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FROM “THE COTTAGE” TO MOUNT OLIPHANT--THE APPEARANCE OF
THE STEADING--GOSSIP,ETC.--PRIVATIONS ENDURED BY THE
PARENTS OF BURNS WHEN RESIDING AT MOUNT OLIPHANT--THE
POET’S FIRST SWEETHEART--THE FLITTING--”THE
FESTIVAL” ON THE BANKS OF THE DOON--ALLOWAY KIRK--A LEGEND--THE GRAVE OF
THE POET’S FATHER--OLD STONES.
From December, 1757, to Whitsunday, 1766, the parents
of Robert Burns lived a contented, happy, and
comparatively prosperous life in the cottage,
and would have continued to do so had they not
been ambitious to improve their condition and
make a better provision for their family. In an evil hour
his father resolved to become a farmer, and with this
object in view applied to Mr. Ferguson of
Doonholm--to whom he had proved a faithful
servant--for a lease of Mount Oliphant, a then
tenantless farm on his estate. The request was generously granted, but
with its acceptance a series of misfortunes
commenced which pursued the worthy man to his grave.
Being aware that this farm is only some two miles
distant from the poet’s natal cot, I resolved to
visit it, and for the purpose turned into a
pleasant rural lane which branches off the
highway some fifty yards beyond the celebrated “biggin’.”
As the braes over which this old lane winds is climbed,
the landscape becomes more varied and
picturesque, and a wide expanse of country lies
around, which, when once seen can never be
forgotten. Even now I can picture it, and in fancy
scan the view. Yonder are the heights of Arran
towering from the glistening bay; nearer are the
Heads of Ayr, and the old Castle of Greenan
standing out on the verge of the wave, while
stretching inland are the brown rugged hills of Carrick,
and on the table land below the shady woods of Newark,
Doonholm, and Mountcharles, with their mansion-houses
peering above the tree-tops; but the most interesting
of all the objects on which the eye rest is the
cottage in which the poet was born, the monument
in his memory, and “Alloway’s auld haunted
Kirk,” the scene of Tam o’ Shanter’s adventure
with the witches.
There is no saying how romantic one might become over a
delightful prospect; but, suffice it to say, a broad
traffic-worn cross road was soon reached by
whose side a burnie murmured and along which a
man was driving a flock of sheep. Here I rested
on a small stone bridge over which the lane passes,
and looking down into a clear brook, listened to its
sweet babbling music, and the birds singing in
gladsome minstrelsy in the rich foliage draping
the bank. After lingering by the delightful
scene for a space, a sharp uphill walk brought me
to a by-road which proved rugged and steep, and
ultimately to Mount Oliphant, the farm on which
the parents of our poet toiled and suffered for
the long period of eleven years.
The humble buildings which constitute this steading are
compactly build round a spacious quadrangular
courtyard, opening to the road, but there is
nothing about them to interest the visitor. A
number of hens were gathered round the kitchen
door, clucking and cackling over the corn which
a rosy-faced, bare-armed milk-girl was throwing them, and a
collie, not unlike the one whose
“honest, sonsie, baws’nt face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place,”
lay basking in the sun.. As I approached it rose, and
after sniffing curiously about me, began to fawn
and frisk in such a way that I wished him at a
safe distance. How far this familiarity would
have extended it is hard to say had not an
elderly dame appeared on the scene and told him to “gang
an’ lie doun”--an order which, to all appearance, he
intended to obey when it suited him. To my
question, “Is there aught of interest here in
connection with Robert Burns?” she
replied--”Deed no. There used to be an auld crab-tree at
the mouth o’ the close there that he used to play below
when he was a bairn, but it was blawn doun ae
windy nicht short syne. The house, did you
say? Weel, like every ither thing it’s changed
too, an’ I dinna think there’s a stane stan’in’ that was
in it in his father’s time.” To all appearances the
statement was true, so the reader need not be
troubled with more than the burden of our
conversation. During the summer months they
have many visitors, “moistly gentry,” and one man, she
affirmed, who had been sent by some society in America
to view the place, was so enthusiastic that he
sat in the kitchen and wrote for upwards of an
hour, and told them things about Burns and his
parents that they never knew. “He was an
extraordinary’ body,” she remarked, “an’ muckl at’en
up wi’ everythin here awa.” According to her, the rent
of Munt Oliphant is seventy pounds a year. The
poet’s father had it at forty-five pounds, and
found it all but impossible to wring the amount
from the ungenial glebe, but now, with an
improved system of husbandry, the first-mentioned sum is
considered the reverse of excessive.
