ady
told us, had become the spontaneous expression of his heart. It was his
natural speech. His thoughts appeared almost to demand poetry as their
proper vehicle of expression, and rhythmed into verse as inevitably as
in chemistry certain solutions solidify in crystals. Besides this, Burns
was conscious of his abilities. He had measured himself with his
fellows, and knew his superiority. More than likely he had been
measuring himself with the writers he had studied, and found himself not
inferior. The great misfortune of his life, as he confessed himself, was
never to have an aim. He had felt early some stirrings of ambition, but
they were like gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the walls of his cave.
Now, however, we have come to a period of his life when he certainly did
have an aim, but necessity compelled him to renounce it as soon as it
was recognised. It was not a question of ploughing or poetry. There was
no alternative. However insidiously inclination might whisper of poetry,
duty's voice called him to the fields, and that voice he determined to
obey. Reading farming books and calculating crops is not a likely road
to perfection in poetry. Yet, in spite of all noble resolution, the
voice of Poesy was sweet, and he could not shut his ears to it. He might
sing a song to himself, even though it were but to cheer him after the
labours of the day, and he sang of love in 'the genuine language of his
heart.'

'There's nought but care on every hand,
In every hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O?'

For song must come in spite of him. The caged lark sings, though its
field be but a withered sod, and the sky above it a square foot of green
baize. Nor was his commonplace book neglected; and in August we come
upon an entry which shows that poetical aspirations were again
possessing him; this time not to be cast forth, either at the timorous
voice of Prudence or the importunate bidding of Poverty. Burns has
calmly and critically taken stock--so to speak--of his literary
aptitudes and abilities, and recognised his fitness for a place in the
ranks of Scotland's poets. 'However I am pleased with the works of our
Scotch poets, particularly the excellent Ramsay, and the still more
excellent Fergusson, yet I am hurt to see other places of Scotland,
their towns, rivers, woods, haughs, etc., immortalised in such
celebrated performances, whilst my dear native countr