle, singing the slumber song, lives a poem\npure and tender as the dawn; the man who bares his breast to shot and\nshell lives a poem, and all the great men of the world, and all the\nbrave and loving women have been poets in action, whether they have\nwritten one word or not. The poor woman of the tenement, sewing, blinded\nby tears, lives a poem holier, it may be, than the fortunate can know.\nThe pioneers—the home builders, the heroes of toil, are all poets, and\ntheir deeds are filled with the pathos and perfection of the highest\nart.\n\nBut to-night we are going to talk of a poet—one who poured out his soul\nin song. How does a country become great? By producing great poets. Why\nis it that Scotland, when the roll of nations is called, can stand up\nand proudly answer \"here\"? Because Robert Burns has lived. It is Robert\nBurns that put Scotland in the front rank.\n\nOn the 25th of January, 1759, Robert Burns was born. William Burns,\na gardener, his father; Agnes Brown, his mother. He was born near the\nlittle town of Ayr, in a little cottage made of mud and thatched\nwith straw. From the first, poverty was his portion,—\"Poverty, the\nhalf-sister of Death.\" The father struggled as best he could, but at\nlast overcome more by misfortunes than by disease, died in 1784, at the\nage of 63. Robert attended school at Alloway Mill, and had been taught\na little by John Murdock, and some by his father. That was his\neducation—with this exception, that whenever nature produces a genius,\nthe old mother holds him close to her heart and whispers secrets to his\nears that others do not know.\n\nHe had spent most of his time working on a farm, raising very poor\ncrops, getting deeper and deeper into debt, until finally the death of\nhis father left him to struggle as best he might for himself.\n\nIn the year 1759, Scotland was emerging from the darkness and gloom of\nCalvinism. The attention of the people had been drawn from the other\nworld, or rather from the other worlds, to the affairs of this. The\ncommercial spirit, the interests of trade, were winning men from the\ndiscussion of predestination and the sacred decrees of God. Mechanics\nand manufacturers were undermining theology. The influence of the clergy\nwas gradually diminishing, and the beggarly elements of this life were\nbeginning to attract the attention of the Scotch. The people at that\ntime were mostly poor. They had made but little progress in art and\nscience. They had been engaged for many years fighting for their\npolitical or theological rights, or to destroy the rights of others.\nThey had great energy, great natural sense, and courage without limit,\nand it may be well enough to add that they were as obstinate as brave.\n\nSeveral countries have had a metaphysical peasantry. It is true of parts\nof Switzerland about the time of Calvin. In Holland, after the people\nhad suffered all the cruelties that Spain could inflict, they began to\ndiscuss as to foreordination and free will, and upon these questions\ndestroyed each other. The same is true of New England, and peculiarly\ntrue of Scotland—a metaphysical peasantry—men who lived in mud houses\nthatched with straw and discussed the motives of God and the means by\nwhich the Infinite Being was to accomplish his ends.\n\nFor many years the Scotch had been ruled by the clergy. The power of\nthe Scotch preacher was unlimited. It so happened that the religion of\nScotland became synonymous with patriotism, and those who were fighting\nScotland were also fighting her religion. This drew priest and people\ntogether; and the priest naturally took advantage of the situation. They\nnot only determined upon the policy to be pursued by the people, but\nthey went into every detail of life. And in this world there has\nnever been established a more odious tyranny or a more odious form of\ngovernment than that of the Scotch Kirk.\n\nA few men had made themselves famous—David Hume, Adam Smith, Doctor\nHugh Blair, he of the grave, Beattie and Ramsay, Reid and Robertson—but\nthe great body of the people were orthodox to the last drop of their\nblood. Nothing seemed to please them like attending church, like hearing\nsermons. Before Communion Sabbath they frequently met on Friday, having\ntwo or three sermons on that day, three or four on Saturday, more if\npossible on Sunday, and wound up with a kind of gospel spree on Monday.\nThey loved it. I think it was Heinrich Heine who said, \"It is not true,\nit is not true that the damned in hell are compelled to hear all the\nsermons preached on earth.\" He says this is not true. This shows that\nthere is some mercy even in hell. They were infinitely interested in\nthese questions.\n\nAnd yet, the people were social, fond of games, of outdoor sports,\nfull of song and story, and no folks ever passed the cup with a happier\nsmile.\n\nSometimes I have thought that they were saved from the gloom of\nCalvinism by the use of intoxicating liquors. It may be that John\nBarleycorn redeemed the Scotch and saved them from the divine dyspepsia\nof the Calvinistic creed. So, too, it may be that the Puritan was saved\nby rum, and the Hollander by schnapps. Yet, in spite of the gloom of\nthe creed, in spite of the climate of mists and fogs, and the maniac\nwinters, the songs of Scotland are the sweetest and the tenderest in all\nthe world.\n\nRobert Burns was a peasant—a ploughman—a poet. Why is it that millions\nand millions of men and women love this man? He was a Scotchman, and all\nthe tendrils of his heart struck deep in Scotland's soil. He voiced the\nideals of the best and greatest of his race and blood. And yet he is\nas dear to the citizens of this great Republic as to Scotia's sons and\ndaughters.