From it elevated situation Mount Oliphant is
conspicuous from a great distance, and
consequently commands a wide range of scenery
which has undergone very little change since the
boy poet wandered in its midst. Indeed the eye of man
has seldom rested on a more pleasing or extensive
prospect than that witnessed from this
eminence. Beautiful as it is, however, it
brought neither peace nor contentment to the
Burns’ family. The soil of Mount Oliphant was poor and the
rent high, and, to add to the discomfiture of a bad
bargain, they entered upon it burdened with a
debt of a hundred pounds. Hard labour and rigid
economy were vainly opposed to the tide of
misfortune by which they were overtaken, but
allow Gilbert Burns, the poet’s brother, to tell the sorrowful
tale in his candid, simple way. In a letter to Mrs
Dunlop, he says: “For several years butcher’s
meat was a stranger in the house, while all the
members of the family exerted them- selves to
the utmost of their strength, and rather beyond it,
in the labours of the farm. My brother, at the age of
thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of
corn, and at fifteen was the principal labourer
on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male
or female. The anquish of mind we felt at our tender
years, under these straits and difficulties, was very
great. To think that our father growing old (for
he was now above fifty), broken down with the
long-continued fatigues of his life, with a wife
and five other children, and in a declining state of
circumstances--these reflections produced in my
brother’s mind and mine sensations of the
deepest distress.” Notwithstanding incessant labour, and the retrenchment
of expenses, the worthy father managed to give
his boys several snatches of education, and by
the time Robert was twelve years of age he was
“a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles.”
It was at Mount Oliphant that our poet first “committed
the sin of rhyme.” He says
“Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle fell,
Though rude and rough;
Yet crooning to a body’s sel’
Does weel enough.”
And again, in some noble verses, we have the following
passage:--
I mind it weel in early date,
When I was beardless, young, and blate,
And first could thrash the barn,
Or haud a yoking at the plough;
An’ tho’ forfoughten sair enough,
Yet unco proud to learn;
When first among the yellow corn
A man I reckoned was,
An’ wi the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass:
Still shearing and clearing
The ither stookit raw,
Wi’ clavers and havers
Wearing the day awa.
“E’en then a wish (I mind its power),
A wish that to my latest hour
Shall strongly heave my breast,
That I for poor old Scotland’s sake
Some useful’ plan or beuk could make,
Or sing a sang at least.
The rough, bur-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded here,
I turn’d the weeder-clips aside,
And spared the symbol dear.”
He speaks here of ranking his “rig and lass.” Who was
the lass? Let us see. In a letter to Dr. Moore
he says--”You know our country custom of
coupling a man and woman together as partners n
the labours of harvest. n my fifteenth autumn
my partner was a bewitching creature, a year
younger than myself. My scarcity of English denies me
the power of doing here justice in that language; but
you know the Scottish idiom, ‘she was a bonnie
sweet sonsie lass.’ In short, she altogether,
unwittingly to herself, initiated me in the
delicious passion which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse
prudence, and book-worn philosophy, I hold to be
the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below!
How she caught the contagion I cannot tell. You
medical people talk much of the infection from
breathing the same air, and touch, &c.; but I
never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I did not know myself why I
liked so much to loiter behind her, when
returning in the evening from our labours; why
the tones of her voice made my heart-strings
thrill like an Eolian harp; and, particularly why my pulse
beat such a furious ratan when I looked and fingered
over her little hand to pick out the cruel
nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other
love-inspiring qualities she sang sweetly; and
it was her favourite reel to which I attempted giving an
embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous
as to imagine that I could make verses like
printed ones, composed by men that had Greek and Latin; but my girl sang a
song which was said to be composed by a country laird’s
son, on one of his father’s maids, which whom he
was in love; and I saw no reason why I might not
rhyme as well as he; for, excepting that he
could smear sheep and cast peats, his father
living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than
myself. Thus with me began love and poetry.” Yes,
they were kindled on the braeside of Mount
Oliphant, and burned brightly until quenched by
the cold hand of death in the little tenement in
Mill Street, Dumfries.
