Things went with him from bad
to worse, and at length he died at the age of thirty-six, worn
out by toil and sin and suffering.
In many ways his was a misspent life "at once unfinished and a
ruin."* His was the poet's soul bound in the body of clay. He
was an unhappy man, and we cannot but pity him, and yet remember
him with gratitude for the beautiful songs he gave us. In his
own words we may say--
*Carlyle.
"Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,
Wild as the wave?
Here pause--and, through the starting tear,
Survey this grave."
Burns was a true son of the soil. There is no art in his songs
but only nature. Apart form his melody what strikes us most is
his truth; he sang of what he saw, of what he felt and knew. He
knew the Scottish peasant through and through. Grave and
humorous, simple and cunning, honest and hypocritical, proud and
independent--every phase of him is to be found in Burns's poems.
Pages:
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845