away from his farm ("he had ten parishes to survey, covering a tract of fifty miles each way, and requiring him [frequently] to ride 200 miles a week"); it also so occupied his thoughts that poetic composition became impossible to him. But worse than all, it separated him from the affectionate domesticity of his home, and forced him to live much at inns and public houses, where every influence worked toward his moral and mental deterioration. To a man of inflexible character and unsociable disposition such a life might have proved harmless. But to Burns, whose infinite faculty of sympathy made him welcome to every heart, - high or low, rich or poor, young or old, man or woman, the life was ruinous. At the end of 1791 the farm at Ellisland was given up. He had lost all his capital. He had lost faith in himself as a business man. And he had lost faith, too, in himself as a man of prudent conduct; lost that "cautious self-control" which he had described as "wisdom's root"; lost, too, once more, his purity of heart, and experienced again, as he had in earlier days, the bitter truth of his own words:

"Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison the worst are those

By our own folly or our guilt brought on."

Burns' last years were spent at Dumfries. His sole means of livelihood was his income as exciseman, now about £60 a year. He lived poorly, but with all his faults he preserved his independence. He became no man's debtor. At his death it is said he owed not a penny. He had hoped to get a "collectorship," which would have given him £200 a year, and have made him

easy in mind and heart for life; and had he lived a year or two longer no doubt his hope would have been realized. But to other imprudences he now added that of taking an unnecessarily offensive part in party politics. The collectorship did not come to him. His life became more and more irregular; his friendships less and less respectable and honoring. But, towards the end, the clouds that had darkened his lowering sun were partly

broken and showed a silvery lining. Friends that had been alienated rallied round him again, and his conduct became steadier and more self-controlled. He was always punctilious in the discharge of his public duties; but now his personal duties were equally faithfully attended to. He carefully supervised his children's instruction, and spent his evenings assisting them in their lessons. He grew kinder and ever kinder to his wife,

and made his memory dear and venerable to her as long as life was spared her. He discharged his few debts, even to the "uttermost farthing." He began to realize in his own home that high ideal of domestic enjoyment which he himself some years before had drawn :

"To make a happy fireside clime

To weans and wife,

That's the true pathos and sublime
Of human life."

But, unfortunately, early frivolities and later follies of a graver kind had undermined his constitution; and when illnesses overtook him he had no strength to withstand them. In an interval of convalescence (July, 1796) he left Dumfries for a short visit to the seashore, in the hope of further recuperation. But instead of growing better, he rapidly grew worse. He returned home again, "the stamp of death on every feature." His mind, his poetic soul, were, however, as clear and as open to inspiration as ever. Some of his most beautiful lyrics were written in his last illness; as, for example, that one beginning,

"Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast

On yonder lea, on yonder lea,

My plaidie to the angry airt,1

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee".

which was written as a compliment to the young girl, the daughter of a friend, who was lovingly attending him. But on July 21, 1796, he sank into his last sleep. His little children were beside him as he passed away; 1 Stormy direction.

but his " Jean," "the lassie" he "lo'ed best," who gladly would have died instead of him, alas, through illness could not be with him even to say farewell.

The glory of Burns' poetry is in his songs.

Almost

all else that he has written, however excellent it may be, is but local or national. But his song-craft dealt with the passions of the universal human heart, and is therefore as universal as humanity itself. Love, distress, hope, fear, joy, grief, tenderness, regret, as phases of affection, never by any other poet were embodied in words of such tuneful melody, or were the subject of such varied and effective exposition. Burns' art, if art he had, as a lyric writer, was of that perfection of execution which concealed all art. His gift of lyric expression was nothing short of divine. His songs literally and absolutely sang themselves into being. Of course not all he wrote was of that superb quality of excellence which his best songs showed. He wrote much that was far below his own standard of perfection. But there is scarcely even a single song that he wrote in which his prayer was not abundantly answered:

"Gie me ae spark of Nature's fire,
That's a' the learning I desire;

Then tho' I drudge thro' dub' an' mire

At pleugh or cart,

My muse, tho' hamely in attire,

May touch the heart."

There is the secret of his power. His muse does "touch the heart"; touch it on every side; touch it to And it was because Burns knew that this

its depths.

1 Puddle.

song-craft of his was a divine gift that he would not sell it. Alas, he often used his gift unworthily; but when once he realized his mission, sell it he never did. The volumes of his poems published in his lifetime contained but few of his songs. The greater number of them were published (partly during his lifetime, but in greater part after his death) in two works, "The Scots Musical Museum," edited by James Johnson, and "The Melodies of Scotland," edited by George Thomson. Johnson and Thomson were two enthusiasts who were emulous of getting together complete anthologies of Scottish song; and Burns would not take a penny of pay from either of them, although he contributed to Johnson's collection over one hundred and eighty songs and to Thomson's over sixty. Not only did he supply original songs to these collections, but he also amended or rewrote many others, furnished notes and other illustrations for them, and otherwise put the whole vast store of his traditionary lore, and all his poetical and critical ability, at the disposal of their editors. All this he did "for poor auld Scotland's sake." He wished "nae higher praise." And well has Scotland honored his abiding faith in her forgiveness of his frailties and her recognition of his genius. Burns is enthroned in the hearts of Scotsmen everywhere. He is loved by the whole Scottish people as no other poet was ever loved by any people; for the love of Scotland for her poet is a passion, a love that forgives all and forgets all. And this great love has had its great reward. It has softened the national character, and made clear to the national conscience the deep meaning of that heartpiercing reproof; "He that is without sin among you