\n\nAll great poetry has a national flavor. It tastes of the soil. No matter\nhow great it is, how wide, how universal, the flavor of locality is\nnever lost. Burns made common life beautiful. He idealized the sun-burnt\ngirls who worked in the fields. He put honest labor above titled\nidleness. He made a cottage far more poetic than a palace. He painted\nthe simple joys and ecstasies and raptures of sincere love. He put\nnative sense above the polish of schools.\n\nWe love him because he was independent, sturdy, self-poised, social,\ngenerous, susceptible, thrilled by a look, by a touch, full of pity,\ncarrying the sorrows of others in his heart, even those of\nanimals; hating to see anybody suffer, and lamenting the death of\neverything—even of trees and flowers. We love him because he was a\nnatural democrat, and hated tyranny in every form.\n\nWe love him because he was always on the side of the people, feeling the\nthrob of progress.\n\nBurns read but little, had but few books; had but a little of what\nis called education; had only an outline of history, a little of\nphilosophy, in its highest sense. His library consisted of the _Life of\nHannibal, the History of Wallace, Ray's Wisdom of God_, Stackhouse's\nHistory of the Bible; two or three plays of Shakespeare, Ferguson's\nScottish Poems, Pope's Homer, Shenstone, McKenzie's Man of Feeling\nand Ossian.\n\nBurns was a man of genius. He was like a spring—something that suggests\nno labor.\n\nA spring seems to be a perpetual free gift of nature. There is no\nthought of toil. The water comes whispering to the pebbles without\neffort. There is no machinery, no pipes, no pumps, no engines, no\nwater-works, nothing that suggests expense or trouble. So a natural\npoet is, when compared with the educated, with the polished, with the\nindustrious.\n\nBurns seems to have done everything without effort. His poems wrote\nthemselves. He was overflowing with sympathies, with suggestions, with\nideas, in every possible direction. There is no midnight oil. There is\nnothing of the student—no suggestion of their having been re-written\nor re-cast. There is in his heart a poetic April and May, and all the\npoetic seeds burst into sudden life. In a moment the seed is a plant,\nand the plant is in blossom, and the fruit is given to the world.\n\nHe looks at everything from a natural point of view; and he writes of\nthe men and women with whom he was acquainted. He cares nothing for\nmythology, nothing for the legends of the Greeks and Romans. He draws\nbut little from history. Everything that he uses is within his reach,\nand he knows it from centre to circumference. All his figures and\ncomparisons are perfectly natural. He does not endeavor to make angels\nof fine ladies.\n\nHe takes the servant girls with whom he is acquainted, the dairy\nmaids that he knows. He puts wings upon them and makes the very angels\nenvious.\n\nAnd yet this man, so natural, keeping his cheek so close to the\nbreast of nature, strangely enough thought that Pope and Churchill and\nShenstone and Thomson and Lyttelton and Beattie were great poets.\n\nHis first poem was addressed to Nellie Kilpatrick, daughter of the\nblacksmith. He was in love with Ellison Begbie, offered her his heart\nand was refused. She was a servant, working in a family and living on\nthe banks of the Cessnock. Jean Armour, his wife, was the daughter of a\ntailor, and Highland Mary, a servant—a milk-maid.\n\nHe did not make women of goddesses, but he made goddesses of women.\n\nPoet of Love\n\nBurns was the poet of love. To him woman was divine. In the light of\nher eyes he stood transfigured. Love changed this peasant to a king;\nthe plaid became a robe of purple; the ploughman became a poet; the poor\nlaborer an inspired lover.\n\nIn his \"Vision\" his native Muse tells the story of his verse:\n    \"When youthful Love, warm-blushing strong,\n    Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along,\n    Those accents, grateful to thy tongue,\n    Th' adored Name,\n    I taught thee how to pour in song,\n    To soothe thy flame.\"\n\nAh, this light from heaven: how it has purified the heart of man!\n\nWas there ever a sweeter song than \"Bonnie Doon\"?\n    \"Thou'lt break my heart thou bonnie bird\n    That sings beside thy mate,\n    For sae I sat and sae I sang,\n    And wist na o' my fate.\"\n\nor,\n    \"O, my luve's like a red, red rose\n    That's newly sprung in June;\n    O, my luve's like the melodie\n    That's sweetly play'd in tune.\"\n\nIt would consume days to give the intense and tender lines—lines wet\nwith the heart's blood, lines that throb and sigh and weep, lines that\nglow like flames, lines that seem to clasp and kiss.\n\nBut the most perfect love-poem that I know—pure the tear of\ngratitude—is \"To Mary in Heaven:\"\n    \"Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray,\n    That lov'st to greet the early morn,\n    Again thou usher'st in the day\n    My Mary from my soul was torn.\n    O Mary! dear departed shade!\n    Where is thy place of blissful rest?\n    Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?\n    Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?\n    \"That sacred hour can I forget?\n    Can I forget the hallow'd grove\n    Where, by the winding Ayr, we met,\n    To live one day of parting love?\n    Eternity will not efface\n    Those records dear of transports past;\n    Thy image at our last embrace;\n    Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!\n    \"Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore,\n    O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green;\n    The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,\n    Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene.