Janet ~tle

(1759-1813)

Called "Jennie" by her friends, family, and employers, Janet Little was born in August 1759, the daughter of George Little of Nether Bogside, near Ecclefechan, in Dumfriesshire, Scotland. Her parents were people of mod­est means, and her formal education was probably minimal. Belying her surname, she grew into an unusually tall, dark-haired woman. One of her contemporaries described her as "no bad representation of some of Sir Walter Scott's gigantic heroines, but without their impudence." 1 She first worked for several years as a servant in the home of a Reverend Johnstone and accom­panied his children to Glasgow. Later she became a chambermaid for Frances Anna Wallace Dunlop, the patron of Robert Burns, who took an interest in her and her poetry. Little naturally heard much about Burns in the Dunlop household, admired his work, and was inspired by his example.

After the suicide of the earl of Loudoun in 1786, Little accompanied Dun­lop's daughter, Susan Hendrie, to her new home at Loudoun Castle and took charge of the dairy there, earning the nickname "The Scotch Milkmaid." On 12 July 1789, no doubt encouraged by Frances Dunlop, she wrote to Burns:

You must know, Sir, I am somewhat in love with the Muses, though I cannot boast of any favours they have deigned to confer upon me as yet; my situation in life has been very much against me as to that .... As I had the pleasure of perusing your poems, I felt a partiality for the author, which I should not have experienced had you been in a more dignified station. I wrote a few verses of address to you, which I did not then think of ever presenting; but as fortune seems to have favoured me in this, by bringing me into a family by whom you are well known and much esteemed, and where perhaps I may have an opportunity of seeing you, I shall, in hopes of your foture friendship, take the liberty to transcribe them.

I. Quoted in (James Paterson), The Contemporaries of Burns, and the More Recent Poets of Ayrshire, with Selections from their Writings (Edinburgh and London, 1840), 87-88.

Janet Little

She enclosed a ten-stanza poem in praise of Burns, written partly in Scots dialect, containing the self-deprecating lines,

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint The beauties of your verse to paint: My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint

Their brilliancy;

She closed the letter, "Sir- I hope you will pardon my boldness in this: my hand trembles while I write to you, conscious of my unworthiness of what I would most earnestly solicit, viz. your favour and friendship; yet, hoping you will show yourself possessed of as much generosity and good nature as will prevent your exposing what may justly be found liable to censure in this measure, I shall take the liberty to subscribe myself, Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, Janet Little." 2

We know that Burns received the letter, for he wrote Frances Dunlop nearly two months later, on 6 September: "I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. L--, a very in­genious but modest composition. I should have written her, as she requested, but for the hurry of this new business. I have heard of her and her com­positions in this country; and, I am happy to add, always to the honour of her character. The fact is, I know not well how to write to her: I should sit down to a sheet of paper that I knew not how to stain." 3 Whether Burns ever replied directly to Little is unclear, but later Little made a trip to Dumfries­shire, principally to see Burns at his farm in Ellisland. Little's "On a Visit to Mr. Burns" describes this meeting, which took place shortly after Burns had broken his arm in a fall from a horse:

With beating breast I view'd the bard; All trembling did him greet:

With sighs bewail'd his fate so hard, Whose notes were ever sweet.

In 1792, with Frances Dunlap's help and encouragement, The Poetical Works of Janet Little, the Scotch Milkmaid, was published in Ayr by subscription, earn­ing Little about fifty pounds. A 207-page octavo volume dedicated to Flora, Countess of Loudoun, then twelve years old, it contains fifty-four poems and a list of more than six hundred subscribers, including well-respected and in­fluential people from throughout the country. In one poem, "To the Public," Little sets forth her goal:

2. Quoted in ibid., 79-8r. 3. The Letters of Robert Burns, ed. G. Ross Roy, 2nd ed. (Oxford, 1985), I :438.

Janet Little

From the dull confines of a country shade, A rustic damsel issues forth her lays;

There she, in secret, sought the Muse's aid, But now, aspiring, hopes to gain the bays.

