Robert Burns | Page 5

this
description." The jealousy here noted, as extending even to his loves,
was one of the weakest points of the poet's character. Of the ditties of
that time, most of which have been preserved, the best specimen is My
Nannie, O. This song, and the one entitled Mary Morison render the
whole scenery and sentiment of those rural meetings in a manner at
once graphic and free from coarseness. Yet, truth to speak, it must be
said that those gloaming trysts, however they may touch the
imagination and lend themselves to song, do in reality lie at the root of
much that degrades the life and habits of the Scottish peasantry.
But those first three or four years at Lochlea, if not free from peril,
were still with the poet times of innocence. His brother Gilbert, in the
words of Chambers, "used to speak of his brother as at this period, to
himself, a more admirable being than at any other. He recalled with
delight the days when they had to go with one or two companions to
cut peats for the winter fuel, because Robert was sure to enliven their
toil with a rattling fire of witty remarks on men and things, mingled
with the expressions of a genial glowing heart, and the whole perfectly
free from the taint which he afterwards acquired from his contact with
the world. Not even in those volumes which afterwards charmed his
country from end to end, did Gilbert see his brother in so interesting a
light as in these conversations in the bog, with only two or three
noteless peasants for an audience."
While Gilbert acknowledges that his brother's love-makings were at
(p. 012) this time unceasing, he asserts that they were "governed by the
strictest rules of virtue and modesty, from which he never deviated till
he reached his twenty-third year." It was towards the close of his
twenty-second that there occurs the record of his first serious desire to

marry and settle in life. He had set his affections on a young woman
named Ellison Begbie, daughter of a small farmer, and at that time
servant in a family on Cessnock Water, about two miles from Lochlea.
She is said to have been not a beauty, but of unusual liveliness and
grace of mind. Long afterwards, when he had seen much of the world,
Burns spoke of this young woman as, of all those on whom he ever
fixed his fickle affections, the one most likely to have made a pleasant
partner for life. Four letters which he wrote to her are preserved, in
which he expresses the most pure and honourable feelings in language
which, if a little formal, is, for manliness and simplicity, a striking
contrast to the bombast of some of his later epistles. Songs, too, he
addressed to her--The Lass of Cessnock Banks, Bonnie Peggy Alison,
and Mary Morison. The two former are inconsiderable; the latter is one
of those pure and beautiful love-lyrics, in the manner of the old ballads,
which, as Hazlitt says, "take the deepest and most lasting hold on the
mind."
Yestreen, when to the trembling string, The dance gaed thro' the lighted
ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I
sigh'd, and said amang them a', "Ye are na Mary Morison."
Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, (p. 013) Wha for thy sake wad
gladly die; Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is
loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me
shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.
In these lines the lyric genius of Burns was for the first time undeniably
revealed.
But neither letters nor love-songs prevailed. The young woman, for
some reason untold, was deaf to his entreaties, and the rejection of this
his best affection fell on him with a malign influence, just as he was
setting his face to learn a trade which he hoped would enable him to
maintain a wife.
Irvine was at that time a centre of the flax-dressing art, and as Robert
and his brother raised flax on their farm, they hoped that if they could

dress as well as grow flax, they might thereby double their profits. As
he met with this heavy disappointment in love just as he was setting out
for Irvine, he went thither downhearted and depressed, at Midsummer,
1781. All who met him at that time were struck with his look of
melancholy, and his moody silence, from which he roused himself only
when in pleasant female society, or when he met with men of
intelligence. But