\n    The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,\n    The birds sang love on ev'ry spray,\n    Till too, too soon, the glowing west\n    Proclaim'd the speed of wingèd day.\n    \"Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,\n    And fondly broods with miser care!\n    Time but the impression stronger makes,\n    As streams their channels deeper wear.\n    My Mary, dear departed shade!\n    Where is thy blissful place of rest?\n    Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?\n    Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?\"\n\nAbove all the daughters of luxury and wealth, above all of Scotland's\nqueens rises this pure and gentle girl made deathless by the love of\nRobert Burns.\n\nPoet of Home\n\nHe was the poet of the home—of father, mother, child—of the purest\nwedded love.\n\nIn the \"Cotter's Saturday Night,\" one of the noblest and sweetest poems\nin the literature of the world, is a description of the poor cotter\ngoing from his labor to his home:\n    \"At length his lonely cot appears in view,\n    Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;\n    Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher through\n    To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee.\n    His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnilie,\n    His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,\n    The lisping infant prattling on his knee,\n    Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,\n    And makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil.\"\n\nAnd in the same poem, after having described the courtship, Burns bursts\ninto this perfect flower:\n    \"O happy love! where love like this is found!\n    O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!\n    I've pacèd much this weary, mortal round,\n    And sage experience bids me this declare:\n    If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare\n    One cordial in this melancholy vale,\n    'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,\n    In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale\n    Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.\"\n\nIs there in the world a more beautiful—a more touching picture than the\nold couple sitting by the ingleside with clasped hands, and the pure,\npatient, loving old wife saying to the white-haired man who won her\nheart when the world was young:\n    \"John Anderson, my jo, John,\n    When we were first acquent;\n    Your locks were like the raven,\n    Your bonnie brow was brent;\n    But now your brow is beld, John,\n    Your locks are like the snaw;\n    But blessings on your frosty pow,\n    John Anderson, my jo.\n    \"John Anderson, my jo, John,\n    We clamb the hill thegither;\n    And monie a canty day, John,\n    We've had wi' ane anither;\n    Now we maun totter down, John,\n    But hand in hand we'll go,\n    And sleep thegither at the foot,\n    John Anderson, my jo.\"\n\nBurns taught that the love of wife and children was the highest—that to\ntoil for them was the noblest.\n    \"The sacred lowe o' weel placed love,\n    Luxuriantly indulge it;\n    But never tempt the illicit rove,\n    Though naething should divulge it.\"\n    \"I waine the quantum of the sin,\n    The hazzard o'concealing;\n    But och! it hardens all within,\n    And petrifies the feeling.\"\n    \"To make a happy fireside clime\n    To weans and wife,\n    That's the true pathos, and sublime,\n    Of human life.\"\n\nFriendship\n\nHe was the poet of friendship:\n    \"Should auld acquaintance be forgot,\n    And never brought to min'?\n    Should auld acquaintance be forgot,\n    And days o' auld lang syne?\"\n\nWherever those who speak the English language assemble—wherever the\nAnglo-Saxon people meet with clasp and smile—these words are given to\nthe air.\n\nScotch Drink\n\nThe poet of good Scotch drink, of merry meetings, of the cup that\ncheers, author of the best drinking song in the world:\n    \"O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,\n    And Rob and Allen came to see;\n    Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,\n    Ye wadna find in Christendie.\n    Chorus.\n    \"We are na fou, we're no that fou,\n    But just a drappie in our ee;\n    The cock may craw, the day may daw,\n    And aye we'll taste the barley bree.\n    \"Here are we met, three merry boys,\n    Three merry boys, I trow, are we;\n    And monie a night we've merry been,\n    And monie mae we hope to be!\n    We are na fou, &c.\n    \"It is the moon, I ken her horn,\n    That's blinkin in the lift say hie;\n    She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,\n    But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!\n    We are na fou, &c.\n    \"Wha first shall rise to gang awa,\n    A cuckold, coward loun is he!\n    Wha last beside his chair shall fa',\n    He is the King amang us three!\n    We are na fou, &c.\"\n\nPoets Born, Not Made\n\nHe did not think the poet could be made—that colleges could furnish\nfeeling, capacity, genius. He gave his opinion of these manufactured\nminstrels:\n    \"A set o' dull, conceited hashes,\n    Confuse their brains in college classes!\n    They gang in stirks, and come out asses,\n    Plain truth to speak;\n    An' syne they think to climb Parnassus\n    By dint o' Greek!\"\n    \"Gie me ane spark o' Nature's fire,\n    That's a' the learning I desire;\n    Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire\n    At pleugh or cart,\n    My Muse, though hamely in attire,\n    May touch the heart.\"\n\nBurns, the Artist\n\nHe was an artist—a painter of pictures.\n\nThis of the brook:\n    \"Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,\n    As thro' the glen it wimpl't;\n    Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays;\n    Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't;\n    Whyles glitter's to the nightly rays,\n    Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle;\n    Whyles cookit underneath the braes,\n    Below the spreading hazel,\n    Unseen that night.