with Thomson. 'Alas!' he wrote in April, 'I
fear it will be long ere I tune my lyre again. I have only known
existence by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness, and counted
time by the repercussion of pain. I close my eyes in misery and open
them without hope.' Yet it was literally on his deathbed that he
composed the exquisite song, _O wert thou in the Cauld Blast_, in honour
of Jessie Lewars, who waited on him so faithfully. In June he wrote: 'I
begin to fear the worst. As to my individual self I am tranquil, and
would despise myself if I were not; but Burns's poor widow and half a
dozen of his dear little ones--helpless orphans!--there, I am weaker
than a woman's tear.'

From Brow, whither he had gone to try the effect of sea-bathing, he
wrote several letters all in the same strain, one to Cunningham; a
pathetic one to Mrs. Dunlop, regretting her continued silence; and
letters begging a temporary loan to James Burness, Montrose, and to
George Thomson, whom he had been supplying with songs without fee or
reward. Thomson at once forwarded the amount asked--five pounds! To his
wife, who had not been able to accompany him, he wrote: 'My dearest
love, I delayed writing until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing
was likely to produce. It would be injustice to deny it has eased my
pain.... I will see you on Sunday.'

During his stay at Brow he met again Mrs. Riddell, and she has left in a
letter her impression of his appearance at that time. 'The stamp of
death was imprinted on his features. He seemed already touching the
brink of eternity.... He spoke of his death with firmness as well as
feeling as an event likely to happen very soon.... He said he was well
aware that his death would occasion some noise, and that every scrap of
his writing would be revived against him, to the injury of his future
reputation.... The conversation was kept up with great evenness and
animation on his side. I had seldom seen his mind greater or more
collected.'

When he returned from Brow he was worse than when he went away, and
those who saw him tottering to his door knew that they had looked their
last on the poet. The question in Dumfries for a day or two was, 'How is
Burns now?' And the question was not long in being answered. He knew he
was dying, but neither his humour nor his wit left him. 'John,' he said
to one of his brother volunteers, 'don't let the awkward squad fire over
me.'

He lingered on for a day or two, his wif