The damsel, so affectionately referred to in the above
extract, was name Nelly Kilpatrick, and although, in after
years, he characterized the song in her praise as “a
very puerile and silly performance,” it contains
several good lines, as the following will
show:--
“A bonnie lass, I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e’e,
But without some better qualities
She’s no the lass for me.
“But Nelly’s looks are blythe and sweet,
An, what is best of a’,
Her reputation is complete,
An’ fair without a flaw.
“She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
Both decent gentell,
An’ then there’s something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.”
The difficulties and privations undergone by the
parents of the poet while on this farm served to
bring out the sterling qualities of their gifted
son, for he shrank not from sharing their
hardships and doing his utmost to alleviate
them. He, the child of poverty and toil, when a mere boy,
performed the work of a man, and when his compeers in
the towns and villages were attending school and
fully occupied with the games and pursuits of
youth, he followed the plough, or made the grain
dance under his flail on the barn floor.
In 1777 the poet’s father succeeded in ridding himself
of the lease which bound him to the sterile soil
of Mount Oliphant, and removed to Lochlea--a
farm in the parish of Tarbolton. The Rev.
Hately Waddell gives a beautiful imaginative
description of the “flitting” in his elaborate
edition of the poet’s works. It is as follows:--”Best tables,
chairs, and presses piled carefully aloft on all
available carts or cars about the steading;
friendly neighbors assisting with horses and
gear; Agnes and the ‘weans’ securely nestled
among bedding and straw; Robert or his father at the horse’s
head, solemn; and Gilbert with ‘Luath’ at his heels
contemplative, like the forerunners of the patriarch, in charge of the
‘beiss’ before. Thus marshaled in succession, they
take leave of Mount Oliphant in the morning--a
blossom or two torn off from the old crab tree
in the close for a keepsake, as they go; and
pitch, after noon, at Lochlea.”
There are many pleasant rambles in the vicinity of
Mount Oliphant to repay those who have time to seek for
them. For my part, I retraced my steps, and in a short
time found myself once more in the vicinity of
the cottage in which Robert Burns was born.
People hurried out and in its door, and flocked
past to view the classic scenes in its immediate
vicinity, but my mind was too much occupied to
notice their various peculiarities, so, whit a last fond look at
the lowly dwelling, I leisurely strolled towards
Alloway Kirk, which I found to be something less
than a quarter of a mile distant. When it is
first sighted, it bears a closer resemblance to
a roofless barn than a time-shattered sanctuary; but with
Hew Ainslie it may be said--
“Alloway, that night ye were
Hell’s place o recreation--
Baith heez’d an’ dignified ye mair
Than a’ your consecration.
“The bit whar fornicators sat
To bide their pastor’s bang
Is now forgotten for the spat
Whar Nanny lap an’ flang.
“The pu’pit whar the gude Mess John
His wig did weekly wag,
Is lightlied for the bunker seat
Whar Satan blew his bag.”
Yes, the old building is hallowed by the muse of
Burns,and on that account is better known throughout the civilized
world than Melrose Abbey and other ecclesiastical
edifices whose sculpture-bedecked walls lie
prostrate at the end of Time.
As I moved towards the celebrated ruin, I passed the
field in which the first public demonstration in
honour of Burns took place. It occurred on
Tuesday, the 6th August, 1844, and
was attended by a concourse of 80,000 persons of all
ranks and conditions in life, who had come from all
parts of the United Kingdom to do honour to the
memory of the ploughman poet. A temporary
erection of sufficient dimen sions to
accommodate 2000 individuals was put up in the
field, as also tents wherein visitors could obtain rest and
refreshments; but the gathering together of the greater
bulk of the vast assemblage took place in the
Low Green, Ayr, at ten o’clock forenoon. There
the various societies taking part in the
demonstration formed in procession , and with their
bands, banners, and devices marched to the place of
festivity. To quote from a report of the
proceedings published in Glasgow at the time:--
“When fully marshaled, the immense body moved onwards,
the bands striking up the well-known air of ‘A man’s
a man for a’ that,’ along the south side of Wellington
Square. The procession was formed three deep,
and extended nearly a mile in length. It had a
very imposing effect. On going down
Sandgate, up the High Street, and on to the Maybole
road, every window was thronged with onlookers, and the
streets were densely crowded. As they proceeded, the
bands played the national airs of ‘Green grow
the rashes,’ ‘This is no’ my ain house,’ ‘My
love she’s but a lassie yet,’ ‘Wat ye wha’s in
yon town,’ &c. The road all along was greatly
crowded; so much so that it was with difficulty the mass
could keep moving. The walls, houses, and gates were
everywhere lined with anxious observers, and various platforms
were constructed for the accommodation of ladies. On
approaching the cottage where the poet was born, and
where, as already mentioned, a splendid
triumphal arch was erected, the bands struck up
‘There was a lad was born in Kyle:’ and the
procession, uncovering, lowered their flags as they
passed the humble but much endeared spot………………
As the long extended line approached Kirk Alloway, the
bell (which still occupies the belfry) was set a-ringing, and
continued so while the procession passed on under the
triumphal arch along the New Bridge. Deploying round towards
the Old Bridge, the circling linek partially obscured
by the houses and trees, had a truly picturesque
effect. The waving banners, the music of the
bands, mellowed and echoed by the ‘Bank and
braes o’ bonnie Doon,’ imparted an inexpressibly
agreeable sensation. On reaching the triumphal arch of the
‘Auld Brig,’ venerable and grey with age, the bands
struck up the air of ‘Welcome, royal Charlie,’
while the procession, uncovering and lowering
their flags, passed over the rustic bridges in
front of the platform, beside the Earl of Eglinton
and Professor Wilson, we observed H. Glassford Bell,
Colonel Campbell. Sir D.H. Blair, H. Onslow, R.