\"\n\nOr this from Tam O'Shanter:\n    \"But pleasures are like poppies spread,\n    You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed,\n    Or, like the snow falls in the river,\n    A moment white—then melts forever;\n    Or, like the borealis race,\n    That flit ere you can point their place;\n    Or, like the rainbow's lovely form,\n    Evanishing amid the storm.\"\n\nThis:\n    \"As in the bosom of the stream\n    The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en;\n    So, trembling, pure, was tender love,\n    Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.\"\n    \"The sun had clos'd the winter day,\n    The Curlers quat their roarin play,\n    An' hunger's Maukin ta'en her way\n    To kail-yards green,\n    While faithless snaws ilk step betray\n    Whare she had been.\"\n    \"O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods,\n    When lintwhites chant amang the buds,\n    And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids,\n    Their loves enjoy,\n    While thro' the braes the cushat croons\n    Wi' wailfu' cry!\"\n    \"Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me\n    When winds rave thro' the naked tree;\n    Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree\n    Are hoary gray;\n    Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,\n    Dark'ning the day!\"\n\nThis of the lark and daisy—the daintiest and nearest perfect in our\nlanguage:\n    \"Alas! it's no' thy neebor sweet,\n    The bonnie Lark, companion meet!\n    Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!\n    Wi' spreckl'd breast,\n    When upward-springing, blythe, to greet\n    The purpling east.\"\n\nA Real Democrat\n\nHe was in every fibre of his being a sincere democrat. He was a believer\nin the people—in the sacred rights of man. He believed that honest\npeasants were superior to titled parasites. He knew the so-called\n\"gentrv\" of his time.\n\nIn one of his letters to Dr. Moore is this passage: \"It takes a few\ndashes into the world to give the young great man that proper, decent,\nunnoticing disregard for the poor, insignificant, stupid devils—the\nmechanics and peasantry around him—who were born in the same village.\"\n\nHe knew the infinitely cruel spirit of caste—a spirit that despises the\nuseful—the children of toil—those who bear the burdens of the world.\n    \"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,\n    By nature's law design'd,\n    Why was an independent wish\n    E'er planted in my mind?\n    If not, why am I subject to .\n    His cruelty, or scorn?\n    Or why has man the will and pow'r\n    To make his fellow mourn?\"\n\nAgainst the political injustice of his time—against the artificial\ndistinctions among men by which the lowest were regarded as the\nhighest—he protested in the great poem, \"A man's a man for a' that,\"\nevery line of which came like lava from his heart.\n    \"Is there, for honest poverty,\n    That hangs his head, and a' that?\n    The coward-slave, we pass him by,\n    We dare be poor for a' that!\n    For a' that, and a' that,\n    Our toils obscure, and a' that;\n    The rank is but the guinea stamp;\n    The man's the gowd for a' that.\"\n    \"What tho' on hamely fare we dine,\n    Wear hodden-gray, and a' that;\n    Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,\n    A man's a man for a' that.\n    For a' that, and a' that,\n    Their tinsel show, and a' that;\n    The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,\n    Is king o' men for a' that.\"\n    \"Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,\n    Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;\n    Tho' hundreds worship at his word,\n    He's but a coof for a' that;\n    For a' that, and a' that,\n    His riband, star, and a' that,\n    The man' o' independent mind,\n    He looks and laughs at a' that.\"\n    \"A prince can mak' a belted knight,\n    A marquis, duke, and a' that;\n    But an honest man's aboon his might,\n    Guid faith he mauna fa' that!\n    For a' that, and a' that,\n    Their dignities, and a' that,\n    The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,\n    Are higher ranks than a' that.\n    \"Then let us pray that come it may,\n    As come it will for a' that;\n    That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,\n    May bear the gree and a' that.\n    For a' that, and a' that;\n    It's cornin' yet for a' that\n    That man to man, the warld o'er,\n    Shall brithers be for a' that.\"\n\nNo grander declaration of independence was ever uttered. It stirs\nthe blood like a declaration of war. It is the apotheosis of honesty,\nindependence, sense and worth. And it is a prophecy of that better day\nwhen men will be brothers the world over.\n\nHis Theology\n\nBurns was superior in heart and brain to the theologians of his time.\nHe knew that the creed of Calvin was infinitely cruel and absurd, and he\nattacked it with every weapon that his brain could forge.\n\nHe was not awed by the clergy, and he cared nothing for what was called\n\"authority.\" He insisted on thinking for himself. Sometimes he faltered,\nand now and then, fearing that some friend might take offence, he would\nsay or write a word in favor of the Bible, and sometimes he praised the\nScriptures in words of scorn.\n\nHe laughed at the dogma of eternal pain—at hell as described by the\npreacher:\n    \"A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,\n    Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane,\n    Wha's ragin' flame an' scorchin' heat\n    Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!