ed her if any of the words were
difficult; and when one happened to be too rough, he readily found a
smoother; but he never, save at the resolute entreaty of a scientific
musician, sacrificed sense to sound. The autumn was his favourite
season, and the twilight his favourite hour of study."

Regret has often been expressed that Burns spent so much time and
thought on writing his songs, and, in this way, diverted his energies
from higher aims. Sir Walter has said, "Notwithstanding the spirit of
many of his lyrics, and the exquisite sweetness and simplicity of
others, we cannot but deeply regret that so much of his time and
talents was frittered away in compiling and composing for musical
collections. There is sufficient evidence that even the genius of
Burns could not support him in the monotonous task of writing
love-verses, on heaving bosoms and sparkling eyes, and twisting them
into such rhythmical forms as might suit the capricious evolutions of
Scotch reels and strathspeys." Even if Burns, instead of continual
song-writing during the last eight years of his life, had concentrated
his strength on "his grand plan of a dramatic composition" on the
subject of Bruce's adventures, it may be doubted whether he would have
done so much to enrich his country's literature as he has done by the
songs he composed. But considering how desultory his habits (p. 161)
became, if Johnson and Thomson had not, as it were, set him a congenial
task, he might not have produced anything at all during those years.
There is, however, another aspect in which the continual composition
of love-ditties must be regretted. The few genuine love-songs,
straight from the heart, which he composed, such as _Of a' the Airts_,
_To Mary in Heaven_, _Ye Banks and Braes_, can hardly be too highly
prized. But there are many others, which arose from a lower and
fictitious source of inspiration. He himself tells Thomson that when
he wished to compose a love-song, his recipe was to put himself on a
"regimen of admiring a beautiful woman." This was a dangerous regimen,
and when it came to be often repeated, as it was, it cannot have
tended to his peace of heart, or to the purity of his life.

The first half of the year 1794 was a more than usually unhappy time
with Burns. It was almost entirely songless. Instead of poetry, we
hear of political dissatisfaction, excessive drinking-bouts, quarrels,
and self-reproach. This was the time when our country was at