Letter from Robert Burns to Mrs Dunlop, 25 January 1790

Ellisland 25th Jan.ry 1790

It has been owing to unremitting hurry of business that I have
not written you, Madam, long ere now. - My health is greatly
better, and I now begin once more to share in satisfaction
and enjoyment with the rest of my fellow-creatures -

Many thanks, my much-esteemed Friend, for your
kind letters: only why will you make me run the risk
of being contemptible & mercenary in my own eyes?
When I pique myself on my independent spirit, I
hope it is neither Poetic licence nor Poetic rant; and
I am so flattered with the honour you have done me in making
me your Compeer in Friendship & Friendly Correspondence,
that I cannot without pain & a degree of mortification
be reminded of the real inequality between out situations. -

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear Madam,
in the good news of Anthony. - Not only your anxiety
about his fate, but esteem my own esteem for such
a Nobel, warm-hearted manly young fellow, in the
little snatch I had of his acquaintance, has interested me
deeply in his fortunes. -

Falconer, the poor unfortunate Author of the Shipwreck, that
glorious Poem which you so much admire, is no more. -
After weathering that dreadful, catastrophe he so feelingly
describes in his Poem, and after weathering many hard
gales of Fortune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora
frigate! I forget what part of Scotland had the honour of giving
him birth, but he was the son of obscurity & misfortune. -
He was one of these daring adventurous spirits which
old Caledonia beyond any other nation is remarkable
for producing. - Little does the fond Mother think
as she hangs delighted over the sweet little Leech at
he bosom, where the poor fellow may hereafter ^wander and
what may be his fate. - I remember a Stanza in an
old Scots Ballad which notwithstanding its rude simplicity
speaks feelingly to the heart. -

"Little did my Mother think,
"That day she cradled me,
"What Land I was to travel in,
"Or what death I should die!"

Old Scots Songs are, you know, a favourite study & pursuit of
mine, and now I am on that subject allow me to give
you two stanzas of another old simple Ballad which I am
 

sure will please you. - The catastrophe of the Piece is, a
poor ruined Female lamenting her fate. - She concludes
with this pathetic wish -

"O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd;
"O that my Mother had ne'er to me sung!
"O that my cradle it had never rock'd;
"But that I had died when I was young!

"O that the Grave it were my bed;
"My blankets were, my winding sheet;
"The clocks & the worms my bedfellows a' ;
"And O, sae sound as I would sleep! "

I do not remember in all my reading to have met with
any thing more truly the language of Misery than the
exclamation in the last line. - Misery is like Love;
to speak its language truly, the Author must have felt
it. -

I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little
Godson the smallpox. - They are rife in the country, & I
tremble for his fate. - By the way, I cannot help congratulating
you on his looks & spirit. - Every Person
who sees him acknowledges him to be the finest, handsomest
child they have ever seen. - I am myself

delighted with the manly swell of his little chest, and a
certain miniature dignity in the carriage of his head & the gla-
of his fine black eye, which promise the undaunted gallantry of an
Independant Mind. -

M.rs Dunlop of Dunlop
Dunlop- house
Stewarton

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids.-
I promise you Poetry until you are tired of it next time
I have the honour of assuring you how truly
I am,. Dear Madam, your obliged humble serv.t

R.B.