Other poets might
tremble for such boldness, such rawness. In "this odd-kind chiel" such
points hardly mar the rest. Not only are they in consonance with the
underlying spirit of the pieces, but complete the full abandon and
veracity of the farm-fields and the home-brew'd flavor of the Scotch
vernacular. (Is there not often something in the very neglect, unfinish,
careless nudity, slovenly hiatus, coming from intrinsic genius, and not
"put on," that secretly pleases the soul more than the wrought and
re-wrought polish of the most perfect verse?) Mark the native spice and
untranslatable twang in the very names of his songs-"O for ane and
twenty, Tam," "John Barleycorn," "Last May a braw Wooer," "Rattlin
roarin Willie," "O wert thou in the cauld, cauld blast," "Gude e'en to
you, Kimmer," "Merry hae I been teething a Heckle," "O lay thy loof in
mine, lass," and others.
The longer and more elaborated poems of Burns are just such as would
please a natural but homely taste, and cute but average intellect, and
are inimitable in their way. The "Twa Dogs," (one of the best) with
the conversation between Cesar and Luath, the "Brigs of Ayr," "the
Cotter's Saturday Night," "Tam O'Shanter"--all will be long read and
re-read and admired, and ever deserve to be. With nothing profound in
any of them, what there is of moral and plot has an inimitably fresh
and racy flavor. If it came to question, Literature could well afford
to send adrift many a pretensive poem, and even book of poems, before
it could spare these compositions.
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