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There comes a ship to the lang toon,
To the lang, lang, toon;

But nane is there the sicht to see,
For a' are sleepin'-a' but me

An' the yellow mune,

My freen the mune.

This ship that comes to the lang toon,

To the lang, lang, toon,

Has

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o' siller an' sails o' crape,

An' the skipper, oh! he has an unco shape, An' a waefu' froon

I fear his froon!

When a' is still i' the lang toon,

I' the lang, lang, toon,

Its mast comes roon by the kelpie's rock, Whar e'en the sea-maws daurna flock. An' there is nae soun',

There's ne'er a soun'!

An' whiles there's ane frae the lang toon,
Frae the lang, lang, toon;

An' whiles there's ane, an' whiles there twa
That gangs aboard, an' the ship's awa'!

For the wark is dune,

It's oure an' dune.

When mornin' comes i the lang toon,

I' the lang, lang, toon,

There's some that's greetin' for them that's gane

Whar I can tell, an' I alane,

An' the yellow mune,

My freen the mune.

NIMMO CHRISTIE.

CARLYLE ON BURNS.

BY JOHN MUIR, F.S.A. SCOT.,

Author of "Thomas Carlyle's Apprenticeship," "Jacobite Minstrelsy of Burns,” &c.

OWARDS the close of last century, Ecclefechan presented an appearance differing little from its aspect to-day. Lying in a hollow surrounded by wooded slopes, it consisted of two rows of houses of a plain, unornamental character, which were annually Down one side of this

whitewashed in honour of the village fair. single street, at that period, ran an open brook, which has been immortalised in Sartor Resartus as "the little Kuhbach," but which is now, for sanitary reasons, built over. The street is irregularly formed—a circumstance due not only to the disposition of the houses, but also to the windings of the little stream which gushes kindly by, wimpling and gurgling on its way to join the Mein water at the foot of the town, before the Mein loses itself in the river Annan. On the west side of the burn the houses are of single and two stories almost alternately, presenting a peculiarly notched appearance, and when seen from a distance, resembling the battlements of an imposing fortress.

In this little village the poet Burns might frequently have been seen during the last years of his life, while acting temporarily as Supervisor during the illness of that official. He made at least two visits to Ecclefechan, a record of which has been preserved in print. One of these is recorded by an individual who was lying in the womb of Eternity at the time of the poet's first recorded visit; and the other, which took place in the early spring of the year prior to his death, has been recorded by Burns himself. On the day following his entry into Ecclefechan, he had the misfortune to be snowed up; and, to break the monotony of his enforced imprisonment in the village inn, he imbibed to an extent which has left perceptible traces of a suggestive nature on the orthography of the following letter-a strange mixture of humour, exaggeration, and unconscious ungratefulness:

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ECCLEFECHAN, February 7, 1795.

MY DEAR THOMSON,-You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which I write you. In the course of my duty as Supervisor (in which capacity I have acted of late), I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked little village. I would have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have impeded my progress. I have tried to " gae back the gate I cam' again," but the same obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner a scraper has been torturing cat-gut, in sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hand of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget my miseries; or to hang myself, to get rid of them; like a prudent man (a character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed), I, of two evils, have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at your service!

I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had not time then to tell you all I wanted to say; and, heaven knows, at present I have not capacity.

Do you know an air-I am sure you must know it-" We'll gang nae mair to yon town?" I think, in slowish time, it would make an excellent song. I am highly delighted with it; and if you should think it worthy of your attention, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would consecrate it; try it with this doggrel, until I give you a better. You will find a good set of it in Bowie's collection.

Chorus-O wat ye wha's in yon town,

Ye see the e'enin' sun upon;
The dearest maid's in yon town
That e'enin' sun is shinin' on.

O sweet to me yon spreading tree,
Where Jeanie wanders aft her lane;
The hawthorn flower that shades her bower
O when shall I behold again?

O wat ye wha's, &c.

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night.

