Ayrshire Ploughman
Some one has said, "There is but one Scotland, and Burns is its prophet." The country had long waited for him. Scotland stood apart from the nations of the earth, its inner features, its national and individual peculiarities almost unknown to the people themselves. Then Burns came; his sword blazed not in the van of victorious war; his hand dropped no gold into the treasury of his country; his brain gave no impetus to trade; he came in the guise of an humble ploughman and went away almost unheeded; but long ago it was decided that there was only one Burns and there could never be another. But why this unique praise, why one universal outburst of applause from every nation where Britain's tongue was spoken, when the one hundredth anniversary of his birth came, January 25th, 1859; why was the simple Ayrshire Ploughman the theme of poets; the household theme among intelligent people of every clime? The question is easily answered in his own words:--
In formless jumble right and wrang,
Wild floated in my brain."
His years were few (January 25th, 1759; July 21st, 1796), and some of these thirty-seven years were worse than wasted, yet, with Burns the sins of his humanity died with him, while the glory of his genius lives forever. Who has not read with reverence his "Cotter's Saturday Night;" with keen enjoyment "Tam O'Shanter" and "Souter Johnnie;" who does not love his "Highland Mary," and whose heart has not responded to the pathos of "Auld Lang Syne," "O wert thou in the cauld blast," "Flow gently, sweet Afton," and "John Anderson my Jo John;" or the coyness of "Comin through the Rye;" or who has not been deeply stirred by the "Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled?" Professor Wilson (Christopher North) says this is the grandest Ode outside the Bible. There is one verse, of four lines, by Burns, of which Scott says: "It contains the essence of a thousand love tales":--
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met, or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted."
It is a remarkable fact that Burns is the sole case on record where the genius of one man has made the language of his country classical.
Ayr, an ancient seaport (20,000 inhabitants), is said to attract more "pious pilgrims" than even Stratford-on-Avon, for it is the center from which to visit the land of Burns. It is divided by the river Ayr into Wallacetown and Newton. Of the "Twa Brigs" immortalized by Burns's poem, the "Auld Brig," dating from 1250, is still standing, while the "New Brig" has been replaced by a later one. The whole country from Ayr to Dumfries teems with associations of the songs and poems of Burns. Two miles south of Ayr is the cottage, divided into two rooms, where he was born, and the scene also of his "Cotter's Saturday Night." Two miles farther on is "Alloway's auld haunted Kirk" of Tam O'Shanter fame, and where Burns's father and mother lie buried. Just beyond it is the "Auld Brig" over which Tam O'Shanter so narrowly escaped, and where "Cuttie Sark" despoiled "Maggie" of her tail. The Park, about the "Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon," contains a fine monument to Burns, erected in 1820 at a cost of pound 3,300. An acre of ground surrounds the monument and it is kept in beautiful order; in a grotto is the celebrated statue of "Tam O'Shanter and Souter Johnnie" by Thom, of Ayr. The scenery along the Doon is equal in richness and variety to any in Scotland, and is full of poetic associations which have made Ayrshire famous throughout the world. Between the Doon and Dumfries is the scene of the "Holy Fair" and the "Jolly Beggars." The first part of Burns's married life was spent at his dairy farm of Ellisland, a few miles from Dumfries; but his last three years were lived at Dumfries, and the house where he died, and where his wife lived for thirty years longer, is preserved.
He did not sell the product of his pen, and so died in great poverty; but no sooner was he dead than from 10,000 to 12,000 people flocked to Dumfries to pay respect to his immortal genius. The poor weak mortal body was buried with military and civic honors in the churchyard, but nineteen years later was disinterred and placed in a splendid mausoleum, the nation's gift to her greatest poet. Over the sarcophagus within the mausoleum is, in basso relievo, the Ayrshire Ploughman, with his plough in hand, the Angel of his "Vision" hovering over him. What could be more suggestive? the simple peasant and the divine Muse.