\n    The half asleep start up wi' fear,\n    An' think they hear it roarin',\n    When presently it does appear,\n    'Twas but some neebor snorin'.\n    Asleep that day.\"\n\nThe dear old doctrine that man is totally depraved, that morality is a\nsnare—a flowery path leading to perdition—excited the indignation of\nBurns. He put the doctrine in verse:\n    \"Morality, thou deadly bane,\n    Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain!\n    Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is\n    In moral mercy, truth and justice.\"\n    He understood the hypocrites of his day:\n    \"Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!\n    That holy robe, O dinna tear it!\n    Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it,\n    The lads in black;\n    But your curst wit, when it comes near it,\n    Rives't aff their back.\"\n    \"Then orthodoxy yet may prance,\n    And Learning in a woody dance,\n    And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,\n    That bites sae sair,\n    Be banish'd owre the seas to France;\n    Let him bark there.\"\n    \"They talk religion in their mouth;\n    They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,\n    For what? to gie their malice skouth On some puir wight,\n    An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth,\n    To ruin straight.\"\n    \"Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac,\n    Ye should stretch on a rack,\n    To strike evil doers wi' terror;\n    To join faith and sense Upon any pretence,\n    Was heretic damnable error,\n    Doctor Mac,\n    Was heretic damnable error.\"\n\nBut the greatest, the sharpest, the deadliest, the keenest, the wittiest\nthing ever said or written against Calvinism is Holy Willie's Prayer:—\n    \"O Thou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell,\n    Wha, as it pleases best thysel',\n    Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell,\n    A' for thy glory,\n    And no for onie guid or ill\n    They've done afore thee!\n    \"I bless and praise thy matchless might,\n    When thousands thou has left in night,\n    That I am here afore thy sight\n    For gifts an' grace,\n    A burnin' an' a shinin' light,\n    To a' this place.\n    \"What was I, or my generation,\n    That I should get sic exaltation?\n    I, wha deserve sic just damnation,\n    For broken laws,\n    Five thousand years 'fore my creation,\n    Thro' Adam's cause?\n    \"When frae my mither's womb I fell,\n    Thou might hae plunged me into hell,\n    To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,\n    In burnin' lake,\n    Where damnèd devils roar and yell,\n    Chained to a stake.\n    \"Yet I am here a chosen sample,\n    To show Thy grace is great and ample;\n    I'm here a pillar in Thy temple,\n    Strong as a rock,\n    A guide, a buckler, an example\n    To a' Thy flock.\"\n\nIn this poem you will find the creed stated just as it is—with\nfairness and accuracy—and at the same time stated so perfectly that its\nabsurdity fills the mind with inextinguishable laughter.\n\nIn this poem Burns nailed Calvinism to the cross, put it on the rack,\nsubjected it to every instrument of torture, flayed it alive, burned it\nat the stake, and scattered its ashes to the winds.\n\nIn 1787 Burns wrote this curious letter to Miss Chalmers:\n\n\"I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and have got through the five\nbooks of Moses and half way in Joshua.\n\n\"It is really a glorious book.\"\n\nThis must have been written in the spirit of Voltaire.\n\nThink of Burns, with his loving, tender heart, half way in Joshua,\nstanding in blood to his knees, surrounded by the mangled bodies of old\nmen, women and babes, the swords of the victors dripping with innocent\nblood, shouting—\"This is really a glorious sight.\"\n\nA letter written on the seventh of March, 1788, contains the clearest,\nbroadest and most philosophical statement of the religion of Burns to be\nfound in his works:\n\n\"An honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the grave, the\nwhole man a piece of broken machinery, to moulder with the clods of the\nvalley—be it so; at least there is an end of pain and care, woes\nand wants. If that part of us called Mind does survive the apparent\ndestruction of the man, away with old-wife prejudices and tales!\n\n\"Every age and every nation has a different set of stories; and, as the\nmany are always weak, of consequence they have often, perhaps always,\nbeen deceived.\n\n\"A man conscious of having acted an honest part among his fellow\ncreatures, even granting that he may have been the sport at times of\npassions and instincts, he goes to a great Unknown Being, who could have\nhad no other end in giving him existence but to make him happy; who gave\nhim those passions and instincts and well knows their force.\n\n\"These, my worthy friend, are my ideas.\n\n\"It becomes a man of sense to think for himself, particularly in a case\nwhere all men are equally interested, and where, indeed, all men are\nequally in the dark.\"\n\n\"Religious nonsense is the most nonsensical nonsense.\"\n\n\"Why has a religious turn of mind always a tendency to narrow and harden\nthe heart?\"\n\n\"All my fears and cares are for this world.\"\n\nWe have grown tired of gods and goddesses in art. Milton's heavenly\nmilitia excites our laughter. Light-houses have driven sirens from the\ndangerous coasts. We have found that we do not depend on the imagination\nfor wonders—there are millions of miracles under our feet.\n\nNothing can be more marvelous than the common and everyday facts of\nlife. The phantoms have been cast aside. Men and women are enough for\nmen and women. In their lives is all the tragedy and all the comedy that\nthey can comprehend.