Chambers, Mrs. General Hughes, W.A. Cunninghame;
A. Boyle, Lord Justice General; Alexander Hastie,
M.P.; A. Buchanan, J. O. Fairlie, and a number
of ladies. The sons of Burns seemed to feel
deeply the compliment paid t them, and acknowledged it most
cordially. The immense crowd which surrounded the
platform seemed highly gratified by the
opportunity afforded them of feasting their eyes
upon the lineaments of the sons, where they
sought to trace those of the father. The procession occupied
at least an hour in passing from the New Bridge into
the field, on entering which the whold of the
bands played the tune of ‘Duncan Gray,’ followed
by ‘The birks of Aberfeldy.’ A large circle was
then formed round the platform for the musicians
in the field, and the whole company, led by profissional vocalists, joined
in the singing of ‘Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie
Doon,’ and ‘Auld Langsyne.’ Th e bands were
afterwards stationed in various quarters throughout the
field --the regimental and Glasgow St. Andrew’s
bands in the centre of the field, and the
Kilwinning and Cumnock bands at the cottage, the
bagpipes playing at a distance from the
Pavilion. There were two inclosures for dancing--oone
towards the head of the field, and the other at the
brow over-looking the water of Doon. Immediately after the procession
was over, the crowd were astonished by the sudden
appearance of Tam o’Shanter, ‘weel mounted on his grey mare,
Meg,’ and a flight of witches in full pursuit of him.
Tam approached from the plantation near the
cottage, and jogging along the road, put spurts
to his ‘noble Maggie; opposite the ‘auld haunted
kirk,’ when ‘out the hellish legion sallied.”
Maggie, of course, reached the ‘key-stane of the brig’ in
safety, but there left behind her ‘an grey tail.’ The
enactment of this characteristic interlude created much amusement.
The company began to enter the Pavilion almost
immediately after the close of the procession,
and the chair was taken about two o’clock.”
Nearly all the celebrated individuals mentioned in the
above extract are now dead, and the great majority of that vast,
enthusiastic assemblage have shared a like fate. The
late Earl of Eglinton occupied the chair, and
among other things said:--”This is not a meeting
for the purpose of recreation and amusement; it
is not a banquet at which a certain number of
toasts printed on paper are to be proposed and
responded to, which to-day marks our preparations; it is the
enthusiastic desire of a whole people to pay honour to
their countryman; it is the spontaneous offering
of a nation’s feelings toward the illustrious
dead, and add to this the desire to extend a
hand of welcome and friendship to those whom he
has left behind. Here, on the very spot where he first drew breath--on
the very ground which his genius has hallowed , beside the Old Kirk of
Alloway which his verse has immortalized,
beneath the Monument which an admiring and
repentant people have raised to him, we meet, after the lapse
of years, to pay our homage to the man of genius. The
master mind who has sung the ‘Isle of Palms,’ who has
revelled in the immortal ‘Noctes,’ who has already done
that justice to the memory of the bard which a brother
poet can alone do--Christopher himself--is here,
anxious to pay his tribute of admiration to a
kindred spirit. The historian who has depicted
the most eventful period of the French empire,
the glorious triumphs of Wellington, is here--Clio,
as it were, offering up a garland to Erato. The
distinguished head of the Scottish bar is
here--in short, every town and every district,
every class, and every sex, and every age has
come forward to pay homage to their poet. At his name
every Scottish heart beats high. He has become a
household word alike in the palace and the
cottage. Of whom should we be proud--to whom
should we pay homage--if not to our immortal
Burns!”
