CCCII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The poet relates the history of several of his best songs in this letter: the true old strain of "Andro and his cutty gun" is the first of its kind.]
_19th October, 1794._
MY DEAR FRIEND,
By this morning's post I have your list, and, in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and I wish you would call on him and take his opinion in general: you know his taste is a standard. He will return here again in a week or two, so please do not miss asking for him. One thing I hope he will do--persuade you to adopt my favourite "Craigieburn-wood," in your selection: it is as great a favourite of his as of mine. The lady on whom it was made is one of the finest women in Scotland; and in fact (_entre nous_) is in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to him--a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now, don't put any of your squinting constructions on this, or have any clishmaclaver about it among our acquaintances.) I assure you that to my lovely friend you are indebted for many of your best songs of mine. Do you think that the sober, gin-horse routine of existence could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy--could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book? No! no! Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song--to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs--do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial emanation? _Tout au contraire!_ I have a glorious recipe; the very one that for his own use was invented by the divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon!
To descend to business: if you like my idea of "When she cam ben she bobbit," the following stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they were formerly, when set to another air, may perhaps do instead of worse stanzas:--
O saw ye my dear, my Phely.[261]
Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. "The Posie" (in the Museum) is my composition; the air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice. It is well known in the west country, but the old words are trash. By the bye, take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you do not think it is the original from which "Roslin Castle" is composed. The second part in particular, for the first two or three bars, is exactly the old air. "Strathallan's Lament" is mine; the music is by our right trusty and deservedly well-beloved Allan Masterton. "Donocht-Head" is not mine; I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it "Whistle o'er the lave o't" is mine: the music said to be by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin-player in Dumfries, about the beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, constantly claimed it; and by all the old musical people here is believed to be the author of it.
"Andrew and his cutty gun." The song to which this is set in the Museum is mine, and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the Flower of Strathmore.
"How long and dreary is the night!" I met with some such words in a collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged; and to please you, and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a stride or two across my room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the other page.
How long and dreary is the night, &c.[262]
Tell me how you like this. I differ from your idea of the expression of the tune. There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to your addenda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, a noted performer, plays and sings at the same time so charmingly, that I shall never bear to see any of her songs sent into the world, as naked as Mr. What-d'ye-call-um has done in his London collection.[263]
These English songs gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at "Duncan Gray," to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance:--
Let not woman e'er complain, &c.[264]
Since the above, I have been out in the country, taking a dinner with a friend, where I met with a lady whom I mentioned in the second page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usual, I got into song; and returning home I composed the following:
Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature
&c.[265]
If you honour my verses by setting the air to them, I will vamp up the old song, and make it English enough to be understood.
I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East Indian air, which you would swear was a Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, as the gentleman who brought it over is a particular acquaintance of mine. Do preserve me the copy I send you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke has set a bass to it, and I intend putting it into the Musical Museum. Here follow the verses I intend for it.
But lately seen in gladsome green, &c.[266]
I would be obliged to you if you would procure me a sight of Ritson's collection of English songs, which you mention in your letter. I will thank you for another information, and that as speedily as you please: whether this miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not completely tired you of my correspondence?
VARIATION.
Now to the streaming fountain,
Or up the heathy mountain,
The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray;
In twining hazel bowers,
His lay the linnet pours;
The lav'rock to the sky
Ascends wi' sangs o' joy,
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.
When frae my Chloris parted,
Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted,
The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my sky.
But when she charms my sight,
In pride of beauty's light;
When through my very heart
Her beaming glories dart;
'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy!
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 261: Song CCXXVII.]
[Footnote 262: Song CCXXVIII.]
[Footnote 263: Mr. Ritson, whose collection of Scottish songs was published this year.]
[Footnote 264: Song CCXXIX.]
[Footnote 265: Song CCXXX.]
[Footnote 266: Song CCXVI.]
CCCIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The presents made to the poet were far from numerous: the book for which he expresses his thanks, was the work of the waspish Ritson.]
_November, 1794._
Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your present; it is a book of the utmost importance to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, &c., for your work. I intend drawing them up in the form of a letter to you, which will save me from the tedious dull business of systematic arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to say consists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps of old songs, &c., it would be impossible to give the work a beginning, a middle, and an end, which the critics insist to be absolutely necessary in a work. In my last, I told you my objections to the song you had selected for "My lodging is on the cold ground." On my visit the other day to my friend Chloris (that is the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration), she suggested an idea, which I, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following song.
My Chloris, mark how green the groves.[267]
How do you like the simplicity and tenderness of this pastoral? I think it pretty well.
I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of "_ma chere amie._" I assure you I was never more in earnest in my life, than in the account of that affair which I sent you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate; but, somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion,
"Where love is liberty, and nature law."
Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet, while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still, I am a very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness of the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul; and whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever might be the raptures they would give me, yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having these pleasures at a dishonest price; and justice forbids and generosity disdains the purchase.
Despairing of my own powers to give you variety enough in English songs, I have been turning over old collections, to pick out songs, of which the measure is something similar to what I want; and, with a little alteration, so as to suit the rhythm of the air exactly, to give you them for your work. Where the songs have hitherto been but little noticed, nor have ever been set to music, I think the shift a fair one. A song, which, under the same first verse, you will find in Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, I have cut down for an English dress to your "Dainty Davie," as follows:--
It was the charming month of May.[268]
You may think meanly of this, but take a look at the bombast original, and you will be surprised that I have made so much of it. I have finished my song to "Rothemurche's rant," and you have Clarke to consult as to the set of the air for singing.
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, &c.[269]
This piece has at least the merit of being a regular pastoral: the vernal morn, the summer noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, well; if not, I will insert it in the Museum.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 267: Song CCXXXI.]
[Footnote 268: Song CCXXXII.]
[Footnote 269: Song CCXXXIII.]
CCCIV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Sir Walter Scott remarked, on the lyrics of Burns, "that at last the writing a series of songs for large musical collections degenerated into a slavish labour which no talents could support."]
I am out of temper that you should set so sweet, so tender an air, as "Deil tak the wars," to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silliness of "Saw ye my father?"--By heavens! the odds is gold to brass! Besides, the old song, though now pretty well modernized into the Scottish language, is originally, and in the early editions, a bungling low imitation of the Scottish manner, by that genius Tom D'Urfey, so has no pretensions to be a Scottish production. There is a pretty English song by Sheridan, in the "Duenna," to this air, which is out of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins,
"When sable night each drooping plant restoring."
The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the very native language of simplicity, tenderness, and love. I have again gone over my song to the tune.
Now for my English song to "Nancy's to the greenwood," &c.
Farewell thou stream that winding flows.[270]
There is an air, "The Caledonian Hunt's Delight," to which I wrote a song that, you will find in Johnson, "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon:" this air I think might find a place among your hundred, as Lear says of his knights. Do you know the history of the air? It is curious enough. A good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, writer in your good town, a gentleman whom possibly you know, was in company with our friend Clarke; and talking of Scottish music, Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve some kind of rhythm, and he would infallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is that, in a few days, Mr. Miller produced the rudiments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some touches and corrections, fashioned into the tune in question. Ritson, you know, has the same story of the black keys; but this account which I have just given you, Mr. Clarke informed me of several years ago. Now, to show you how difficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly asserted that this was an Irish air; nay, I met with an Irish gentleman who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland among the old women; while, on the other hand, a countess informed me, that the first person who introduced the air into this country, was a baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took down the notes from an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How difficult, then, to ascertain the truth respecting our poesy and music! I, myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads sung through the streets of Dumfries, with my name at the head of them as the author, though it was the first time I had ever seen them.
I thank you for admitting "Craigieburn-wood;" and I shall take care to furnish you with a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my work, but a part of some old verses to the air. If I can catch myself in a more than ordinarily propitious moment, I shall write a new "Craigieburn-wood" altogether. My heart is much in the theme.
I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request; 'tis dunning your generosity; but in a moment when I had forgotten whether I was rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you this; but an ungracious request is doubly so by a tedious apology. To make you some amends, as soon as I have extracted the necessary information out of them, I will return you Ritson's volumes.
The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so distinguished a figure in your collection, and I am not a little proud that I have it in my power to please her so much. Lucky it is for your patience that my paper is done, for when I am in a scribbling humour, I know not when to give over.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 270: Song CCXXXIV.]
CCCV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Willy and Phely, in one of the lyrics which this letter contained, carry on the pleasant bandying of praise till compliments grow scarce, and the lovers are reduced to silence.]
_19th November, 1794._
You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual correspondent I am; though, indeed, you may thank yourself for the _tedium_ of my letters, as you have so flattered me on my horsemanship with my favourite hobby, and have praised the grace of his ambling so much, that I am scarcely ever off his back. For instance, this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in my walk before breakfast, I finished my duet, which you were pleased to praise so much. Whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not say; but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old.