\n\nThe painter no longer crowds his canvas with the winged and\nimpossible—he paints life as he sees it, people as he knows them, and\nin whom he is interested. \"The Angelus,\" the perfection of pathos, is\nnothing but two peasants bending their heads in thankfulness as they\nhear the solemn sound of the distant bell—two peasants, who have\nnothing to be thankful for—nothing but weariness and want, nothing but\nthe crusts that they soften with their tears—nothing. And yet as you\nlook at that picture you feel that they have something besides to be\nthankful for—that they have life, love, and hope—and so the distant\nbell makes music in their simple hearts.\n\nLet me give you the difference between culture and nature—between\neducated talent and real genius.\n\nA little while ago one of the great poets died. I was reading some of\nhis volumes and during the same period was reading a little from Robert\nBurns. And the difference between these two poets struck me forcibly.\n\nTennyson was a piece of rare china decorated by the highest art.\n\nBurns was made of honest, human clay, moulded by sympathy and love.\n\nTennyson dwelt in his fancy, for the most part, with kings and queens,\nwith lords and ladies, with knights and nobles.\n\nBurns lingered by the fireside of the poor and humble, in the thatched\ncottage of the peasant, with the imprisoned and despised. He loved men\nand women in spite of their titles, and without regard to the outward.\nThrough robes and rags he saw and loved the man.\n\nTennyson was touched by place and power, the insignia given by chance or\nbirth. As he grew old he grew narrower, lost interest in the race, and\ngave his heart to the class to which he had been lowered as a reward for\nmelodious flattery.\n\nBurns broadened and ripened with the flight of his few years. His\nsympathies widened and increased to the last.\n\nTennyson had the art born of intellectual taste, of the sense of mental\nproportion, knowing the color of adjectives and the gradations of\nemphasis. His pictures were born in his brain, exquisitely shaded by\ndetails, carefully wrought by painful and conscious art.\n\nBurns's brain was the servant of his heart. His melody was a rhythm\ntaught by love. He was touched by the miseries, the injustice, the agony\nof his time. While Tennyson wrote of the past—of kings long dead, of\nladies who had been dust for many centuries, Burns melted with his love\nthe walls of caste—the cruel walls that divide the rich and the poor.\n\nTennyson celebrated the birth of royal babes, the death of the titled\nuseless; gave wings to degraded dust, wearing the laurels given by those\nwho lived upon the toil of men whom they despised. Burns poured poems\nfrom his heart, filled with tears and sobs for the suffering poor; poems\nthat helped to break the chains of millions; poems that the enfranchised\nlove to repeat; poems that liberty loves to hear.\n\nTennyson was the poet of the past, of the twilight, of the sunset, of\ndecorous regret, of the vanished glories of barbarous times, of the\nage of chivalry in which great nobles clad in steel smote to death with\nbattle axe and sword the unarmed peasants of the field.\n\nBurns was the poet of the dawn, glad that the night was fading from\nthe east. He kept his face toward the sunrise, caring nothing for the\nmidnight of the past, but loved with all the depth and sincerity of his\nnature the few great souls—the lustrous stars—that darkness cannot\nquench.\n\nTennyson was surrounded with what gold can give, touched with the\nselfishness of wealth. He was educated at Oxford, and had what are\ncalled the advantages of his time, and in maturer years was somewhat\nswayed by the spirit of caste, by the descendants of the ancient\nPharisees, and at last became a lord.\n\nBurns had but little knowledge of the world. What he knew was taught\nhim by his sympathies. Being a genius, he absorbed the good and noble\nof which he heard or dreamed, and thus he happily outgrew the smaller\nthings with which he came in contact, and journeyed toward the\ngreat—the wider world, until he reached the end.\n\nTennyson was what is called religious. He believed in the divinity of\ndecorum, not falling on his face before the Eternal King, but bowing\ngracefully, as all lords should, while uttering thanks for favors partly\nundeserved, and thanks more fervid still for those to come.\n\nBurns had the deepest and the tenderest feelings in his heart. The\nwinding stream, the flowering shrub, the shady vale—these were trysting\nplaces where the real God met those he loved, and where his spirit\nprompted thoughts and words of thankfulness and praise, took from their\nhearts the dross of selfishness and hate, leaving the gold of love.\n\nIn the religion of Burns, form was nothing, creed was nothing, feeling\nwas everything. He had the religious climate of the soul, the April that\nreceives the seed, the June of blossom, and the month of harvest.\n\nBurns was a real poet of nature. He put fields and woods in his lines.\nThere were principles like oaks, and there were thoughts, hints and\nsuggestions as shy as violets beneath the withered leaves. There were\nthe warmth of home, the social virtues born of equal state, that touched\nthe heart and softened grief; that make breaches in the cruel walls of\npride; that make the rich and poor clasp hands and feel like comrades,\nwarm and true.\n\nThe house in which his spirit lived was not large. It enclosed only\nspace enough for common needs, built near the barren land of want; but\nthrough the open door the sunlight streamed, and from its windows all\nthe stars were seen, while in the garden grew the common flowers—the\nflowers that all the ages through have been the messengers of honest\nlove; and in the fields were heard the rustling corn, and reapers songs,\ntelling of well-requited toil; and there were trees whose branches rose\nand fell and swayed while birds filled all the air with music born of\njoy. He read with tear-filled eyes the human page, and found within his\nbreast the history of hearts.