but vulgar satirist, Dr. Wolcot, to write, was a man of little lyrical
talent. He purchased a good annuity for the remainder of his life, by
the copyright of his works, and survived his popularity many year.]
_Sept._ 1793.
You may readily trust, my dear Sir, that any exertion in my power is
heartily at your service. But one thing I must hint to you; the very
name of Peter Pindar is of great service to your publication, so get a
verse from him now and then; though I have no objection, as well as I
can, to bear the burden of the business.
You know that my pretensions to musical taste are merely a few of
nature's instincts, untaught and untutored by art. For this reason,
many musical compositions, particularly where much of the merit lies
in counterpoint, however they may transport and ravish the ears of
your connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise than merely as
melodious din. On the other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted
with many little melodies, which the learned musician despises as
silly and insipid. I do not know whether the old air "Hey tuttie
taitie," may rank among this number; but well I know that, with
Frazer's haut-boy, it has often filled my eyes with tears. There is a
tradition, which I have met with in many places in Scotland, that it
was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought,
in yesternight's evening walk, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on
the theme of liberty and independence, which I threw into a kind of
Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be the
gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on the eventful
morning.
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled.[237]
So may God ever defend the cause of truth and liberty, as he did that
day! Amen.
P.S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was highly pleased with it, and
begged me to make soft verses for it; but I had no idea of giving
myself any trouble on the subject, till the accidental recollection of
that glorious struggle for freedom, associated with the glowing ideas
of some other struggles of the same nature, not quite so ancient,
roused my rhyming mania. Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you
will find in the Museum, though I am afraid that the air is not what
will entitle it to a place in your elegant selection.[238]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 237: Song CCVII.]
[Footnote 238: Song CCVIII.]
* * * * *
CCLXXII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[This letter contains further proof of the love of Burns for the airs
of the Highlands.]
_Sept._ 1793.
I dare say, my dear Sir, that you will begin to think my
correspondence is persecution. No matter, I can't help it; a ballad is
my hobby-horse, which, though otherwise a simple sort of harmless
idiotical beast enough, has yet this blessed headstrong property, that
when once it has fairly made off with a hapless wight, it gets so
enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, tinkle-gingle of its own bells, that
it is sure to run poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite beyond any
useful point or post in the common race of men.
The following song I have composed for "Oran-gaoil," the Highland air
that, you tell me in your last, you have resolved to give a place to
in your book. I have this moment finished the song, so you have it
glowing from the mint. If it suit you, well!--If not, 'tis also well!
Behold the hour, the boat arrive!
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[This is another of the sagacious letters on Scottish song, which
poets and musicians would do well to read and consider.]
_Sept._ 1793.
I have received your list, my dear Sir, and here go my observations on
it.[239]
"Down the burn, Davie." I have this moment tried an alteration,
leaving out the last half of the third stanza, and the first half of
the last stanza, thus:
As down the burn they took their way,
And thro' the flowery dale;
His cheek to hers he aft did lay,
And love was aye the tale.
With "Mary, when shall we return,
Sic pleasure to renew?"
Quoth Mary, "Love, I like the burn,
And aye shall follow you."[240]
"Thro' the wood, laddie"--I am decidedly of opinion that both in this,
and "There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame," the second or
high part of the tune being a repetition of the first part an octave
higher, is only for instrumental music, and would be much better
omitted in singing.
"Cowden-knowes." Remember in your index that the song in pure English
to this tune, beginning,
"When summer comes, the swains on Tweed,"
is the production of Crawfurd. Robert was his Christian name.[241]
"Laddie, lie near me," must lie by me for some time. I do not know the
air; and until I am complete master of a tune, in my own singing (such
as it is), I can never compose for it. My way is: I consider the
poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical expression;
then choose my theme; begin one stanza: when that is composed, which
is generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit
down now and then, look out for objects of nature around me that are
in unison and harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings
of my bosom; humming every now and then the air with the verses I have
framed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the
solitary fire-side of my study, and there commit my effusions to
paper; swinging at intervals on the hind-legs of my elbow-chair, by
way of calling forth my own critical strictures as my pen goes on.