O Philly, happy be the day.[271]
Tell me honestly how you like it, and point out whatever you think faulty.
I am much pleased with your idea of singing our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that you did not hint it to me sooner. In those that remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember your objections to the name Philly, but it is the common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the only other name that suits, has to my ear a vulgarity about it, which unfits it, for anything except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, whom your brother editor, Mr. Ritson, ranks with me as my coevals, have always mistaken vulgarity for simplicity; whereas, simplicity is as much _eloignée_ from vulgarity on the one hand, as from affected point and puerile conceit on the other.
I agree with you as to the air, "Craigieburn-wood," that a chorus would, in some degree, spoil the effect, and shall certainly have none in my projected song to it. It is not, however, a case in point with "Rothemurche;" there, as in "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch," a chorus goes, to my taste, well enough. As to the chorus going first, that is the case with "Roy's Wife," as well as "Rothemurche." In fact, in the first part of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar and irregular, and on that irregularity depends so much of their beauty, that we must e'en take them with all their wildness, and humour the verse accordingly. Leaving out the starting note in both tunes, has, I think, an effect that no regularity could counterbalance the want of.
Try, {Oh Roy's wife of Aldivalloch.
{O lassie wi' the lint-white locks.
and
compare with {Roy's wife of Aldivalloch.
{Lassie wi the lint-white locks.
Does not the lameness of the prefixed syllable strike you? In the last case, with the true furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild originality of the air; whereas, in the first insipid method, it is like the grating screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. This is my taste; if I am wrong, I beg pardon of the
_cognoscenti._
"The Caledonian Hunt" is so charming, that it would make any subject in a song go down; but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scottish bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few we have are excellent. For instance, "Todlin hame," is, for wit and humour, an unparalleled composition; And "Andrew and his cutty gun" is the work of a master. By the way, are you not quite vexed to think that those men of genius, for such they certainly were, who composed our fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown? It has given me many a heart-ache. Apropos to bacchanalian songs in Scottish, I composed one yesterday, for an air I like much--"Lumps o' pudding."
Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair.[272]
If you do not relish this air, I will send it to Johnson.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 271: Song CCXXXV.]
[Footnote 272: Song CCXXXVI.]
CCCVI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The instrument which the poet got from the braes of Athol, seems of an order as rude and incapable of fine sounds as the whistles which school-boys make in spring from the smaller boughs of the plane-tree.]
Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framed a couple of English stanzas, by way of an English song to "Roy's Wife." You will allow me, that in this instance my English corresponds in sentiment with the Scottish.
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?[273]
Well! I think this, to be done in two or three turns across my room, and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. You see I am determined to have my quantum of applause from somebody.
Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we only want the trifling circumstance of being known to one another, to be the best friends on earth) that I much suspect he has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I have, at last, gotten one, but it is a very rude instrument. It is comprised of three parts; the stock, which is the hinder thigh bone of a sheep, such as you see in a mutton ham; the horn, which is a common Highland cow's horn, cut off at the smaller end, until the aperture be large enough to admit the stock to be pushed up through the horn until it be held by the thicker end of the thigh-bone; and lastly, an oaten reed exactly cut and notched like that which you see every shepherd boy have, when the corn-stems are green and full grown. The reed is not made fast in the bone, but is held by the lips, and plays loose in the smaller end of the stock; while the stock, with the horn hanging on its larger end, is held by the hands in playing. The stock has six or seven ventages on the upper side, and one back-ventage, like the common flute. This of mine was made by a man from the braes of Athole, and is exactly what the shepherds wont to use in that country.
However, either it is not quite properly bored in the holes, or else we have not the art of blowing it rightly; for we can make little of it. If Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of mine, as I look on myself to be a kind of brother-brush with him. "Pride in poets is nae sin;" and I will say it, that I look on Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real painters of Scottish costume in the world.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 273: Song CCXXXVII.]
CCCVII.
TO PETER MILLER, JUN., ESQ.,
OF DALSWINTON.
[In a conversation with James Perry, editor of the Morning Chronicle, Mr. Miller, who was then member for the Dumfries boroughs, kindly represented the poverty of the poet and the increasing number of his family: Perry at once offered fifty pounds a year for any
contributions he might choose to make to his newspaper: the reasons for his refusal are stated in this letter.]
_Dumfries, Nov. 1794._
DEAR SIR,
Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most sincerely do I thank you for it; but in my present situation, I find that I dare not accept it. You well know my political sentiments; and were I an insular individual, unconnected with a wife and a family of children, with the most fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my services: I then could and would have despised all consequences that might have ensued.
My prospect in the Excise is something; at least it is, encumbered as I am with the welfare, the very existence, of near half-a-score of helpless individuals, what I dare not sport with.
In the mean time, they are most welcome to my Ode; only, let them insert it as a thing they have met with by accident and unknown to me.--Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honour, after your character of him, I cannot doubt; if he will give me an address and channel by which anything will come safe from those spies with which he may be certain that his correspondence is beset, I will now and then send him any bagatelle that I may write. In the present hurry of Europe, nothing but news and politics will be regarded; but against the days of peace, which Heaven send soon, my little assistance may perhaps fill up an idle column of a newspaper. I have long had it in my head to try my hand in the way of little prose essays, which I propose sending into the world though the medium of some newspaper; and should these be worth his while, to these Mr. Perry shall be welcome; and all my reward shall be, his treating me with his paper, which, by the bye, to anybody who has the least relish for wit, is a high treat indeed.
With the most grateful esteem I am ever,
Dear Sir,
R. B.
CCCVIII.
TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, JUN.,
DUMFRIES.
[Political animosities troubled society during the days of Burns, as much at least as they disturb it now--this letter is an instance of it.]
_Sunday Morning._
DEAR SIR,
I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am sober this morning. From the expressions Capt. ---- made use of to me, had I had no-body's welfare to care for but my own, we should certainly have come, according to the manners of the world, to the necessity of murdering one another about the business. The words were such as, generally, I believe, end in a brace of pistols; but I am still pleased to think that I did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and a family of children in a drunken squabble. Farther, you know that the report of certain political opinions being mine, has already once before brought me to the brink of destruction. I dread lest last night's business may be misrepresented in the same way.--You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for Mr. Burns' welfare with the task of waiting as soon as possible, on every gentleman who was present, and state this to him, and, as you please, show him this letter. What, after all, was the obnoxious toast? "May our success in the present war be equal to the justice of our cause."--A toast that the most outrageous frenzy of loyalty cannot object to. I request and beg that this morning you will wait on the parties present at the foolish dispute. I shall only add, that I am truly sorry that a man who stood so high in my estimation as Mr. ----, should use me in the manner in which I conceive he has done.
R. B.
CCCIX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Burns allowed for the songs which Wolcot wrote for Thomson a degree of lyric merit which the world has refused to sanction.]
_December, 1794._
It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart to do anything to forward or add to the value of your book; and as I agree with you that the jacobite song in the Museum to "There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame," would not so well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love-song to that air, I have just framed for you the following:--
Now in her green mantle, &c.[274]
How does this please you? As to the point of time for the expression, in your proposed print from my "Sodger's Return," it must certainly be at--"She gaz'd." The interesting dubiety and suspense taking possession of her countenance, and the gushing fondness, with a mixture of roguish playfulness, in his, strike me as things of which a master will make a great deal. In great haste, but in great truth, yours,
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 274: Song CCXXXVIII.]
CCCX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[In this brief and off-hand way Burns bestows on Thompson one of the finest songs ever dedicated to the cause of human freedom.]
_January_, 1795.
I fear for my songs; however, a few may please, yet originality is a coy feature in composition, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the same style, disappears altogether. For these three thousand years, we poetic folks have been describing the spring, for instance; and as the spring continues the same, there must soon be a sameness in the imagery, &c., of these said rhyming folks.
A great critic (Aikin) on songs, says that love and wine are the exclusive themes for song-writing. The following is on neither subject, and consequently is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme.
Is there for honest poverty.[275]
I do not give you the foregoing song for your book, but merely by way of _vive la bagatelle_; for the piece is not really poetry. How will the following do for "Craigieburn-wood?"--
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn.[276]
Farewell! God bless you!
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 275: Song CCLXIV.]
[Footnote 276: Song CCXLV.]
CCCXI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Of this letter, Dr. Currie writes "the poet must have been tipsy indeed to abuse sweet Ecclefechan at this rate;" it is one of the prettiest of our Annandale villages, and the birth-place of that distinguished biographer.]
_Ecclefechan_, 7_th February_, 1795.
MY DEAR THOMSON,
You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which I write to you. In the course of my duty as supervisor (in which capacity I have acted of late), I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked little village. I have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have impeded my progress: I have tried to "gae back the gate I cam again," but the same obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget these miseries; or to hang myself, to get rid of them: like a prudent man (a character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed), I of two evils have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at your service!
I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had not time then to tell you all I wanted to say; and, Heaven knows, at present have not capacity.