\n\nTennyson's imagination lived in a palace ample, wondrous fair, with dome\nand spire and galleries, where eyes of proud old pedigree grew dim with\ngazing at the portraits of the worthless dead; and there were parks\nand labyrinths of walks and ways and artificial lakes where sailed the\n\"double swans;\" and there were flowers from far-off lands with strange\nperfume, and men and women of the grander sort, telling of better days\nand nobler deeds than men in these poor times of commerce, trade and\ntoil have hearts to do; and, yet, from this fair dwelling—too vast,\ntoo finely wrought, to be a home—he uttered wondrous words, painting\npictures that will never fade, and told, with every aid of art, old\ntales of love and war, sometimes beguiling men of tears, enchanting all\nwith melody of speech, and sometimes rousing blood and planting seeds\nof high resolve and noble deeds; and sometimes thoughts were woven like\ntapestries in patterns beautiful, involved and strange, where dreams and\nfancies interlaced like tendrils of a vine, like harmonies that\nwander and return to catch the music of the central theme, yet cold as\ntraceries in frost wrought on glass by winter's subtle art.\n\nTennyson was ingenious—Burns ingenuous. One was exclusive, and in his\nexclusiveness a little disdain. The other pressed the world against his\nheart.\n\nTennyson touched art on many sides, dealing with vast poetic themes, and\nsatisfied in many ways the intellectual tastes of cultured men.\n\nTennyson is always perfectly self-possessed. He has poetic sympathy, but\nnot the fire and flame. No one thinks of him as having been excited, as\nbeing borne away by passion's storm. His pulse never rises. In artistic\ncalm, he turns, polishes, perfects, embroiders and beautifies. In him\nthere is nothing of the storm and chaos, nothing of the creative genius,\nno sea wrought to fury, filling the heavens with its shattered cry.\n\nBurns dwelt with simple things—with those that touch the heart; that\ntell of joy; that spring from labor done; that lift the burdens of\ndespair from fainting souls; that soften hearts until the pearls of pity\nfall from eyes unused to weep.\n\nTo illustrate his thought, he used the things he knew—the things\nfamiliar to the world—not caring for the vanished things—the legends\ntold by artful tongues to artless ears—but clinging to the common\nthings of life and love and death, adorning them with countless gems;\nand, over all, he placed the bow of hope.\n\nWith him the man was greater than the king, the woman than the queen.\nThe greatest were the noblest, and the noblest were those who loved\ntheir fellow-men the best, the ones who filled their lives with generous\ndeeds. Men admire Tennyson. Men love Robert Burns.\n\nHe was a believer in God, and had confidence that this God was sitting\nat the loom weaving with warp and woof of cause and effect, of fear\nand fancy, pain and hope, of dream and shadows, of despair and death,\nmingled with the light of love, the tapestries in which at last all\nsouls will see that all was perfect from the first. He believed or hoped\nthat the spirit of infinite goodness, soft as the autumn air, filled all\nof heaven's dome with love.\n\nSuch a religion is easy to understand when it includes all races through\nall times. It is consistent, if not with the highest thought, with the\ndeepest and the tenderest feelings of the heart.\n\nFrom Cradle to Coffin\n\nThere is no time to follow the steps of Burns from old Alloway, by the\nBonnie Doon in the clay-built hut, where the January wind blew hansel\nin on Robin—to Mt. Oliphant, with its cold and stingy soil, the hard\nfactor, whose letters made the children weep—working in the fields, or\ntired with \"The thresher's weary flinging tree,\" where he was thrilled,\nfor the first time with love's sweet pain that set his heart to music.\n\nTo Lochlea, still giving wings to thought—still working in the\nunproductive fields, Lochlea where his father died, and reached the rest\nthat life denied.\n\nTo Mossgiel, where Burns reached the top and summit of his art and wrote\nlike one enrapt, inspired. Here he met and loved and gave to immortality\nhis Highland Mary.\n\nTo Edinburgh and fame, and back to Mauchline to Jean Armour and honor,\nthe noblest deed of all his life.\n\nTo Ellisland, by the winding Nith.\n\nTo Dumfries, a poor exciseman, wearing out his heart in the disgusting\ndetails of degrading drudgery—suspected of treason because he\npreferred Washington to Pitt—because he sympathized with the French\nRevolution—because he was glad that the American colonies had become a\nfree nation.\n\nAt a banquet once, being asked to drink the health of Pitt, Burns said:\n\"I will give you a better toast—George Washington.\" A little while\nafter, when they wanted him to drink to the success of the English arms,\nBurns said: \"No; I will drink this: May their success equal the justice\nof their cause.\" He sent three or four little cannon to the French\nConvention, because he sympathized with the French Revolution, and\nbecause of these little things, his love of liberty, of freedom and\njustice, at Dumfries he was suspected of being a traitor, and, as a\nresult of these trivial things, as a result of that suspicion, Burns was\nobliged to join the Dumfries volunteers.\n\nHow pitiful that the author of \"Scots wha hae with Wallace bled,\" should\nbe thought an enemy of Scotland!