Around this time Little married a laborer, John Richmond, eighteen years her senior and a widower with five children.

In December 1792, when Burns visited Dunlop House for four days, Frances Dunlop made a point of calling to his attention Little's recently published volume, which contained several poems idolizing him. He was un­impressed. Severely disappointed in his response, Dunlop wrote to him ten weeks later:

Methinks I hear you ask me with an air that made me feel as I had got a slap in the face, if you must read all the few lines I had pointed out to your notice in poor Jenny's book. How did I upbraid my own conceited folly at that in­stant that had ever subjected one of mine to so haughty an imperious critic! I never liked so little in my life as at that moment the man whom at all others I delighted to honour .... I then felt for Mrs Richmond (Jenny Little), for you, and for myself, and not one of the sensations were such as I would wish to cherish in remembrance.4

Of Little's subsequent life, not much is recorded. Her neighbors recalled that she was a fond and attentive stepmother, that she was well liked in the community, belonged to a dissenting church in Galston, and was considered one of its more intelligent and devout members. She was said to have such a good memory that, hearing a sermon read from a prepared text for the sec­ond time, several weeks after having first heard it, she could remember the only sentence the speaker omitted. To a query by the Reverend Mr. Schaw of Ayr asking what she thought of a sermon, Little is said to have replied, "I thocht it rather flowery. Ye ken what I mean, Mr. Schaw-a wi' hue mair soun' than sense!" Taken aback by such an astute, plucky assessment by a mere servant woman, Schaw warned on his departure that "they would have to beware what kind of sermons they preached, since they had such critics as Janet Little." 5

Little continued to supervise the dairy at Loudoun Castle even after the departure of Susan Hendrie. In 1807 John Hamilton was appointed factor to the countess of Loudoun, and it was said that Little "became so intimate in the house of that gentleman as to be almost regarded as one of the domes-

4. Quoted in Maurice Lindsay, The Burns Encyclopedia (New York, 1980), 218. 5. (Paterson], Contemporaries of Burns, 88.

Janet Little

tics." 6 One of her last poems was written for Mrs. Hamilton on the birth of her twin sons. Little died in Causey Head at Loudoun Castle on r5 March r8r3, after being ill only one day. Her husband survived her by six years. Their remains are marked with a plain stone in the ancestral burying ground of the Loudoun family at Loudoun-Kirk, inscribed with the words: "In memory of John Richmond, who died August IO, r819, aged 78 years; and Janet Little, his spouse, who died March 15, 1813, aged 54 years." She left behind some poems in manuscript, including "Elegy on T. S.," which contains the lines:

Can sages say what fascinating charm Binds our attachment to this noxious soil;

Where poisonous gales are fraught with rude alarm, And disappointment mocks our anxious toil? 7

MAJOR WORK: The Poetical Works of Janet Little, the Scotch Milkmaid (Air, 1792).

TEXTS USED: All texts from The Poetical Works of Janet Little, the Scotch Milkmaid.

6. Ibid. 7. Ibid., 90.

To the Public

From the dull confines of a country shade, A rustic damsel issues forth her lays;

There she, in secret, sought the Muse's aid, But now, aspiring, hopes to gain the bays.

II "Vain are her hopes," the snarling critic cries;

"Rude and imperfect is her rural song." But she on public candour firm relies,

And humbly begs they'll pardon what is wrong.

4 bays] The leaves or sprigs of the bay laurel, made into a wreath for a conqueror or poet.

Janet Little

III And if some lucky thought, while you peruse,

Some little beauty strike th' inquiring mind; In gratitude she'll thank th' indulgent Muse,

Nor count her toil, where you can pleasure find.

IV Upon your voice depends her share of fame,

With beating breast her lines abroad are sent: Of praise she'll no luxuriant portion claim;

Give but a little, and she'll rest content.

(1792)

Another Epistle to Nell*

While Pha:bus did our summer arbours cheer, And joys Autumnal crown' d our circling year; Even then my thoughts to you excursions made, And ardently the bypast scenes survey'd; Where oft we met in Eccles' peaceful bow'rs, While social pleasure mark'd the passing hours. From these sweet scenes I found myself remov'd, I fear'd no more remember'd or belov'd. Forgot by Nell, whose friendship seem'd sincere, Such cold neglect, who undisturb'd could bear?