Do you know an air--I am sure you must know it--"We'll gang nae mair to yon town?" I think, in slowish time, it would make an excellent song. I am highly delighted with it; and if you should think it worthy of your attention, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would consecrate it.
As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night.
R. B.
CCCXII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The song of Caledonia, in honour of Mrs. Burns, was accompanied by two others in honour of the poet's mistress: the muse was high in song, and used few words in the letter which enclosed them.]
_May, 1795._
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay![277]
Let me know, your very first leisure, how you like this song.
Long, long the night.[278]
How do you like the foregoing? The Irish air, "Humours of Glen," is a great favourite of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the "Poor Soldier," there are not any decent verses for it, I have written for it as follows:--
Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon.[279]
Let me hear from you.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 277: Song CCXLIX.]
[Footnote 278: Song CCL.]
[Footnote 279: Song CCLI.]
CCCXIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The poet calls for praise in this letter, a species of coin which is always ready.]
How cruel are the parents.[280]
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion.[281]
Well, this is not amiss. You see how I answer your orders--your tailor could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit for poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don't cure me. If you can, in a post or two, administer a little of the intoxicating potion of your applause, it will raise your humble servant's phrensy to any height you want. I am at this moment "holding high converse" with the muses, and have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as you are.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 280: Song CCLIII.]
[Footnote 281: Song CCLIV.]
CCCXIV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Thomson at this time sent the drawing to Burns in which David Allan sought to embody the "Cotter's Saturday Night:" it displays at once the talent and want of taste of the ingenious artist.]
_May, 1795._
Ten thousand thanks for your elegant present--though I am ashamed of the value of it, being bestowed on a man who has not, by any means, merited such an instance of kindness. I have shown it to two or three judges of the first abilities here, and they all agree with me in classing it as a first-rate production. My phiz is sae kenspeckle, that the very joiner's apprentice, whom Mrs. Burns employed to break up the parcel (I was out of town that day) knew it at once. My most grateful compliments to Allan, who has honoured my rustic music so much with his masterly pencil. One strange coincidence is, that the little one who is making the felonious attempt on the cat's tail, is the most striking likeness of an ill-deedie, d--n'd, wee,
rumblegairie urchin of mine, whom from that propensity to witty wickedness, and man-fu' mischief, which, even at twa days auld, I foresaw would form the striking features of his disposition, I named Willie Nicol, after a certain friend of mine, who is one of the masters of a grammar-school in a city which shall be nameless.
Give the enclosed epigram to my much-valued friend Cunningham, and tell him, that on Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me in a manner introduced me--I mean a well-known military and literary character, Colonel Dirom.
You do not tell me how you liked my two last songs. Are they condemned?
R. B.
CCCXV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[In allusion to the preceding letter, Thomson says to Burns, "You really make me blush when you tell me you have not merited the drawing from me." The "For a' that and a' that," which went with this letter, was, it is believed, the composition of Mrs. Riddel.]
In "Whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad," the iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear. Here goes what I think is an improvement:--
Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad;
Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad;
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae mad,
Thy Jeanie will venture wi' ye, my lad.
In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus--a dame whom the Graces have attired in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with lightning--a fair one, herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment, and dispute her commands if you dare?
This is no my ain lassie,[282] &c.
Do you know that you have roused the torpidity of Clarke at last? He has requested me to write three or four songs for him, which he is to set to music himself. The enclosed sheet contains two songs for him, which please to present to my valued friend Cunningham.
I enclose the sheet open, both for your inspection, and that you may copy the song "Oh bonnie was yon rosy brier." I do not know whether I am right, but that song pleases me; and as it is extremely probable that Clarke's newly-roused celestial spark will be soon smothered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the song, it may go as Scottish verses to the air of "I wish my love was in a mire;" and poor Erskine's English lines may follow.
I enclose you a "For a' that and a' that," which was never in print: it is a much superior song to mine. I have been told that it was composed by a lady, and some lines written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my poems, presented to the lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often sung under the name of Chloris:--
To Chloris.[283]
_Une bagatelle de l'amitié._
COILA.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 282: Song CCLV.]
[Footnote 283: Poems, No. CXLVI.]
CCCXVI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[In the double service of poesy and music the poet had to sing of pangs which he never endured, from beauties to whom he had never spoken.]
FORLORN my love, no comfort near, &c.[284]
How do you like the foregoing? I have written it within this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus; but what say you to his bottom?
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 284: Song CCLVIII.]
CCCXVII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The unexampled brevity of Burns's letters, and the extraordinary flow and grace of his songs, towards the close of his life, have not now for the first time been remarked.]
LAST May a braw wooer.[285]
Why, why tell thy lover.[286]
Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air, that I find it impossible to make another stanza to suit it.
I am at present quite occupied with the charming sensations of the toothache, so have not a word to spare.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 285: Song CCLIX.]
[Footnote 286: Song CCLX.]
CCCXVIII.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
_Supposes himself to be writing from the dead to the living._
[Ill health, poverty, a sense of dependence, with the much he had deserved of his country, and the little he had obtained, were all at this time pressing on the mind of Burns, and inducing him to forget what was due to himself as well as to the courtesies of life.]
MADAM,
I dare say that this is the first epistle you ever received from this nether world. I write you from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of the damned. The time and the manner of my leaving your earth I do not exactly know, as I took my departure in the heat of a fever of intoxication contracted at your too hospitable mansion; but, on my arrival here, I was fairly tried, and sentenced to endure the purgatorial tortures of this infernal confine for the space of ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days, and all on account of the impropriety of my conduct yesternight under your roof. Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever-piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name I think is _Recollection_, with a whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I could in any measure be reinstated in the good opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last night so much injured, I think it would be an alleviation to my torments. For this reason I trouble you with this letter. To the men of the company I will make no apology.--Your husband, who insisted on my drinking more than I chose, has no right to blame me; and the other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. But to you, Madam, I have much to apologize. Your good opinion I valued as one of the greatest acquisitions I had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss I----, too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and unassuming manners--do make on my part, a miserable d--mned wretch's best apology to her. A Mrs. G----, a charming woman, did me the honour to be prejudiced in my favour; this makes me hope that I have not outraged her beyond all forgiveness.--To all the other ladies please present my humblest contrition for my conduct, and my petition for their gracious pardon. O all ye powers of decency and decorum! whisper to them that my errors, though great, were involuntary--that an intoxicated man is the vilest of beasts--that it was not in my nature to be brutal to any one--that to be rude to a woman, when in my senses, was impossible with me--but--
Regret! Remorse! Shame! ye three hell-hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my heels, spare me! spare me!
Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of, Madam, your humble slave.
R. B.
CCCXIX.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[Mrs. Riddel, it is said, possessed many more of the poet's letters than are printed--she sometimes read them to friends who could feel their wit, and, like herself, make allowance for their freedom.]
_Dumfries, 1795._
Mr. Burns's compliments to Mrs. Riddel--is much obliged to her for her polite attention in sending him the book. Owing to Mr. B.'s being at present acting as supervisor of excise, a department that occupies his every hour of the day, he has not that time to spare which is necessary for any belle-lettre pursuit; but, as he will, in a week or two, again return to his wonted leisure, he will then pay that attention to Mrs. R.'s beautiful song, "To thee, loved Nith"--which it so well deserves. When "Anacharsis' Travels" come to hand, which Mrs. Riddel mentioned as her gift to the public library, Mr. B. will thank her for a reading of it previous to her sending it to the library, as it is a book Mr. B. has never seen: he wishes to have a longer perusal of them than the regulations of the library allow.
_Friday Eve._
P.S. Mr. Burns will be much obliged to Mrs. Riddel if she will favour him with a perusal of any of her poetical pieces which he may not have seen.
R. B.
CCCXX.
TO MISS LOUISA FONTENELLE.
[That Miss Fontenelle, as an actress, did not deserve the high praise which Burns bestows may be guessed: the lines to which he alludes were recited by the lady on her benefit-night, and are printed among his Poems.]
_Dumfries, December, 1795._
MADAM,
In such a bad world as ours, those who add to the scanty sum of our pleasures, are positively our benefactors. To you, Madam, on our humble Dumfries boards, I have been more indebted for entertainment than ever I was in prouder theatres. Your charms as a woman would insure applause to the most indifferent actress, and your theatrical talents would insure admiration to the plainest figure. This, Madam, is not the unmeaning or insidious compliment of the frivolous or interested; I pay it from the same honest impulse that the sublime of nature excites my admiration, or her beauties give me delight.
Will the foregoing lines be of any service to you in your approaching benefit-night? If they will I shall be prouder of my muse than ever. They are nearly extempore: I know they have no great merit; but though they should add but little to the entertainment of the evening, they give me the happiness of an opportunity to declare how much I have the honour to be, &c.
