To Mrs Frances Anna Dunlop of Dunlop

Ellisland 25th January 1790

It has been owing to unremitting hurry of business that I have not written you, Madam, long ere now.?My health is greatly better, and I now begin once more to share in satisfaction and enjoyment with the rest of my fellow creatures.

Many thanks, my much esteemed Friend, for your kind letters: only, why will you make me run the risk of being contemptible & mercenary in my own eyes? When I pique myself on my independant spirit, I hope it is neither Poetic licence nor Poetic rant; and I am so flattered with the honor you have done me in making me your Compeer in Friendship & Friendly Correspondence that I cannot without pain & a degree of mortification be reminded of the real inequality between our situations.

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear Madam, in the good news of Anthony.?Not only your anxiety about his fate, but my own esteem for such a noble, warmhearted, manly young fellow, in the little snatch l had of his acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes.

Falconer, the unfortunate Author of the Shipwreck, that glorious Poem which you so much admire, is no more.? After weathering that dreadful catastrophe he so feelingly describes in his Poem, and after weathering many hard gales of Fortune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora frigate! I forget what part of Scotland had the honor of giving him birth; but he was the son of obscurity & misfortune.?He was one of these daring adventurous spirits which old Caledonia beyond any other nation is remarkable for producing.?Little does the fond Mother think, as she hangs delighted over the sweet Little Leech at her bosom, where the poor fellow may hereafter wander and what may be his fate.?I remember a Stanza in an old Scots Ballad which notwithstanding its rude simplicity speaks feelingly to the heart

"Little did my Mother think,
"That day she cradled me,
"What Land I was to travel in,
"Or what death I should die!"

Old Scots Songs are, you know, a favorite study & pursuit of mine, and now I am on that subject allow me to give you two stanzas of another old simple Ballad which I am sure will please you.?The catastrophe of the Piece is, a poor ruined Female lamenting her fate.?She concludes with this pathetic wish

"O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd;
"O that my Mother had ne'er to me sung!
"O that my cradle it had never rock'd;
"But that I had died when I was young!
"O that the Grave it were my bed;
"My blankets were, my winding sheet;
"The clocks & the worms my bedfellows a';
"And O, sae sound as I would sleep!"

I do not remember in all my reading to have met with any thing more truly the language of Misery than the exclamation in the last line.?Misery is like Love; to speak its language truly, the Author must have felt it. -

I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little Godson the Smallpox.??They are rife in the country, & I tremble for his fate.? By the way, I cannot help congratulating you on his looks & spirit.?Every Person who sees him acknowledges him to be the finest, handsomest child they have ever seen.?I am myself delighted with the manly swell of his little chest, and a certain miniature dignity in the carriage of his head & the glance of his fine black eye, which promises the undaunted gallantry of an Independant Mind. -

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids.? I promise you Poetry untill you are tired of it, next time I have the honor of assuring you how truly I am,

Dear Madam, your oblidged humble servant

R. B