Mild Autumn now resigns to rougher skies, And frightful storms, in wild commotion, rise. The tempest howls, while dark December reigns, And scatters desolation o'er the plains. Just as the sun bursts from the wintry cloud, Which oft does now his native glory shroud, Your welcome letter cheers my anxious soul; For humour, wit, and friendship grace the whole. Well pleas'd I find you on Parnassus' hill; The more I read, the more I prize your skill.

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Janet Little

The Muses coy, you seem to catch with ease, And unfatigu'd attain the art to please.

Go on, dear Nell, the laureate-wreath pursue, In time perhaps you may receive your due. We'll beat the bushes for the rustic muse, Where ev'ry dunce her inspiration sues. 'Mongst the vast crowd, let you and I aspire To share a little of Apollo's fire. If Fortune prove, like Cupid, ever blind, We may perhaps some petty favour find; But if no more we gain by these our lays, We'll please ourselves with one another's praise.

(1792)

*This poem follows "Epistle to Nell, Wrote from Loudoun Castle" and "Nell's Answer" in The Poetical Works of Janet Little, the Scotch Milkmaid.

To My Aunty

My ever dear an' worthy aunty, Wha n'er o' wit nor lear was vaunty; Yet often could, like honest grandam, Unravel dreams; an' whiles, at random, Did truth in mystic terms declare, Which made us aft wi' wonder stare.

Last night, when Morpheus softly hurl'd His silken sceptre o'er the world, Some anxious cares within my breast Were silently consign'd to rest;

2 lear] Learning. 2 vaunty] Proud, boastful. 7 Morpheus] According to Greek mythology, one of the sons of Hypnos, or Sleep. He is

conunonly referred to in literature as the god of sleep and the bringer of dreams.

Janet Little

Yet did in sleep their pow'r retain, As shews the visions of my brain.

My works I thought appear'd in print, And were to diff'rent corners sent, Whare patrons kind, but scant o' skill, Had sign'd my superscription bill. Voratious critics by the way, Like eagles watching for their prey, Soon caught the verse wi' aspect sour, An' did ilk feeble thought devour; Nor did its humble, helpless state, One fraction of their rage abate.

Tom Touchy, one of high pretenc~ To taste an' learning, wit an' sense, Was at the board the foremost man, Its imperfections a' to scan. Soon as the line he seem'd to doubt, The meaner critics scratch'd it out; Still to be nam'd on Touchy's side, Was baith their int'rest and their pride.

Will Hasty, in an unco rage, Revis'd the volume page by page; But aft was deem'd a stupid ass, For cens'ring what alone might pass.

Jack Tim'rous gladly would have spoke, But quiv'ring lips his sentence broke; So much he fear'd a brother's scorn, The whole escap'd his claws untorn.

James Easy calm'd my throbbing heart, An' whisp'ring told each man apart, That he the volume much esteem'd; Its little faults he nothing deem'd:

31 unco] Uncouth; also great or remarkable.

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52 syne] Then.

Janet Little

An' if his vote they would receive, It might through countless ages live.

While I poor James's speech admir'd, Tom Touchy at the sound was fir'd: And ah! it griev'd me much to find, He prov'd him senseless, deaf, and blind: Then quick as thought, ere I could tell him, Ilk critics club was up to fell him; An' as he, helpless, met the stroke, I, starting, trembl'd, syne awoke.

Now aunty, see this sad narration, Which fills my breast wi' fair vexation; An' if you can some comfort gie me, Make nae delay, but send it to me: For I'm commanded by Apollo, Your sage advice in this to follow.

On Reading Lady Mary Montague and Mrs. Rowe's Letters·

As Venus by night, so MONTAGUE bright Long in the gay circle did shine:

She tun'd well the lyre, mankind did admire; They prais'd, and they call'd her divine.