R. B.
CCCXXI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[Of the sweet girl to whom Burns alludes in this letter he was deprived during this year: her death pressed sorely on him.]
_15th December, 1795._
MY DEAR FRIEND,
As I am in a complete Decemberish humour, gloomy, sullen, stupid as even the Deity of Dulness herself could wish, I shall not drawl out a heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies for my late silence. Only one I shall mention, because I know you will sympathize in it: these four months, a sweet little girl, my youngest child, has been so ill, that every day, a week or less, threatened to terminate her existence. There had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and father, for, God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks; me and my exertions all their stay: and on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang! If I am nipt off at the command of fate! even in all the vigour of manhood as I am--such things happen every day--gracious God! what would become of my little flock! 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune.--A father on his death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends; while I--but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on the subject!
To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I shall sing with the old Scots ballad--
"O that I had ne'er been married,
I would never had nae care;
Now I've gotten wife and bairns,
They cry crowdie! evermair.
Crowdie! ance; crowdie! twice;
Crowdie! three times in a day;
An ye crowdie! ony mair,
Ye'll crowdie! a' my meal away."--
_December 24th._
We have had a brilliant theatre here this season; only, as all other business does, it experiences a stagnation of trade from the epidemical complaint of the country, _want of cash._ I mentioned our theatre merely to lug in an occasional Address which I wrote for the benefit-night of one of the actresses, and which is as follows:--
ADDRESS,
SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT, DEC. 4, 1795, AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES.
Still anxious to secure your partial favour, &c.
_25th, Christmas-Morning._
This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of wishes--accept mine--so heaven hear me as they are sincere! that blessings may attend your steps, and affliction know you not! In the charming words of my favourite author, "The Man of Feeling," "May the Great Spirit bear up the weight of thy gray hairs, and blunt the arrow that brings them rest!"
Now that I talk of authors, how do you like Cowper? Is not the "Task" a glorious poem? The religion of the "Task," bating a few scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God and nature; the religion that exalts, that ennobles man. Were not you to send me your "Zeluco," in return for mine? Tell me how you like my marks and notes through the book. I would not give a farthing for a book, unless I were at liberty to blot it with my criticisms.
I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, all my letters; I mean those which I first sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards wrote out fair. On looking over some old musty papers, which, from time to time, I had parcelled by, as trash that were scarce worth preserving, and which yet at the same time I did not care to destroy; I discovered many of these rude sketches, and have written, and am writing them out, in a bound MS. for my friend's library. As I wrote always to you the rhapsody of the moment, I cannot find a single scroll to you, except one about the commencement of our acquaintance. If there were any possible conveyance, I would send you a perusal of my book.
R. B.
CCCXXII.
TO MR. ALEXANDER FINDLATER,
SUPERVISOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES.
[The person to whom this letter is addressed, is the same who lately denied that Burns was harshly used by the Board of Excise: but those, and they are many, who believe what the poet wrote to Erskine, of Mar, cannot agree with Mr. Findlater.]
SIR,
Enclosed are the two schemes. I would not have troubled you with the collector's one, but for suspicion lest it be not right. Mr. Erskine promised me to make it right, if you will have the goodness to show him how. As I have no copy of the scheme for myself, and the alterations being very considerable from what it was formerly, I hope that I shall have access to this scheme I send you, when I come to face up my new books. _So much for schemes._--And that no scheme to betray a FRIEND, or mislead a STRANGER; to seduce a YOUNG GIRL, or rob a HEN-ROOST; to subvert LIBERTY, or bribe an EXCISEMAN; to disturb the GENERAL ASSEMBLY, or annoy a GOSSIPPING; to overthrow the credit of ORTHODOXY, or the authority of OLD SONGS; to oppose _your wishes_, or frustrate _my hopes_--MAY PROSPER--is the sincere wish and prayer of
R. B.
CCCXXIII.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.
[Cromek says, when a neighbour complained that his copy of the Morning Chronicle was not regularly delivered to him from the post-office, the poet wrote the following indignant letter to Perry on a leaf of his excise-book, but before it went to the post he reflected and recalled it.]
_Dumfries, 1795._
SIR,
You will see by your subscribers' list, that I have been about nine months of that number.
I am sorry to inform you, that in that time, seven or eight of your papers either have never been sent to me, or else have never reached me. To be deprived of any one number of the first newspaper in Great Britain for information, ability, and independence, is what I can ill brook and bear; but to be deprived of that most admirable oration of the Marquis of Lansdowne, when he made the great though ineffectual attempt (in the language of the poet, I fear too true), "to save a SINKING STATE"--this was a loss that I neither can nor will forgive you.--That paper, Sir, never reached me; but I demand it of you. I am a BRITON; and must be interested in the cause of LIBERTY:--I am a MAN; and the RIGHTS of HUMAN NATURE cannot be indifferent to me. However, do not let me mislead you: I am not a man in that situation of life, which, as your subscriber, can be of any consequence to you, in the eyes of those to whom SITUATION OF LIFE ALONE is the criterion of MAN.--I am but a plain tradesman, in this distant, obscure country town: but that humble domicile in which I shelter my wife and children is the CASTELLUM of a BRITON; and that scanty, hard-earned income which supports them is as truly my property, as the most magnificent fortune, of the most PUISSANT MEMBER of your HOUSE of NOBLES.
These, Sir, are my sentiments; and to them I subscribe my name: and were I a man of ability and consequence enough to address the PUBLIC, with that name should they appear.
I am, &c.
CCCXXIV.
TO MR. HERON,
OF HERON.
[Of Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, something has been said in the notes on the Ballads which bear his name.]
_Dumfries, 1794,_ or _1795._
SIR,
I enclose you some copies of a couple of political ballads; one of which, I believe, you have never seen. Would to Heaven I could make you master of as many votes in the Stewartry--but--
"Who does the utmost that he can,
Does well, acts nobly, angels could no more."
In order to bring my humble efforts to bear with more effect on the foe, I have privately printed a good many copies of both ballads, and have sent them among friends all about the country.
To pillory on Parnassus the rank reprobation of character, the utter dereliction of all principle, in a profligate junto which has not only outraged virtue, but violated common decency; which, spurning even hypocrisy as paltry iniquity below their daring;--to unmask their flagitiousness to the broadest day--to deliver such over to their merited fate, is surely not merely innocent, but laudable; is not only propriety, but virtue. You have already, as your auxiliary, the sober detestation of mankind on the heads or your opponents; and I swear by the lyre of Thalia to muster on your side all the votaries of honest laughter, and fair, candid ridicule!
I am extremely obliged to you for your kind mention of my interests in a letter which Mr. Syme showed me. At present my situation in life must be in a great measure stationary, at least for two or three years. The statement is this--I am on the supervisors' list, and as we come on there by precedency, in two or three years I shall be at the head of that list, and be appointed _of course._ _Then_, a
FRIEND might be of service to me in getting me into a place of the kingdom which I would like. A supervisor's income varies from about a hundred and twenty to two hundred a year; but the business is an incessant drudgery, and would be nearly a complete bar to every species of literary pursuit. The moment I am appointed supervisor, in the common routine, I may be nominated on the collector's list; and this is always a business purely of political patronage. A
collector-ship varies much, from better than two hundred a year to near a thousand. They also come forward by precedency on the list; and have, besides a handsome income, a life of complete leisure. A life of literary leisure with a decent competency, is the summit of my wishes. It would be the prudish affectation of silly pride in me to say that I do not need, or would not be indebted to a political friend; at the same time, Sir, I by no means lay my affairs before you thus, to hook my dependent situation on your benevolence. If, in my progress of life, an opening should occur where the good offices of a gentleman of your public character and political consequence might bring me forward, I shall petition your goodness with the same frankness as I now do myself the honour to subscribe myself
R. B.
CCCXXV.
TO MRS. DUNLOP,
IN LONDON.
[In the correspondence of the poet with Mrs. Dunlop he rarely mentions Thomson's Collection of Songs, though his heart was set much upon it: in the Dunlop library there are many letters from the poet, it is said, which have not been published.]
_Dumfries, 20th December, 1795._
I have been prodigiously disappointed in this London journey of yours. In the first place, when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was in the country, and did not return until too late to answer your letter; in the next place, I thought you would certainly take this route; and now I know not what is become of you, or whether this may reach you at all. God grant that it may find you and yours in prospering health and good spirits! Do let me hear from you the soonest possible.
As I hope to get a frank from my friend Captain Miller, I shall every leisure hour, take up the pen, and gossip away whatever comes first, prose or poetry, sermon or song. In this last article I have abounded of late. I have often mentioned to you a superb publication of Scottish songs which is making its appearance in your great metropolis, and where I have the honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as no less a personage than Peter Pindar does over the English.
