nwilling to be fed;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
And mighty poets in their misery dead.

In writing that poem Wordsworth had Burns among others prominently (p. 159)
in his eye. What a commentary is the life of the more impulsive poet
on the lines of his younger and more self-controlling brother! During
those years of political unrest and of growing mental disquiet, his
chief solace was, as I have said, to compose songs for Thomson's
Collection, into which he poured a continual supply. Indeed it is
wonderful how often he was able to escape from his own vexations into
that serener atmosphere, and there to suit melodies and moods most
alien to his own with fitting words.

Here in one of his letters to Thomson is the way he describes himself
in the act of composition. "My way is--I consider the poetic sentiment
correspondent to my idea of the musical expression; then choose my
theme; begin one stanza; when that is composed, which is generally the
most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down now and
then, look out for objects in nature around me that are in unison and
harmony with the cogitations of my fancy and workings of my bosom;
humming every now and then the air with the verses I have framed. When
I feel my Muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of
my study, and there commit my effusions to paper; swinging at
intervals on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth
my own critical strictures as my pen goes on." To this may be added
what Allan Cunningham tells us. "While he lived in Dumfries he had
three favourite walks; on the Dock-green by the river-side; among the
ruins of Lincluden College; and towards the Martingdon-ford, on the
north side of the Nith. This latter place was secluded, commanded a
view of the distant hills, and the romantic towers of Lincluden, and
afforded soft greensward banks to rest upon, within sight and (p. 160)
sound of the stream. As soon as he was heard to hum to himself, his
wife saw that he had something in his mind, and was prepared to see
him snatch up his hat, and set silently off for his musing-ground.
When by himself, and in the open air, his ideas arranged themselves in
their natural order--words came at will, and he seldom returned
without having finished a song.... When the verses were finished, he
passed them through the ordeal of Mrs. Burns's voice, listened
attentively when she sang; ask