R. B.

P.S.-As I am likely to be storm-staid here to-morrow, if I am in the humour you shall have a long letter from me.

R. B.

It is a curious circumstance that the sin of intemperance should have been associated with Ecclefechan in the poet's mind. In one of his unpublishable songs he thus refers to it:

Then up we raise, and took the road,

And in by Ecclefechan,

Where the brandy-stoup we gar'd it clink,
And strang beer ream the quick in.

Burns next morning did not apparently find himself in the humour for literary exertion (how could he, if the above account is to be trusted?), as no other communication from him bearing the Ecclefechan post-mark ever reached Mr. Thomson, who used to boast in after years that all the letters and songs which he had received from the poet were in his possession, and that he would not part with them for love or money.

Our readers, knowing the poet's unreserve, will not, we think, be disposed to accept the above statements as a circumstantial account of the conditions under which the letter was written. Could any man, in the situation described by Burns, have written such a letter? We opine not. Neither could a tipsy man have composed the lines in honour of Chloris, a sample of which is given in the letter just quoted. All the same, it is to be regretted that our poet so far forgot himself as to call sweet Ecclefechan by the uncomplimentary epithets he has used in describing that now famous village. Little did he dream, in his Barleycornian humour, of the destinies of Ecclefechan infants, one of whom, named Thomas Carlyle, born on the 4th of December of the very year of Burns' unlucky visit, was afterwards to be known to the world as the most sympathetic interpreter of his life and writings.

Ecclefechan, even in Burns' time, as the poet must have known in his sober moments, was by no means so contemptible as he would have us suppose. No less than four individuals, whose names and deeds have been rescued from oblivion, and who accompanied Burns part of the way in his all too brief earthly pilgrimage, were born in or near Ecclefechan, namely, Janet Little, the Scotch Milkmaid, who corresponded with, and addressed several poems to, Burns; and William Nicol (" Willie brewed a peck o' maut "). But it is chiefly as having been the birth-place of Dr. James Currie, of Liverpool, the amiable editor of Burns' works, and the most effective friend of the poet's family, that Ecclefechan interests admirers of Burns. Its crowning glory is, however, that it was there Thomas Carlyle was born, and lies buried beside the dust of his kindred in the quiet little churchyard.

Nor was Ecclefechan and the Carlyles without their influence on Burns' muse. A real or imaginary damsel of that ilk, named "Lucky Laing," was the heroine of a little anonymous song first published in Johnson's Musical Museum, but now considered by the majority of competent critics to be from the pen of Burns. After our poet's description of the village, the reader will perhaps be prepared not to expect too much in the matter of minstrelsy; for what "wicked little village" could be otherwise than disappointing in respect of its bonnie lasses? Here is the song:

Gat ye me, O gat ye me,

O gat ye me wi' naething?
Rock and reel, and spinning-wheel,
A mickle quarter basin :
Bye attour, my gutcher has

A high house and a laigh ane,

A' forbye my bonnie sel',

The toss of Ecclefechan.

O haud yer tongue now, Luckie Laing,
O haud yer tongue and jammer;
I held the gate till you I met,
Syne I began to wander:

I tint my whistle and my sang,

I tint my peace and pleasure;

But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing,

Wad airt me to my treasure.

This little song, says a critic, although not of the highest order, is dramatically perfect, both in style and humour. The majority of our readers, however, may not quite appreciate the dialogue. In the first stanza, "Lucky Laing," who boasts to her husband scornfully of her wealth and personal attractions, is the speaker. In the second stanza the disconsolate husband replies, and intimates that her demise would enable him to marry again more according to his own inclination.

In the last verse of the song, There grows a bonnie brier-bush, the hero is made to ask :

Will ye go to the dancin' in Carlyle's ha'?

Will ye go to the dancin' in Carlyle's ha'?

Whare Sandy and Nancy I'm sure will ding them a'!

I winna gang to the dance in Carlyle's ha'.

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