_December 29th._
Since I began this letter, I have been appointed to act in the capacity of supervisor here, and I assure you, what with the load of business, and what with that business being new to me, I could scarcely have commanded ten minutes to have spoken to you, had you been in town, much less to have written you an epistle. This appointment is only temporary, and during the illness of the present incumbent; but I look forward to an early period when I shall be appointed in full form: a consummation devoutly to be wished! My political sins seem to be forgiven me.
This is the season (New-year's-day is now my date) of wishing; and mine are most fervently offered up for you! May life to you be a positive blessing while it lasts, for your own sake; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, is my wish for my own sake, and for the sake of the rest of your friends! What a transient business is life! Very lately I was a boy; but t'other day I was a young man; and I already begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast o'er my frame. With all my follies of youth, and I fear, a few vices of manhood, still I congratulate myself on having had in early days religion strongly impressed on my mind. I have nothing to say to any one as to which sect he belongs to, or what creed he believes: but I look on the man, who is firmly persuaded of infinite wisdom and goodness, superintending and directing every circumstance that can happen in his lot--I felicitate such a man as having a solid foundation for his mental enjoyment; a firm prop and sure stay, in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and distress; and a never-failing anchor of hope, when he looks beyond the grave.
_January 12th._
You will have seen our worthy and ingenious friend, the Doctor, long ere this. I hope he is well, and beg to be remembered to him. I have just been reading over again, I dare say for the hundred and fiftieth time, his _View of Society and Manners_; and still I read it with delight. His humour is perfectly original--it is neither the humour of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of anybody but Dr. Moore. By the bye, you have deprived me of _Zeluco_, remember that, when you are disposed to rake up the sins of my neglect from among the ashes of my laziness.
He has paid me a pretty compliment, by quoting me in his last publication.[287]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 287: Edward.]
CCCXXVI.
ADDRESS OF THE SCOTCH DISTILLERS
TO THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT.
[This ironical letter to the prime minister was found among the papers of Burns.]
SIR,
While pursy burgesses crowd your gate, sweating under the weight of heavy addresses, permit us, the quondam distillers in that part of Great Britain called Scotland, to approach you, not with venal approbation, but with fraternal condolence; not as what you are just now, or for some time have been; but as what, in all probability, you will shortly be.--We shall have the merit of not deserting our friends in the day of their calamity, and you will have the satisfaction of perusing at least one honest address. You are well acquainted with the dissection of human nature; nor do you need the assistance of a fellow-creature's bosom to inform you, that man is always a selfish, often a perfidious being.--This assertion, however the hasty conclusions of superficial observation may doubt of it, or the raw inexperience of youth may deny it, those who make the fatal experiment we have done, will feel.--You are a statesman, and consequently are not ignorant of the traffic of these corporation compliments--The little great man who drives the borough to market, and the very great man who buys the borough in that market, they two do the whole business; and you well know they, likewise, have their price. With that sullen disdain which you can so well assume, rise, illustrious Sir, and spurn these hireling efforts of venal stupidity. At best they are the compliments of a man's friends on the morning of his execution: they take a decent farewell, resign you to your fate, and hurry away from your approaching hour.
If fame say true, and omens be not very much mistaken, you are about to make your exit from that world where the sun of gladness gilds the paths of prosperous man: permit us, great Sir, with the sympathy of fellow-feeling to hail your passage to the realms of ruin.
Whether the sentiment proceed from the selfishness or cowardice of mankind is immaterial; but to point out to a child of misfortune those who are still more unhappy, is to give him some degree of positive enjoyment. In this light, Sir, our downfall may be again useful to you:--though not exactly in the same way, it is not perhaps the first time it has gratified your feelings. It is true, the triumph of your evil star is exceedingly despiteful.--At an age when others are the votaries of pleasure, or underlings in business, you had attained the highest wish of a British statesman; and with the ordinary date of human life, what a prospect was before you! Deeply rooted in _Royal favour_, you overshadowed the land. The birds of passage, which follow ministerial sunshine through every clime of political faith and manners, flocked to your branches; and the beasts of the field (the lordly possessors of hills and valleys) crowded under your shade. "But behold a watcher, a holy one, came down from heaven, and cried aloud, and said thus: Hew down the tree, and cut off his branches; shake off his leaves, and scatter his fruit; let the beasts get away from under it, and the fowls from his branches!" A blow from an unthought-of quarter, one of those terrible accidents which peculiarly mark the hand of Omnipotence, overset your career, and laid all your fancied honours in the dust. But turn your eyes, Sir, to the tragic scenes of our fate:--an ancient nation, that for many ages had gallantly maintained the unequal struggle for independence with her much more powerful neighbour, at last agrees to a union which should ever after make them one people. In consideration of certain circumstances, it was covenanted that the former should enjoy a stipulated alleviation in her share of the public burdens, particularly in that branch of the revenue called the Excise. This just privilege has of late given great umbrage to some interested, powerful individuals of the more potent part of the empire, and they have spared no wicked pains, under insidious pretexts, to subvert what they dared not openly to attack, from the dread which they yet entertained of the spirit of their ancient enemies.
In this conspiracy we fell; nor did we alone suffer, our country was deeply wounded. A number of (we will say) respectable individuals, largely engaged in trade, where we were not only useful, but absolutely necessary to our country in her dearest interests; we, with all that was near and dear to us, were sacrificed without remorse, to the infernal deity of political expediency! We fell to gratify the wishes of dark envy, and the views of unprincipled ambition! Your foes, Sir, were avowed; were too brave to take an ungenerous advantage; _you_ fell in the face of day.--On the contrary, our enemies, to complete our overthrow, contrived to make their guilt appear the villany of a nation.--Your downfall only drags with you your private friends and partisans: in our misery are more or less involved the most numerous and most valuable part of the
community--all those who immediately depend on the cultivation of the soil, from the landlord of a province, down to his lowest hind.
Allow us, Sir, yet further, just to hint at another rich vein of comfort in the dreary regions of adversity;--the gratulations of an approving conscience. In a certain great assembly, of which you are a distinguished member, panegyrics on your private virtues have so often wounded your delicacy, that we shall not distress you with anything on the subject. There is, however, one part of your public conduct which our feelings will not permit us to pass in silence: our gratitude must trespass on your modesty; we mean, worthy Sir, your whole behaviour to the Scots Distillers.--In evil hours, when obtrusive recollection presses bitterly on the sense, let that, Sir, come like an healing angel, and speak the peace to your soul which the world can neither give nor take away.
We have the honour to be,
Sir,
Your sympathizing fellow-sufferers,
And grateful humble servants,
JOHN BARLEYCORN--Præses.
CCCXXVII.
TO THE HON. PROVOST, BAILIES, AND
TOWN COUNCIL OF DUMFRIES.
[The Provost and Bailies complied at once with the modest request of the poet: both Jackson and Staig, who were heads of the town by turns, were men of taste and feeling.]
GENTLEMEN,
The literary taste and liberal spirit of your good town has so ably filled the various departments of your schools, as to make it a very great object for a parent to have his children educated in them. Still, to me, a stranger, with my large family, and very stinted income, to give my young ones that education I wish, at the high fees which a stranger pays, will bear hard upon me.
Some years ago your good town did me the honour of making me an honorary burgess.--Will you allow me to request that this mark of distinction may extend so far, as to put me on a footing of a real freeman of the town, in the schools?
If you are so very kind as to grant my request, it will certainly be a constant incentive to me to strain every nerve where I can officially serve you; and will, if possible, increase that grateful respect with which I have the honour to be,
Gentlemen,
Your devoted humble servant,
R. B.
CCCXXVIII.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[Mrs. Riddel was, like Burns, a well-wisher to the great cause of human liberty, and lamented with him the excesses of the French Revolution.]
_Dumfries, 20th January, 1796._
I cannot express my gratitude to you, for allowing me a longer perusal of "Anacharsis." In fact, I never met with a book that bewitched me so much; and I, as a member of the library, must warmly feel the obligation you have laid us under. Indeed to me the obligation is stronger than to any other individual of our society; as "Anacharsis" is an indispensable desideratum to a son of the muses.
The health you wished me in your morning's card, is, I think, flown from me for ever. I have not been able to leave my bed to-day till about an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky advertisements I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go in quest of him.
The muses have not quite forsaken me. The following detached stanza I intend to interweave in some disastrous tale of a shepherd.
R. B.
CCCXXIX.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[It seems that Mrs. Dunlop regarded the conduct of Burns, for some months, with displeasure, and withheld or delayed her usual kind and charming communications.]
_Dumfries, 31st January, 1796._
These many months you have been two packets in my debt--what sin of ignorance I have committed against so highly-valued a friend I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas! Madam, ill can I afford, at this time, to be deprived of any of the small remnant of my pleasures. I have lately drunk deep in the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to her. I had scarcely begun to recover from that shock, when I became myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful; until, after many weeks of a sick bed, it seems to have turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl across my room, and once indeed have been before my own door in the street.
"When pleasure fascinates the mental sight,
Affliction purifies the visual ray,
Religion hails the drear, the untried night,
And shuts, for ever shuts! life's doubtful day."
