[Footnote 127: Because of what Burns elsewhere called "Some temeraire conduct of mine, in the political opinions of the day."] * * * * CLXXXI.--TO MR. ALEX. CUNNINGHAM, W.S., EDINBURGH. DUMFRIES, _20th Feb_. 1793. What are you doing? What hurry have you got on your head, my dear Cunningham, that I have not heard from you? Are you deeply engaged in the mazes of the Jaw, the mysteries of love, or the profound wisdom of _politics_? Curse on the word! _Q_. What is Politics? _A_. It is a science wherewith, by means of nefarious cunning and hypocritical pretence, we govern civil politics (sic) for the emolument of ourselves and adherents. Q. What is a minister? A. An unprincipled fellow who, by the influence of hereditary or acquired wealth, by superior abilities or by a lucky conjuncture of circumstances, obtains a principal place in the administration of the affairs of government. Q. What is a patriot? A. An individual exactly of the same description as a minister, only out of place. I was interrupted in my Catechism, and am returned at a late hour just to subscribe my name, and to put you in mind of the forgotten friend of that name who is still in the land of the living, though I can hardly say in the place of hope. I made the enclosed sonnet[128] the other day. Adieu! ROBT. BURNS. [Footnote 128: "On Hearing a Thrush Sing."] * * * * * CLXXXIL--To MR. CUNNINGHAM. 3rd March 1793. Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, I have not had time to write to you farther. When I say that I had not time, that, as usual, means that the three demons, indolence, business, and ennui, have so completely shared my hours among them, as not to leave me a five minutes' fragment to take up a pen in. Thank Heaven, I feel my spirits buoying upwards with the renovating year. Now I shall in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly, and I must own with too much appearance of truth...