Seriously, this, at home, is almost invariably my way.
What cursed egotism!
"Gil Morice" I am for leaving out. It is a plaguy length; the air
itself is never sung; and its place can well be supplied by one or two
songs for fine airs that are not in your list--for instance
"Craigieburn-wood" and "Roy's wife." The first, beside its intrinsic
merit, has novelty, and the last has high merit as well as great
celebrity. I have the original words of a song for the last air, in
the handwriting of the lady who composed it; and they are superior to
any edition of the song which the public has yet seen.
"Highland laddie." The old set will please a mere Scotch ear best; and
the new an Italianised one. There is a third, and what Oswald calls
the old "Highland laddie," which pleases me more than either of them.
It is sometimes called "Ginglin Johnnie;" it being the air of an old
humorous tawdry song of that name. You will find it in the Museum, "I
hae been at Crookieden," &c. I would advise you, in the musical
quandary, to offer up your prayers to the muses for inspiring
direction; and in the meantime, waiting for this direction, bestow a
libation to Bacchus; and there is not a doubt but you will hit on a
judicious choice. _Probatum est._
"Auld Sir Simon" I must beg you to leave out, and put in its place
"The Quaker's wife."
"Blythe hae I been on yon hill,"[242] is one of the finest songs ever I
made in my life, and, besides, is composed on a young lady, positively
the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As I purpose giving you
the names and designations of all my heroines, to appear in some
future edition of your work, perhaps half a century hence, you must
certainly include "The bonniest lass in a' the warld," in your
collection.
"Dainty Davie" I have heard sung nineteen thousand nine hundred and
ninety-nine times, and always with the chorus to the low part of the
tune; and nothing has surprised me so much as your opinion on this
subject. If it will not suit as I proposed, we will lay two of the
stanzas together, and then make the chorus follow, exactly as Lucky
Nancy in the Museum.
"Fee him, father:" I enclose you Frazer's set of this tune when he
plays it slow: in fact he makes it the language of despair. I shall
here give you two stanzas, in that style, merely to try if it will be
any improvement. Were it possible, in singing, to give it half the
pathos which Frazer gives it in playing, it would make an admirably
pathetic song. I do not give these verses for any merit they have. I
composed them at the time in which "Patie Allan's mither died--that
was about the back o' midnight;" and by the lee-side of a bowl of
punch, which had overset every mortal in company except the hautbois
and the muse.
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie.[243]
"Jockie and Jenny" I would discard, and in its place would put
"There's nae luck about the house,"[244] which has a very pleasant air,
and which is positively the finest love-ballad in that style in the
Scottish, or perhaps in any other language. "When she came ben she
bobbit," as an air is more beautiful than either, and in the _andante_
way would unite with a charming sentimental ballad.
"Saw ye my father?" is one of my greatest favourites. The evening before
last, I wandered out, and began a tender song, in what I think is its
native style. I must premise that the old way, and the way to give most
effect, is to have no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, but to
burst at once into the pathos. Every country girl sings "Saw ye my
father?" &c.
My song is but just begun; and I should like, before I proceed, to
know your opinion of it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottish
dialect, but it may be easily turned into correct English.[245]
"Todlin hame." Urbani mentioned an idea of his, which has long been
mine, that this air is highly susceptible of pathos: accordingly, you
will soon hear him at your concert try it to a song of mine in the
Museum, "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon." One song more and I have
done; "Auld lang syne." The air is but mediocre; but the following
song, the old song of the olden times, and which has never been in
print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man's
singing, is enough to recommend any air.[246]
Now, I suppose, I have tried your patience fairly. You must, after all
is over, have a number of ballads, properly so called. "Gil Morice,"
"Tranent Muir," "Macpherson's farewell," "Battle of Sherriff-muir,"
or, "We ran, and they ran," (I know the author of this charming
ballad, and his history,) "Hardiknute," "Barbara Allan" (I can furnish
a finer set of this tune than any that has yet appeared;) and besides
do you know that I really have the old tune to which "The cherry and
the slae" was sung, and which is mentioned as a well-known air in
"Scotland's Complaint," a book published before poor Mary's days?[247]
It was then called "The banks of Helicon;" an old poem which Pinkerton
has brought to light. You will see all this in Tytler's history of
Scottish music. The tune, to a learned ear, may have no great merit;
but it is a great curiosity. I have a good many original things of
this kind.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 239: Mr. Thomson's list of songs for his publication.]