R. B.
CCCXXX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Cromek informed me, on the authority of Mrs. Burns, that the "handsome, elegant present" mentioned in this letter, was a common worsted shawl.]
_February, 1796._
Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your handsome, elegant present to Mrs. Burns, and for my remaining volume of P. Pindar. Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine. I am much pleased with your idea of publishing a collection of our songs in octavo, with etchings. I am extremely willing to lend every assistance in my power. The Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding verses for.
I have already, you know, equipt three with words, and the other day I strung up a kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I admire much.
Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms.[288]
If this will do, you have now four of my Irish engagement. In my by-past songs I dislike one thing, the name Chloris--I meant it as the fictitious name of a certain lady: but, on second thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral ballad. Of this, and some things else, in my next: I have more amendments to propose. What you once mentioned of "flaxen locks" is just: they cannot enter into an elegant description of beauty. Of this also again--God bless you![289]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 288: Song CCLXVI.]
[Footnote 289: Our poet never explained what name he would have substituted for Chloris.--Mr. Thomson.]
CCCXXXI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[It is seldom that painting speaks in the spirit of poetry Burns perceived some of the blemishes of Allan's illustrations: but at that time little nature and less elegance entered into the embellishments of books.]
_April, 1796._
Alas! my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some time ere I tune my lyre again! "By Babel streams I have sat and wept" almost ever since I wrote you last; I have only known existence by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness, and have counted time by the repercussions of pain! Rheumatism, cold, and fever have formed to me a terrible combination. I close my eyes in misery, and open them without hope. I look on the vernal day, and say with poor Fergusson,
"Say, wherefore has an all-indulgent heaven
Light to the comfortless and wretched given?"
This will be delivered to you by Mrs. Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which for these many years has been my howff, and where our friend Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. Allan's etchings. "Woo'd an' married an' a'," is admirable! The grouping is beyond all praise. The expression of the figures, conformable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely faultless perfection. I next admire "Turnim-spike." What I like least is "Jenny said to Jockey." Besides the female being in her appearance * * * *, if you take her stooping into the account, she is at least two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn! I sincerely sympathize with him. Happy I am to think that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health and enjoyment in this world. As for me--but that is a sad subject.
R. B.
CCCXXXII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The genius of the poet triumphed over pain and want,--his last songs are as tender and as true as any of his early compositions.]
MY DEAR SIR,
I once mentioned to you an air which I have long admired--"Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney," but I forget if you took any notice of it. I have just been trying to suit it with verses, and I beg leave to recommend the air to your attention once more. I have only begun it.
[Here follow the first three stanzas of the song, beginning,
Here's a health to ane I loe dear;[290]
the fourth was found among the poet's MSS. after his death.]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 290: Song CCLXVII.]
CCCXXXIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[John Lewars, whom the poet introduces to Thomson, was a brother gauger, and a kind, warm-hearted gentleman; Jessie Lewars was his sister, and at this time but in her teens.]
This will be delivered by Mr. Lewars, a young fellow of uncommon merit. As he will be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, if you choose, to write me by him: and if you have a spare half-hour to spend with him, I shall place your kindness to my account. I have no copies of the songs I have sent you, and I have taken a fancy to review them all, and possibly may mend some of them; so when you have complete leisure, I will thank you for either the originals or copies.[291] I had rather be the author of five well-written songs than of ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial influence of the approaching summer will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of returning health. I have now reason to believe that my complaint is a flying gout--a sad business!
Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remember me to him.
This should have been delivered to you a month ago. I am still very poorly, but should like much to hear from you.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 291: "It is needless to say that this revisal Burns did not live to perform."--Currie.]
CCCXXXIV.
TO MRS. RIDDEL,
_Who had desired him to go to the Birth-Day Assembly on that day to show his loyalty._
[This is the last letter which the poet wrote to this accomplished lady.]
_Dumfries, 4th June, 1796._
I am in such miserable health as to be utterly incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. Rackt as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every face with a greeting like that of Balak to Balaam--"Come, curse me Jacob; and come, defy me Israel!" So say I--Come, curse me that east wind; and come, defy me the north! Would you have me in such circumstances copy you out a love-song?
I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I will not be at the ball.--Why should I? "man delights not me, nor woman either!" Can you supply me with the song, "Let us all be unhappy together?"--do if you can, and oblige, _le pauvre miserable_
R. B.
CCCXXXV.
TO MR. CLARKE,
SCHOOLMASTER, FORFAR.
[Who will say, after reading the following distressing letter, lately come to light, that Burns did not die in great poverty.]
_Dumfries, 26th June, 1796._
MY DEAR CLARKE,
Still, still the victim of affliction! Were you to see the emaciated figure who now holds the pen to you, you would not know your old friend. Whether I shall ever get about again, is only known to Him, the Great Unknown, whose creature I am. Alas, Clarke! I begin to fear the worst.
As to my individual self, I am tranquil, and would despise myself, if I were not; but Burns's poor widow, and half-a-dozen of his dear little ones--helpless orphans!--_there_ I am weak as a woman's tear. Enough of this! 'Tis half of my disease.
I duly received your last, enclosing the note. It came extremely in time, and I am much obliged by your punctuality. Again I must request you to do me the same kindness. Be so very good, as, by return of post, to enclose me _another_ note. I trust you can do it without inconvenience, and it will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I shall leave a few friends behind me, whom I shall regret while consciousness remains. I know I shall live in their remembrance. Adieu, dear Clarke. That I shall ever see you again, is, I am afraid, highly improbable.
R. B.
CCCXXXVI.
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON,
EDINBURGH.
["In this humble and delicate manner did poor Burns ask for a copy of a work of which he was principally the founder, and to which he had contributed _gratuitously_ not less than one hundred and eighty-four _original, altered, and collected_ songs! The editor has seen one hundred and eighty transcribed by his own hand, for the
'Museum.'"--CROMEK. Will it be believed that this "humble
request" of Burns was not complied with! The work was intended as a present to Jessie Lewars.]
_Dumfries, 4th July, 1796._
How are you, my dear friend, and how comes on your fifth volume? You may probably think that for some time past I have neglected you and your work; but, alas! the hand of pain, and sorrow, and care, has these many months lain heavy on me! Personal and domestic affliction have almost entirely banished that alacrity and life with which I used to woo the rural muse of Scotia. In the meantime let us finish what we have so well begun.
You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and have a good right to live in this world--because you deserve it. Many a merry meeting this publication has given us, and possibly it may give us more, though, alas! I fear it. This protracting, slow, consuming illness which hangs over me, will, I doubt much, my ever dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well reached his middle career, and will turn over the poet to other and far more important concerns than studying the brilliancy of wit, or the pathos of sentiment! However, _hope_ is the cordial of the human heart, and I endeavour to cherish it as well as I can.
Let me hear from you as soon as convenient.--Your work is a great one; and now that it is finished, I see, if we were to begin again, two or three things that might be mended; yet I will venture to prophesy, that to future ages your publication will be the text-book and standard of Scottish song and music.
I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, because you have been so very good already; but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, a young lady who sings well, to whom she wishes to present the "Scots Musical Museum." If you have a spare copy, will you be so obliging as to send it by the very first _fly_, as I am anxious to have it soon.
The gentleman, Mr. Lewars, a particular friend of mine, will bring out any proofs (if they are ready) or any message you may have. I am extremely anxious for your work, as indeed I am for everything concerning you, and your welfare.
Farewell,
R. B.
P. S. You should have had this when Mr. Lewars called on you, but his saddle-bags miscarried.
CCCXXXVII.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
[Few of the last requests of the poet were effectual: Clarke, it is believed, did not send the second _note_ he wrote for: Johnson did not send the copy of the Museum which he requested, and the Commissioners of Excise refused the continuance of his full salary.]
_Brow, Sea-bathing quarters, 7th July, 1796._
MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM,
I received yours here this moment, and am indeed highly flattered with the approbation of the literary circle you mention; a literary circle inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas! my friend, I fear the voice of the bard will soon be heard among you no more! For these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bedfast and sometimes not; but these last three months I have been tortured with an excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me--Pale, emaciated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair--my spirits fled! fled! but I can no more on the subject--only the medical folks tell me that my last only chance is bathing and country-quarters, and riding.--The deuce of the matter is this; when an exciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced to 35_l._ instead of 50_l._--What way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse in country quarters--with a wife and five children at home, on 35_l._? I mention this, because I had intended to beg your utmost interest, and that of all the friends you can muster, to move our commissioners of excise to grant me the full salary; I dare say you know them all personally. If they do not grant it me, I must lay my account with an exit truly _en poëte_--if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger.