At the conclusion of the addresses the assemblage
joined the noble chairman in pledging one
overflowing bumper to “The memory of Burns.”
When the deafening shouts of applause which
followed ceased, Mr. Robert Burns, the poet’s
son (now dead) mad a suitable reply, and was followed by
the world-famous Professor Wilson of Edinburgh, who
gave a long and vigorous speech, which was
characterized throughout by masterly eloquence and fervour of feeling.
Toasts, songs and speeches followed in quick
succession, which I would fain chronicle did
space allow; but suffice it to say the
“Festival,” as this demonstration is commonly termed,
was one of the finest attestations to genius ever witnessed.
A very pleasing glimpse of the Monument to the memory
of Burns is obtained by the pedestrian as he nears the
flight of steps leading to the stile or opening
in the wall which admits visitors to Alloway
Kirkyard. I paused on their landing and
reverentially viewed the scene, but visitors in
general seemed less impressed, for many romped amongst the
grave-stones, and others cracked jokes at the expense
of an odd- like personage attired in a
broken-rimmed straw hat and rather soiled
apparel, who, in a good round brogue, recites passages
from “Tam o’ Shanter,” and exhibit’s the rather weird
objects of interest over which he appears to be
the presiding genius. His story is always the
same, and, however interrupted, he goes through
it like a school-boy rehearsing a psalm. He
evidently considers himself a part of the place, and indeed is
so much a part of it that it would be unjust to
describe it and omit him. Seemingly he picks up
a scant livelihood by waiting on visitors, so,
far be it from me to pen a word to injure him in
their eyes.
The ruin consists of two gaunt gables, and a front and
back wall of rude masonry, some seven feet in
height. The gable fronting the entrance is
surmounted by a belfry, which still retains its
bell. In its centre is a small window divided by a
thick mullion, which Burns refers to as the “winnock
bunker in the east.” Around the walls are other
windows which are built up, but on the south
side one is pointed to as that through which Tam
o’Shanter is supposed to have witnessed the
witches’ carnival and all the horrors of their orgies. One
thing, however, struck me forcibly when looking into
the interior, and that was the fact that his
Satanic majesty must have had an insecure seat
and his emissaries a very small place wherein to
hold a revelry like that which the poet
describes. Ever scrap on wood about the building was
carried off many years ago. Dome half-dozen arm chairs
have been made out of its rafter, but when one
thinks of the enormous quantity of snuff-boxes
and similar articles said to be made out of the
same materials, the wood seems to have strongly
resembled that of “the true Cross.” The interior is
divided by a partition wall and used as a place of
burial by the Cathcarts of Blairston, the
Crawfords of Doonside, and others. The date of
its erection (1516) is inscribed above a
doorway, but its history is void of interest.
At one time a manse and glebe were attached to Alloway
Kirk, but the stipend of the minister being only £32 a
year, the parish was added to that of Ayr about
the close of the seventh century and the sum
divided between its ministers. After that the
building became untenanted and ruinous, and on
that account was considered to be the resort of witches and
things uncanny--indeed, it is on record that people who
passed it after dark saw “unco sichts” and heard sounds
of a supernatural description. Burns was
familiar with many of its legends, and on the
following founded the tale of “Tam o’ Shanter”:--
“On a market day in the town of Ayr, a farmer from
Carrick, and consequently whose way lay by the very gate of
Alloway Kirkyard, in order to cross the rive Doon at
the old bridge which is about two or three
hundred yards further on than the said
fate, had been detained by his business till, by
the time he reached Alloway, it was the wizard hour, between
night and morning. Though he was terrified with a
blaze streaming from the kirk, yet, as it is a
well-known fact that to turn back on these
occasions is running by far the greatest risk of
mischief, he prudently advanced on his road. When he had reached the gate
of the Kirk yard he was surprised and
entertained through the ribs and arches of an old Gothic
window, which still faces the highway, to see a dance
of witches merrily footing it round their old
sooty blackguard master, who was keeping them
all alive with the power of his bagpipe. The
farmer, stopping his horse to observe them a
little, could plainly descry the faces of many old women of
his acquaintance and neighbourhood. How the gentlemen
was dressed tradition does not say, but that the
ladies were all in their smocks; and one of them
happening unluckily to have a smock which was
considerably too short to answer all the purpose
of that piece of dress, our farmer was so tickled that
he involuntarily burst out, with a loud laugh, ‘Weel
luppen, Maggie wi’ the short sark!’ and
recollecting himself, instantly spurred his
horse to the top of his speed. I need not mention the
universally known fact that no diabolical power can
pursue you beyond the middle of a running stream.