This pride of the times, in far distant climes, Stood high in the temple of Fame:

Britannia's shore, then ceas'd to adore, A greater the tribute did claim.

To sue for the prize, fam'd ROWE did arise, More bright than Apollo was she:

Janet Little

Superior rays obtain'd now the bays, And MONTAGUE bended the knee.

0 excellent RowE, much Britain does owe To what you've ingen'ously penn'd:

Of virtue and wit, the model you've hit; Who reads must you ever commend.

Would ladies pursue, the paths trod by you, And jointly to learning aspire,

The men soon would yield unto them the field, And critics in silence admire.

(r792)

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•Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1689-1762), essayist. She went with her husband to Constantinople, and her Turkish Letters (1763) were published posthumously. Eliza­beth Rowe (1674-1737) published Poems on Several Occasions (1696) but was better known for her epistolary works, such as Friendship in Death, in Twenty Letters from the Dead to the Living (1728).

To a Lady Who Sent the Author Some Paper with a Reading of Sillar's Poems* ·

Dear madam, with joy I read over your letter; Your kindness still tends to confirm me your debtor; But can't think of payment, the sum is so large, Tho' farthings for guineas could buy my discharge. But, madam, the Muses are fled far away, They deem it disgrace with a milkmaid to stay. Let them go if they will, I would scorn to pursue, And can, without sighing, subscribe an adieu. Their trifling mock visits, to many so dear,

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Is the only disaster on earth I now fear. IO

Sure Sillar much better had banish'd them thence, Than wrote in despite of good manners and sense: With two or three more, whose pretensions to fame

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Are slight as the bubble that bursts on the stream. And lest with such dunces as these I be number'd, The task I will drop, nor with verse be incumber'd; Tho' pen, ink and paper, are by me in store, 0 madam excuse, for I ne'er shall write more.

(1792)

•David Sillar (1760-1830) was a good friend of Robert Burns; his Poems (1789)

enjoyed little success.

Given to a Lady Who Asked Me to Write a Poem

In royal Anna's golden days, Hard was the task to gain the bays: Hard was it then the hill to climb; Some broke a neck, some lost a limb. The vot'ries for poetic fame, Got aff decrepit, blind, an' lame: Except that little fellow Pope, Few ever then got near its top: An' Homer's crutches he may thank, Or down the brae he'd got a clank.

Swift, Thomson, Addison, an' Young Made Pindus echo to their tongue,

I In royal Anna's golden days] Anne (1665-1714) was queen of Great Britain from 1702 to 1714.

7-9 Except that little fellow Pope . .. An' Homer's crutches he may thank] Alexander Pope (1688-1744), best known today for his Rape of the Lock (1714) , suffered when he was twelve a severe illness, probably Pott's disease, that affected his spine; as a result, his health was ruined and his growth stunted.

ro brae] Riverbank. IO clank] Noise, severe blow. II Swift, Thomson, Addison, an' Young]Jonathan Swift (1667-1745),James Thomson (1700-

1748), Joseph Addison (1672-1719), Edward Young (1683-1765). 12 Pindus] Probably a reference to Pindar (c. 522-443 B.c.), Greek lyric poet.

Janet Little

In hopes to please a learned age; But Doctor Johnston, in a rage, Unto posterity did shew Their blunders great, their beauties few. But now he's dead, we weel may ken; For ilka dunce maun hae a pen, To write in hamely, uncouth rhymes; An' yet forsooth they please the times.

A ploughman chiel, Rab Burns his name, Pretends to write; an' thinks nae shame To souse his sonnets on the court; An' what is strange, they praise him for't. Even folks, wha 're of the highest station, Ca' him the glory of our nation.

But what is more surprising still, A milkmaid must tak up her quill; An' she will write, shame fa' the rabble! That think to please wi' ilka bawble. They may thank heav'n, auld Sam's asleep: For could he ance but get a peep, He, wi' a vengeance wad them sen' N. headlong to the dunces' den.

