tered on Mossgiel
resolved to do his best as a farmer, he soon discovered that it was
not in that way he was to attain success. The crops of 1784 and (p. 021)
1785 both failed, and their failure seems to have done something
to drive him in on his own internal resources. He then for the first
time seems to have awakened to the conviction that his destiny was to
be a poet; and he forthwith set himself, with more resolution than he
ever showed before or after, to fulfil that mission. Hitherto he had
complained that his life had been without an aim; now he determined
that it should be so no longer. The dawning hope began to gladden him
that he might take his place among the bards of Scotland, who,
themselves mostly unknown, have created that atmosphere of minstrelsy
which envelopes and glorifies their native country. This hope and aim
is recorded in an entry of his commonplace book, of the probable date
of August, 1784:--

"However I am pleased with the works of our Scotch poets, particularly
the excellent Ramsay, and the still more excellent Fergusson, yet I am
hurt to see other places of Scotland, their towns, rivers, woods, and
haughs, immortalized in such celebrated performances, while my dear
native country,--the ancient bailieries of Carrick, Kyle, and Cunningham,
famous both in ancient and modern times for a gallant and warlike race
of inhabitants--a country where civil, and particularly religious
liberty, have ever found their first support, and their last asylum--a
country, the birthplace of many famous philosophers, soldiers, and
statesmen, and the scene of many important events recorded in Scottish
history, particularly a great many of the actions of the glorious
Wallace, the saviour of his country--yet we have never had one Scotch
poet of any eminence to make the fertile banks of Irvine, the romantic
woodlands and sequestered scenes of Ayr, and the heathy mountainous
source and winding sweep of Doon, emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, (p. 022)
Tweed. This is a complaint I would gladly remedy; but, alas! I am far
unequal to the task, both, in native genius and in education. Obscure
I am, obscure I must be, though no young poet nor young soldier's
heart ever beat more fondly for fame than mine."

Though the sentiment here expressed may seem commonplace and the
language hardly grammatical, yet this extract clearly reveals the
darling ambition that was now haunting the heart of Burns. It was the
same wish which h