of pain and disappointment, which is surely noble with the
nobility of a viking, he would rather stoop to borrow than to
accept money for these last and inadequate efforts of his
muse. And this desperate abnegation rises at times near to
the height of madness; as when he pretended that he had not
written, but only found and published, his immortal AULD LANG
SYNE. In the same spirit he became more scrupulous as an
artist; he was doing so little, he would fain do that little
well; and about two months before his death, he asked Thomson
to send back all his manuscripts for revisal, saying that he
would rather write five songs to his taste than twice that
number otherwise. The battle of his life was lost; in
forlorn efforts to do well, in desperate submissions to evil,
the last years flew by. His temper is dark and explosive,
launching epigrams, quarrelling with his friends, jealous of
young puppy officers. He tries to be a good father; he
boasts himself a libertine. Sick, sad, and jaded, he can
refuse no occasion of temporary pleasure, no opportunity to
shine; and he who had once refused the invitations of lords
and ladies is now whistled to the inn by any curious
stranger. His death (July 21, 1796), in his thirty-seventh
year, was indeed a kindly dispensation. It is the fashion to
say he died of drink; many a man has drunk more and yet lived
with reputation, and reached a good age. That drink and
debauchery helped to destroy his constitution, and were the
means of his unconscious suicide, is doubtless true; but he
had failed in life, had lost his power of work, and was
already married to the poor, unworthy, patient Jean, before
he had shown his inclination to convivial nights, or at least
before that inclination had become dangerous either to his