Lucky it was for the poor farmer that the river
Doon was so near, for, notwithstanding the speed
of his horse, which was a good one, against he
reached the middle of the arch of the bridge,
and consequently the middle of the stream, the pursuing
vengeful hags were so close at his heels that one of
them actually sprang to seize him; but it was
too late. Nothing was on her side of the stream
but the horse’s tail, which immediatly gave way at her infernal grip, as
if blasted by a stroke of lightning, but the
farmer was beyond her reach. However, the
unsightly, tailless condition of the vigorous
steed was, to the last hour of the noble creature’s life, an
awful warning to the Carrick farmers not to stay too
late in Ayr markets.” [See
letter from Robert Burns to Francis Grose, Esq., F.S.A.]
After leisurely examining the scene of this legend, and
listening to the prosy descriptions and nasal recitals
of the curious specimen of humanity referred to,
I began to stray through the unkept
burying-ground, and note the humble gravestones
of the unknown poor and the more pretentious
tombs of the rich. Small as the place is, it is absolutely
crowed with memorial stones of one description and
another. Many of these are modern, and several
mark the resting-places of individuals whose
remains have been brought from considerable distances to moulder with
those of the rude fore-fathers of the hamlet. A plain upright stone which
heads, and a tablet which covers a grave near
the entrance, attract universal attention. And
why? Because there rest the ashes of our Poet’s
father--that admirable man who now lives in the
memory of men as the original of “The Cottar,” whose
“Saturday Night” is so picturesquely sketched. It was
the old man’s desire that he should repose in
this churchyard, and it was lovingly complied
with, although the place where he breathed his
last was distant nine miles. A small headstone was erected over the grave
by the family, but it was chipped to pieces and
carried away by relic-hunters. The one
occupying its place bears the following inscriptions:--
(Back).
“Oh, ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw near with pious rev’rence and attend!
Here lies the loving husband’s dear remains,
The tender father, and the generous friend.
The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
The dauntless heart that feared no human pride;
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;
‘For even his failing leaned to virtue’s side.’”
(Front).
“SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM BURNESS, FARMER
IN LOCHLIE, WHO DIED ON THE 13TH FEB., 1784, IN THE
63D YEAR OF HIS AGE. AND OF AGNES BROWN, HIS SPOUSE,
WHO DIED ON THE 14TH JANY., 1820 IN THE 88TH YEAR
OF HER AGE. SHE WAS INTERRED IN BOLTON CHURCHYARD,
EAST LOTHIAN.”
The inscription is continued on the slab over the
grave, and reads thus:--
ALSO, OF ISABELLA, RELICT OF HON BEGG, THEIR
YOUNGEST DAUGHTER. BORN AT MOUNT OLIPHANT, 27TH
JUNE, 1771. DIED 4TH DECEMBER, 1858. MUCH RESPECTED
AND ESTEEMED BY A WIDE CIRCLE OF FRIENDS TO WHOM SHE
ENDEARED HERSELF BY HER LIFE OF PIETY, HER MILD URBANITY
OF MANNER, AND HERE DEVOTION TO THE MEMORY OF THER
GIFTED BROTHER.”
Burns often expressed a wish that his bones should rest
with those of his father; and so anxious were tow of
his Ayr friends that is should be complied with
that they went to Dumfries and offered to bear
the expense of transmitting his remains, but
they were too late in arriving, arrangements
having been made for his interment in St. Michael’s churchyard. As it is,
a path worn by many feet encircles the grave,
and the rank grass which covers the uneven sward in its
vicinity is trampled and interspersed with bare
patches--a sure sign that it is the peculiar
prerogative of genius that it attracts the
attention of the world not only towards itself but
towards everything that is connected with it.