\n\nPoor Burns! Old and broken before his time—surrounded by the walking\nlumps of Dumfries' clay!\n\nTo appease the anger of his fellow-citizens—to convince them that he\nwas a patriot, he actually joined the Dumfries volunteers,—bought his\nuniform on credit—amount about seven pounds—was unable to pay—was\nthreatened with arrest and a jail by Matthew Penn.\n\nThese threats embittered his last hours.\n\nA little while before his death, he said: \"Do not let that awkward\nsquad—the Dumfries volunteers—fire over my grave.\" We have a true\ninsight into what his feelings were. But they fired. They were bound to\nfire or die.\n\nThe last words uttered by Robert Burns were these: \"That damned\nscoundrel Matthew Penn.\"\n\nBurns had another art, the art of ending—of stopping at the right\nplace. Nothing is more difficult than this. It is hard to end a play—to\nget the right kind of roof on a house. Not one story-teller in a\nthousand knows just the spot where the rocket should explode. They go on\ntalking after the stick has fallen.\n\nBurns wrote short poems, and why? All great poems are short. There\ncannot be a long poem any more than there can be a long joke. I believe\nthe best example of an ending perfectly accomplished you will find in\nhis \"Vision.\"\n\nThere comes into his house, into that \"auld clay biggin,\" his muse, the\nspirit of a beautiful woman, and tells him what he can do, and what he\ncan't do, as a poet. He has a long talk with her and now the thing\nis how to get her out of the house. You may think that it is an easy\nthing. It is easy to get yourself into difficulty, but not to get out.\n\nI was struck with the beautiful manner in which Burns got that angel out\nof the house.\n\nNothing could be happier than the ending of the \"Vision\"—the\nleave-taking of the Muse:\n    \"And wear thou this, she solemn said,\n    And bound the holly round my head:\n    The polished leaves and berries red\n    Did rustling play;\n    And, like a passing thought she fled.\n    In light away.\"\n\nHow that man rose above all his fellows in death! Do you know, there is\nsomething wonderful in death. What a repose! What a piece of sculpture!\nThe common man dead looks royal; a genius dead, sublime.\n\nWhen a few years ago I visited all the places where Burns had been, from\nthe little house of clay with one room where he was born, to the little\nhouse with one room where he now sleeps, I thought of this. Yes, I\nvisited them all, all the places made immortal by his genius, the field\nwhere love first touched his heart, the field where he ploughed up the\nhome of the Mouse. I saw the cottage where Robert and Jean first lived\nas man and wife, and walked on \"the banks and braes of Bonnie Doon.\"\nAnd when I stood by his grave, I said: This man was a radical, a real\ngenuine man. This man believed in the dignity of labor, in the nobility\nof the useful. This man believed in human love, in making a heaven here,\nin judging men by their deeds instead of creeds and titles. This man\nbelieved in the liberty of the soul, of thought and speech. This man\nbelieved in the sacred rights of the individual; he sympathized with the\nsuffering and oppressed. This man had the genius to change suffering and\ntoil into song, to enrich poverty, to make a peasant feel like a prince\nof the blood, to fill the lives of the lowly with love and light. This\nman had the genius to make robes of glory out of squalid rags. This man\nhad the genius to make Cleopatras, and Sapphos and Helens out of the\nfreckled girls of the villages and fields—and he had the genius to make\nAuld Ayr, and Bonnie Doon, and Sweet Afton and the Winding Nith murmur\nthe name of Robert Burns forever.\n\nThis man left a legacy of glory to Scotland and the whole world; he\nenriched our language, and with a generous hand scattered the gems of\nthought. This man was the companion of poverty, and wept the tears of\ngrief, and yet he has caused millions to shed the happy tears of joy.\n\nHis heart blossomed in a thousand songs—songs for all times and all\nseasons—suited to every experience of the heart—songs for the dawn\nof love—for the glance and clasp and kiss of courtship—for \"favors\nsecret, sweet and precious\"—for the glow and flame, the ecstasy and\nrapture of wedded life—songs of parting and despair—songs of hope\nand simple joy—songs for the vanished days—songs for birth and\nburial—songs for wild war's deadly blast, and songs for gentle\npeace—songs for the dying and the dead—songs for labor and\ncontent—songs for the spinning wheel, the sickle and the plow—songs\nfor sunshine and for storm, for laughter and for tears—songs that will\nbe sung as long as language lives and passion sways the heart of man.\n\nAnd when I was at his birth-place, at that little clay house where he\nwas born, standing in that sacred place, I wrote these lines:\n    Though Scotland boasts a thousand names,\n    Of patriot, king and peer,\n    The noblest, grandest of them all,\n    Was loved and cradled here.\n    Here lived the gentle peasant-prince,\n    The loving cotter-king,\n    Compared with whom the greatest lord\n    Is but a titled thing.\n    'Tis but a cot roofed in with straw,\n    A hovel made of clay;\n    One door shuts out the snow and storm,\n    One window greets the day;\n    And yet I stand within this room,\n    And hold all thrones in scorn;\n    For here beneath this lowly thatch,\n    Love's sweetest bard was born.\n    Within this hallowed hut I feel\n    Like one who clasps a shrine,\n    When the glad lips at last have touched\n    The something deemed divine.\n    And here the world through all the years,\n    As long as day returns,\n    The tribute of its love and tears,\n    Will pay to Robert Burns.\n"
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