I have sent you one of the songs; the other my memory does not serve me with, and I have no copy here; but I shall be at home soon, when I will send it you.--Apropos to being at home, Mrs. Burns threatens, in a week or two, to add one more to my paternal charge, which, if of the right gender, I intend shall be introduced to the world by the respectable designation of _Alexander Cunningham Burns._ My last was _James Glencairn_, so you can have no objection to the company of nobility. Farewell.
R. B.
CCCXXXVIII.
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS.
[This letter contained heavy news for Gilbert Burns: the loss of a brother whom he dearly loved and admired, was not all, though the worst.]
_10th July, 1796._
DEAR BROTHER,
It will be no very pleasing news to you to be told that I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. An inveterate rheumatism has reduced me to such a state of debility, and my appetite is so totally gone, that I can scarcely stand on my legs. I have been a week at sea-bathing, and I will continue there, or in a friend's house in the country, all the summer. God keep my wife and children: if I am taken from their head, they will be poor indeed. I have contracted one or two serious debts, partly from my illness these many months, partly from too much thoughtlessness as to expense, when I came to town, that will cut in too much on the little I leave them in your hands. Remember me to my mother.
Yours,
R. B.
CCCXXXIX.
TO MR. JAMES ARMOUR,
MASON, MAUCHLINE.
[The original letter is now in a safe sanctuary, the hands of the poet's son, Major James Glencairn Burns.]
_July 10th_ [1796.]
For Heaven's sake, and as you value the we[l]fare of your daughter and my wife, do, my dearest Sir, write to Fife, to Mrs. Armour to come if possible. My wife thinks she can yet reckon upon a fortnight. The medical people order me, _as I value my existence_, to fly to sea-bathing and country-quarters, so it is ten thousand chances to one that I shall not be within a dozen miles of her when her hour comes. What a situation for her, poor girl, without a single friend by her on such a serious moment.
I have now been a week at salt-water, and though I think I have got some good by it, yet I have some secret fears that this business will be dangerous if not fatal.
Your most affectionate son,
R. B.
CCCXL.
TO MRS. BURNS.
[Sea-bathing, I have heard skilful men say, was injudicious: but it was felt that Burns was on his way to the grave, and as he desired to try the influence of sea-water, as well as sea-air, his wishes were not opposed.]
_Brow, Thursday._
MY DEAREST LOVE,
I delayed writing until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would be injustice to deny that it has eased my pains, and I think has strengthened me; but my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow: porridge and milk are the only things I can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are all well. My very best and kindest compliments to her, and to all the children. I will see you on Sunday.
Your affectionate husband,
R. B.
CCCXLI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
["The poet had the pleasure of receiving a satisfactory explanation of this lady's silence," says Currie, "and an assurance of the continuance of her friendship to his widow and children."]
_Brow, Saturday, 12th July, 1796._
MADAM,
I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, that I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which I am. An illness which has long hung about me, in all probability will speedily send me beyond that _bourn whence no traveller returns._ Your friendship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, were at once highly entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did I use to break up the seal! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart.
Farewell!!!
R. B.
CCCXLII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Thomson instantly complied with the dying poet's request, and transmitted the exact sum which he requested, viz. five pounds, by return of post: he was afraid of offending the pride of Burns, otherwise he would, he says, have sent a larger sum. He has not, however, told us how much he sent to the all but desolate widow and children, when death had released him from all dread of the poet's indignation.]
_Brow, on the Solway-firth, 12th July, 1796._
After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously; for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds' worth of the neatest song-genius you have seen. I tried my hand on "Rothemurche" this morning. The measure is so difficult that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the lines; they are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me!
Fairest maid on Devon's banks.[292]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 292: Song CCLXVIII.]
CCCXLIII.
TO MR. JAMES BURNESS,
WRITER, MONTROSE.
[The good, the warm-hearted James Burness sent his cousin ten pounds on the 29th of July--he sent five pounds afterwards to the family, and offered to take one of the boys, and educate him in his own profession of a writer. All this was unknown to the world till lately.]
_Brow, 12th July._
MY DEAR COUSIN,
When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced process against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate me, and that by return of post, with ten pounds? O James! did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for me! Alas! I am not used to beg! The worst of it is, my health was coming about finely; you know, and my physician assured me, that melancholy and low spirits are half my disease; guess then my horrors since this business began. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, quite well in a manner. How shall I use the language to you, O do not disappoint me! but strong necessity's curst command.
I have been thinking over and over my brother's affairs, and I fear I must cut him up; but on this I will correspond at another time, particularly as I shall [require] your advice.
Forgive me for once more mentioning by return of post;--save me from the horrors of a jail!
My compliments to my friend James, and to all the rest. I do not know what I have written. The subject is so horrible I dare not look it over again.
Farewell.
R. B.
CCCXLIV.
TO JAMES GRACIE, ESQ.
[James Gracie was, for some time, a banker in Dumfries: his eldest son, a fine, high-spirited youth, fell by a rifle-ball in America, when leading the troops to the attack on Washington.]
_Brow, Wednesday Morning, 16th July, 1796._
MY DEAR SIR,
It would [be] doing high injustice to this place not to acknowledge that my rheumatisms have derived great benefits from it already; but alas! my loss of appetite still continues. I shall not need your kind offer _this week_, and I return to town the beginning of next week, it not being a tide-week. I am detaining a man in a burning hurry.
So God bless you.
R. B.
REMARKS
ON
SCOTTISH SONGS AND BALLADS.
[The following Strictures on Scottish Song exist in the handwriting of Burns, in the interleaved copy of Johnson's Musical Museum, which the poet presented to Captain Riddel, of Friars Carse; on the death of Mrs. Riddel, these precious volumes passed into the hands of her niece, Eliza Bayley, of Manchester, who kindly permitted Mr. Cromek to transcribe and publish them in the Reliques.]
THE HIGHLAND QUEEN.
This Highland Queen, music and poetry, was composed by Mr. M'Vicar, purser of the Solebay man-of-war.--This I had from Dr. Blacklock.
BESS THE GAWKIE.
This song shows that the Scottish muses did not all leave us when we lost Ramsay and Oswald, as I have good reason to believe that the verses and music are both posterior to the days of these two gentlemen. It is a beautiful song, and in the genuine Scots taste. We have few pastoral compositions, I mean the pastoral of nature, that are equal to this.
OH, OPEN THE DOOR, LORD GREGORY.
It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Renfrew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkudbright, and Dumfries-shires, there is scarcely an old song or tune which, from the title, &c., can be guessed to belong to, or be the production of these countries. This, I conjecture, is one of these very few; as the ballad, which is a long one, is called, both by tradition and in printed collections, "The Lass of Lochroyan," which I take to be Lochroyan, in Galloway.
THE BANKS OF THE TWEED.
This song is one of the many attempts that English composers have made to imitate the Scottish manner, and which I shall, in these strictures, beg leave to distinguish by the appellation of
Anglo-Scottish productions. The music is pretty good, but the verses are just above contempt.
THE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES.
This song, as far as I know, for the first time appears here in print.--When I was a boy, it was a very popular song in Ayrshire. I remember to have heard those fanatics, the Buchanites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, which they dignify with the name of hymns, to this air.
ROSLIN CASTLE.
These beautiful verses were the production of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr. Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anecdote, kept for some years as amanuensis. I do not know who is the author of the second song to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing history of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald; but in Oswald's own collection of Scots tunes, where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself composed, he does not make the least claim to the tune.
SAW YE JOHNNIE CUMMIN? QUO' SHE.
This song, for genuine humour in the verses, and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled. I take it to be very old.
CLOUT THE CALDRON.
A tradition is mentioned in the "Bee," that the second Bishop Chisholm, of Dunblane, used to say, that if he were going to be hanged, nothing would soothe his mind so much by the way as to hear "Clout the Caldron" played.
I have met with another tradition, that the old song to this tune,
"Hae ye onie pots or pans,
Or onie broken chanlers,"
was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in the cavalier times; and alluded to an amour he had, while under hiding, in the disguise of an itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the name of
"The blacksmith and his apron,"
which from the rhythm, seems to have been a line of some old song to the tune.
SAW YE MY PEGGY.
This charming song is much older, and indeed superior to Ramsay's verses, "The Toast," as he calls them. There is another set of the words, much older still, and which I take to be the original one, but though it has a very great deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' reading.
The original words, for they can scarcely be called verses, seem to be as follows; a song familiar from the cradle to every Scottish ear.
"Saw ye my Maggie,
Saw ye my Maggie,
Saw ye my Maggie
Linkin o'er the lea?
High kilted was she,
High kilted was she,
High kilted was she,
Her coat aboon her knee.
What mark has your Maggie,
What mark has your Maggie,
What mark has your Maggie,
That ane may ken her be?"
Though it by no means follows that the silliest verses to an air must, for that reason, be the original song; yet I take this ballad, of which I have quoted part, to be old verses. The two songs in Ramsay, one of them evidently his own, are never to be met with in the fire-side circle of our peasantry; while that which I take to be the old song, is in every shepherd's mouth. Ramsay, I suppose, had thought the old verses unworthy of a place in his collection.
THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH.
This song is one of the many effusions of Scots Jacobitism.--The title "Flowers of Edinburgh," has no manner of connexion with the present verses, so I suspect there has been an older set of words, of which the title is all that remains.
By the bye, it is singular enough that the Scottish muses were all Jacobites.--I have paid more attention to every description of Scots songs than perhaps anybody living has done, and I do not recollect one single stanza, or even the title of the most trifling Scots air, which has the least panegyrical reference to the families of Nassau or Brunswick; while there are hundreds satirizing them.--This may be thought no panegyric on the Scots Poets, but I mean it as such. For myself, I would always take it as a compliment to have it said, that my heart ran before my head,--and surely the gallant though unfortunate house of Stewart, the kings of our fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme * * * * * *
JAMIE GAY.
Jamie Gay is another and a tolerable Anglo-Scottish piece.
MY DEAR JOCKIE.
Another Anglo-Scottish production.
FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER WI' STRAE.
It is self-evident that the first four lines of this song are part of a song more ancient than Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed to them. As music is the language of nature; and poetry, particularly songs, are always less or more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) by some of the modifications of time and place, this is the reason why so many of our Scots airs have outlived their original, and perhaps many subsequent sets of verses; except a single name or phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply to distinguish the tunes by.
To this day among people who know nothing of Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, and all the song that ever I heard:
"Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie,
Gie her a kiss and let her gae;
But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie,
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae.
Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her,
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae:
An' gin ye meet dirty hizzie,
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae."
THE LASS O' LIVISTON.
The old song, in three eight-line stanzas, is well known, and has merit as to wit and humour; but it is rather unfit for insertion.--It begins,
"The Bonnie lass o' Liviston,
Her name ye ken, her name ye ken,
And she has written in her contract
To lie her lane, to lie her lane."
&c. &c.
THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR.
Ramsay found the first line of this song, which had been preserved as the title of the charming air, and then composed the rest of the verses to suit that line. This has always a finer effect than composing English words, or words with an idea foreign to the spirit of the old title. Where old titles of songs convey any idea at all, it will generally be found to be quite in the spirit of the air.
JOCKIE'S GRAY BREEKS.
Though this has certainly every evidence of being a Scottish air, yet there is a well-known tune and song in the north of Ireland, called "The Weaver and his Shuttle O," which, though sung much quicker, is every note the very tune.
THE HAPPY MARRIAGE.
Another, but very pretty Anglo-Scottish piece.
THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL.
In Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, this song is localized (a verb I must use for want of another to express my idea) somewhere in the north of Scotland, and likewise is claimed by Ayrshire.--The following anecdote I had from the present Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it from the last John, Earl of Loudon. The then Earl of Loudon, and father to Earl John before mentioned, had Ramsay at Loudon, and one day walking together by the banks of Irvine water, near New-Mills, at a place called Patie's Mill, they were struck with the appearance of a beautiful country girl. His lordship observed that she would be a fine theme for a song.--Allan lagged behind in returning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produced this identical song.
THE TURNIMSPIKE.
There is a stanza of this excellent song for local humour, omitted in this set.--Where I have placed the asterisms.
"They tak the horse then by te head,
And tere tey mak her stan', man;
Me tell tem, me hae seen te day,
Tey no had sic comman', man."
HIGHLAND LADDIE.
As this was a favourite theme with our later Scottish muses, there are several airs and songs of that name. That which I take to be the oldest, is to be found in the "Musical Museum," beginning, "I hae been at Crookieden." One reason for my thinking so is, that Oswald has it in his collection, by the name of "The Auld Highland Laddie." It is also known by the name of "Jinglan Johnie," which is a well-known song of four or five stanzas, and seems to be an earlier song than Jacobite times. As a proof of this, it is little known to the peasantry by the name of "Highland Laddie;" while everybody knows "Jinglan Johnie." The song begins
"Jinglan John, the meickle man,
He met wi' a lass was blythe and bonie."
Another "Highland Laddie" is also in the "Museum," vol. v., which I take to be Ramsay's original, as he has borrowed the chorus--"O my bonie Highland lad," &c. It consists of three stanzas, besides the chorus; and has humour in its composition--it is an excellent, but somewhat licentious song.--It begins
"As I cam o'er Cairney mount,
And down among the blooming heather."
This air, and the common "Highland Laddie," seem only to be different sets.
Another "Highland Laddie," also in the "Museum," vol. v., is the tune of several Jacobite fragments. One of these old songs to it, only exists, as far as I know, in these four lines--
"Where hae ye been a' day,
Bonie laddie, Highland laddie?
Down the back o' Bell's brae,
Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie."
Another of this name is Dr. Arne's beautiful air, called the new "Highland Laddie."
THE GENTLE SWAIN.
To sing such a beautiful air to such execrable verses, is downright prostitution of common sense! The Scots verses indeed are tolerable.
HE STOLE MY TENDER HEART AWAY.
This is an Anglo-Scottish production, but by no means a bad one.
FAIREST OF THE FAIR.
It is too barefaced to take Dr. Percy's charming song, and by means of transposing a few English words into Scots, to offer to pass it for a Scots song.--I was not acquainted with the editor until the first volume was nearly finished, else, had I known in time, I would have prevented such an impudent absurdity.
THE BLAITHRIE O'T.
The following is a set of this song, which was the earliest song I remember to have got by heart. When a child, an old woman sung it to me, and I picked it up, every word, at first hearing.
"O Willy, weel I mind, I lent you my hand
To sing you a song which you did me command;
But my memory's so bad I had almost forgot
That you called it the gear and the blaithrie o't.--
I'll not sing about confusion, delusion or pride,
I'll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride;
For virtue is an ornament that time will never rot,
And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't.--
Tho' my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on,
We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne;
I wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she cam in her smock,
Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't.--
Tho' we hae nae horses or menzies at command,
We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our hand;
And when wearied without rest, we'll find it sweet in any spot, And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't.--
If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent;
Hae we less, hae we mair, we will ay be content;
For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins bu groat, Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't--
I'll not meddle wi' th' affairs of the kirk or the queen; They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink, let them swim; On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it stil remote, Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o't."
MAY EVE, OR KATE OF ABERDEEN.
"Kate of Aberdeen" is, I believe, the work of poor Cunningham the player; of whom the following anecdote, though told before, deserves a recital. A fat dignitary of the church coming past Cunningham one _Sunday_, as the poor poet was busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream near Durham, his native country, his reverence reprimanded Cunningham very severely for such an occupation on such a day. The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which was his peculiar characteristic, replied, that he hoped God and his reverence would forgive his seeming profanity of that sacred day, "_as he had no dinner to eat, but what lay at the bottom of that pool_!" This, Mr. Woods, the player, who knew Cunningham well, and esteemed him much, assured me was true.
TWEED SIDE.
In Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, he tells us that about thirty of the songs in that publication were the works of some young gentlemen of his acquaintance; which songs are marked with the letters D. C. &c.--Old Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender of the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that the songs marked C, in the _Tea-table_, were the composition of a Mr. Crawfurd, of the house of Achnames, who was afterwards unfortunately drowned coming from France.--As Tytler was most intimately acquainted with Allan Ramsay, I think the anecdote may be depended on. Of consequence, the beautiful song of Tweed Side is Mr. Crawfurd's, and indeed does great honour to his poetical talents. He was a Robert Crawfurd; the Mary he celebrates was a Mary Stewart, of the Castle-Milk family, afterwards married to a Mr. John Ritchie.
I have seen a song, calling itself the original Tweed Side, and said to have been composed by a Lord Yester. It consisted of two stanzas, of which I still recollect the first--
"When Maggy and I was acquaint,
I carried my noddle fu' hie;
Nae lintwhite on a' the green plain,
Nor gowdspink sae happy as me:
But I saw her sae fair and I lo'ed:
I woo'd, but I came nae great speed;
So now I maun wander abroad,
And lay my banes far frae the Tweed."--
THE POSY.
It appears evident to me that Oswald composed his _Roslin Castle_ on the modulation of this air.--In the second part of Oswald's, in the three first bars, he has either hit on a wonderful similarity to, or else he has entirely borrowed the three first bars of the old air; and the close of both tunes is almost exactly the same. The old verses to which it was sung, when I took down the notes from a country girl's voice, had no great merit.--The following is a specimen:
"There was a pretty May, and a milkin she went;
Wi' her red rosy cheeks, and her coal black hair;
And she has met a young man a comin o'er the bent,
With a double and adieu to thee, fair May.
O where are ye goin, my ain pretty May,
Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal black hair?
Unto the yowes a milkin, kind sir, she says,
With a double and adieu to thee, fair May.
What if I gang alang with thee, my ain pretty May,
Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, any thy coal-black hair;
Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, she says,
With a double and adieu to thee, fair May."