The above is the only grave of interest at Alloway
Kirkyard, but several weather-worn memorials are to be met with
which may be briefly referred to. One marks the burial
place of Haire of Rankinstone, and bears date
1621; while another, decked with the heraldic
devices and dated 1665, covers that of the
Hunters of Broomberry. Near to the grave of the
Poet;s father there are several bearing curious sculptured
devices. One has a representation of Justice holding a
balance which a figure in bearing down; another
the mott Post
mortem spsero vitam,
and the figure of a horse in the act of
being shod,
and also the instruments of farriery; while a
very curious but much defaced slab, without name or date,
has the following all but obliterated verse:--
“Passenger, we her who lye
Own it is just that man should die,
And bless God, who freely gave
That faith which triumphs o’er ye grave.
When glorious Jesus Christ shall come,
We rest in hope that this our dust
Shall then rise with him from the tomb.”
A stone to the memory of “the last person baptized in
Alloway Kirk” attracts considerable attention, as also one which
the exhibitor represents as marking the grave of Souter
Johnnie. That an individual who aspired to the
dubious honour of being Burn’s ideal of that
character is buried in the grave he indicates is
correct, but he was not the prototype of the
Souter; and it is astonishing to see how many visitors
are deceived by the statement. Evidently the majority
hear and believe, and visit places associated
with literary and other celebrities more from
the impulse of fashion than admiration for
what they have achieved.
Passing through the kiryard stile I entered the roadway
and crossed to the new Kirk of Alloway--a neat little
building, to which a cosy manse is attached. It was built in 1857,
but not before the admirers of Burns had done everything in their power to
induce the late Mr Baird of Cambusdoon to change the site, for they
considered that the erection would materially
interfere with the view of the monument. He
proved inexorable, however, and in spite of public meetiings and memorials
the building was gone on with.
A few yards further on I reached the entrance to the
grounds of the Monument, and paused to look upon the
busy scene in its vicinity. Vehicles arrived
and departed in quick succession, and visitors
hurried hither and thither or sauntered about in
little groups in the most enjoyable manner, as if
gratified at being surrounded by scenes of which the
Scottish heart might well be proud. The
promiscuous throng seemed to be composed of all
classes of society, and in waiting were all
manner of conveyances. Here might be seen the smart
equipage, there the hired carriage or cab, and close to
them the commodious “brake” and common cart
fitted up with temporary seats for the
accommodation of the more humble class of
visitors from a distance.
On the right hand side of the highway is Doonside
cottage, within the enclosed grounds of which
“The thron aboo the wee,
Where Mungo’s mithe hang’d herself."
is still to be seen. It was the residence of the late
David Auld, an enthusiastic admirer of Burns,
who, after acquiring a competency in Ayr,
purchased land at Doonbrae, and on it erected
the commodious and well-built hotel opposite. Along
the road is the new Brig o’Doon, and a splendid
panorama of hills, and to the left, the road
down which Tam o’ Shanter is supposed to have
dashed when pursued by the witches.
The busy scene in the vicinity of the Monument somewhat
surprised me, but I learned fro a “cabbie” with whom I
entered into conversation that it was nothing unusual.
“Visitors come,” said he, “from all parts and at all
seasons, but more especially during the summer
months. Then they arrive in little parties of
ten or a dozen, and come in carriages and carts
of every description, and many like yourself, sir,”
he added, with a significant glance at my dusty boots,
“come on foot, but the fact is, people never
cease nor seem to weary of coming, for I have
noticed the same individuals three or four times
during a season. O yes, the monument is a
favourite resort for all. Family parties, wedding parties, and
excursion parties arrive almost daily from Maybole, Ayr,
Troon, Irvine, and Kilmarnock, and there are often
excursions from Glasgow and other places; but
Americans are the most enthusiastic of all
visitors. They never drink; no, it is allbusiness with them, and I can
assure you they delight in everything connected with Burns and his
works--they wish to see everything that is to be
seen, and when they see it they are off; yes, a
fine class of people are the Americans. I have
drive them all round here often. But have you been in the
monument? No--well, in you go and see the show, for
there is too much of that about it.”
Following his advice, the merry party of lads and
lasses, I presented myself at the fate of the
grounds which encircle the handsome tribute to
the Poet’s memory, and was admitted upon paying
two pence, for such is the amount levied on each
visitor for the purpose of defraying the necessary expense of
keeping the Monument in proper order. |
