only daughter and darling child, and that at a distance, too,
and so rapidly as to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to
her. I had scarcely begun to recover from that shock, when I became
myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and long the (p. 177)
die spun doubtful; until, after many weeks of a sick-bed, it seems
to have turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl across my room,
and once indeed have been before my own door in the street." In these
words Burns would seem to have put his two attacks together, as though
they were but one prolonged illness.

It was about this time that, happening to meet a neighbour in the
street, the poet talked with her seriously of his health, and said
among other things this: "I find that a man may live like a fool, but
he will scarcely die like one." As from time to time he appeared on
the street during the early months of 1796, others of his old
acquaintance were struck by the sight of a tall man of slovenly
appearance and sickly aspect, whom a second look showed to be Burns,
and that he was dying. Yet in that February there were still some
flutters of song, one of which was, _Hey for the Lass wi' a Tocher_,
written in answer to Thomson's beseeching inquiry if he was never to
hear from him again. Another was a rhymed epistle, in which he answers
the inquiries of the colonel of his Volunteer Corps after his health.

From about the middle of April, Burns seldom left his room, and for a
great part of each day was confined to bed. May came--a beautiful
May--and it was hoped that its genial influences might revive him. But
while young Jeffrey was writing, "It is the finest weather in the
world--the whole country is covered with green and blossoms; and the
sun shines perpetually through a light east wind," Burns was shivering
at every breath of the breeze. At this crisis his faithful wife was
laid aside, unable to attend him. But a young neighbour, Jessie Lewars,
sister of a brother exciseman, came to their house, assisted in (p. 178)
all household work, and ministered to the dying poet. She was at this
time only a girl, but she lived to be a wife and mother, and to see an
honoured old age. Whenever we think of the last days of the poet, it
is well to remember one who did so much to smooth his dying pillow.

Burns himself was deeply grateful, and his gratitude as usual found
vent in song. But the old manner still clung to him. Even then he
could not expres