Yet Burns, I'm tauld, can write wi' ease, An' a' denominations please; Can wi' uncommon glee impart A usefu' lesson to the heart; Can ilka latent thought expose, An' Nature trace whare'er she goes: Of politics can talk wi' skill, Nor dare the critics blame his quill.

14 Doctor Johnston] Samuel Johnson (1709-84) . 18 For ilka dunce maun hae a pen] For every dunce must have a pen.

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21 A ploughman chiel, Rab Burns] Chiel is Scots for "child," "fellow," or "man." The nov­elist Henry Mackenzie, writing about the poems of Robert Burns (1759-96) in the Lounger (9 December 1186), called him a "heaven-taught ploughman."

35 Yet Burns, I'm tauld, can write wi' ease] Bums (1759-96) was a prolific writer both in his native Scots and in correct eighteenth-century English.

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54 sic] Such.

Janet Little

But then a rustic country quean To write-was e'er the like o't seen? A milk maid poem-books to print; Mair fit she wad her dairy tent; Or labour at her spinning wheel, An' do her wark baith swift an' weel. Frae that she may some profit share, But winna frae her rhyming ware. Does she, poor silly thing, pretend The manners of our age to mend? Mad as we are, we're wise enough Still to despise sic paultry stuff.

"May she wha writes, of wit get mair, An' a' that read an ample share Of candour ev'ry fault to screen, That in her dogg'ral scrawls are seen."

All this and more, a critic said; I heard and slunk behind the shade: So much I dread their cruel spite, My hand still trembles when I write.

(1792)

On Seeing Mr. --- Baking Cakes

As Rab, who ever frugal was, Some oat-meal cakes was baking,

In came a crazy scribbling lass, Which set his heart a-quaking.

"I fear," says he, "she'll verses write, An' to her neebors show it:

But troth I need na care a doit, Though a' the country knew it .

7 doit] Small Dutch copper coin used in Scotland and considered to be of little value.

Janet Little

My cakes are good, none can object; The maids will ca' me thrifty;

To save a sixpence on the peck Is just an honest shifty.

They're fair an' thin, an' crump, 'tis true; You'll own sae when you see them;

But, what is better than the view, Put out your han' an' pree them."

He spoke, an' han'd the cakes about, Whilk ev'ry eater prized;

Until the basket was run out, They did as he advised.

An' ilka ane that got a share, Said that they were fu' dainty;

While Rab cri'd eat, an' dinna spare; For I hae cakes in plenty.

Andi' the corner stan's a cheese, A glass an' bottle by me;

Baith ale and porter, when I please, To treat the lasses slily.

Some ca' me wild an' roving youth; But sure they are mistaken:

The maid wha gets me, of a truth, Her bread will ay be baken.

13 crump] Crisp, brittle. 16 pree] Sample, try out.

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Janet Little

The Month's Love

Ye maidens attend to my tale, Of love that sly archer take care;

His darts o'er all ranks do prevail, The wealthy, the wise, and the fair.

When once his fierce arrow he throws, Contentment will bid you adieu;

No potion the doctor bestows, Can then be of service to you.

Experience prompts me to tell, I felt his tyrannical sway;

The time I remember too well; It was a long month and a day.

The youth, I'll not mention his name, Who was the sole cause of my smart,

His deeds were unnotic'd by fame, His manners unpolish'd by art.

His person could boast of no charm, His words of no conquering power;

Yet his footsteps did give the alarm, Which made my heart beat for an hour.

When absent from him I ador'd, One minute as ages did prove;

Though plenty replenish'd my board, I fasted and feasted on love.

My couch but augmented my pain; No sleep ever closed my eyes;

One glance of my rustic young swain Was what I more highly did prize.

None ever bemoan'd my sad case; They laugh'd at the ills I endur'd;

Janet Little

But time did my sorrows efface, And spite of the imp I was cur'd.

I saw my lov'd youth in the shade, Soft whisp'ring to Susan apart;

Resentment came quick to my aid, And I banish'd him quite from my heart.

But be not too forward, ye fair, Nor take too much courage from me,

How many have fall'n in the snare That got not so easily free?

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