[Footnote 240: This is an alteration of one of Crawford's songs.]
[Footnote 241: His Christian name was William.]
[Footnote 242: Song CXCV.]
[Footnote 243: Song CCIX.]
[Footnote 244: By William Julius Mickle.]
[Footnote 245: The song here alluded to is one which the poet afterwards
sent in an entire form:--
"Where are the joys I hae met in the morning."]
[Footnote 246: Song CCX.]
[Footnote 247: A curious and rare book, which Leyden afterwards edited.]
* * * * *
CCLXXIV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Burns listened too readily to the suggestion of Thomson, to alter
"Bruce's Address to his troops at Bannockburn:" whatever may be the
merits of the air of "Louis Gordon," the sublime simplicity of the
words was injured by the alteration: it is now sung as originally
written, by all singers of taste.]
_September, 1793._
I am happy, my dear Sir, that my ode pleases you so much. Your idea,
"honour's bed," is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea; so, if you
please, we will let the line stand as it is. I have altered the song
as follows:--[248]
N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from the common stall edition of
Wallace--
"A false usurper sinks in every foe,
And liberty returns with every blow."
A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you had enough of my
correspondence. The post goes, and my head aches miserably. One
comfort! I suffer so much, just now, in this world, for last night's
joviality, that I shall escape scot-free for it in the world to come.
Amen.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 248: Song CCVII.]
* * * * *
CCLXXV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The poet's good sense rose at last in arms against the criticisms of
the musician, and he refused to lessen the dignity of his war-ode by
any more alterations.]
_September, 1793._
"Who shall decide when doctors disagree?" My ode pleases me so much
that I cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations would, in my
opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly obliged to you for putting me
on reconsidering it, as I think I have much improved it. Instead of
"sodger! hero!" I will have it "Caledonian, on wi' me!"
I have scrutinized it over and over; and to the world, some way or
other, it shall go as it is. At the same time it will not in the least
hurt me, should you leave it out altogether, and adhere to your first
intention of adopting Logan's verses.
I have finished my song to "Saw ye my father?" and in English, as you
will see. That there is a syllable too much for the expression of the
air, is true; but, allow me to say, that the mere dividing of a dotted
crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver, is not a great matter: however,
in that I have no pretensions to cope in judgment with you. Of the
poetry I speak with confidence; but the music is a business where I hint
my ideas with the utmost diffidence.
The old verses have merit, though unequal, and are popular: my advice
is to set the air to the old words, and let mine follow as English
verses. Here they are:--
Where are the joys I have met in the morning?[249]
Adieu, my dear Sir! the post goes, so I shall defer some other remarks
until more leisure.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 249: Song CCXI.]
* * * * *
CCLXXVI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[For "Fy! let us a' to the bridal," and "Fy! gie me my coggie, Sirs,"
and "There's nae luck about the house," Burns puts in a word of
praise, from a feeling that Thomson's taste would induce him to
exclude the first--one of our most original songs--from his
collection.]
_September, 1793._
I have been turning over some volumes of songs, to find verses whose
measures would suit the airs for which you have allotted me to find
English songs.
For "Muirland Willie," you have, in Ramsay's Tea-Table, an excellent
song beginning, "Ah, why those tears in Nelly's eyes?" As for "The
Collier's Dochter," take the following old bacchanal:--
"Deluded swain, the pleasure, &c."[250]
The faulty line in Logan-Water, I mend thus:
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?
The song otherwise will pass. As to "M'Gregoira Rua-Ruth," you will
see a song of mine to it, with a set of the air superior to yours, in
the Museum, vol. ii. p. 181. The song begins,
Raving winds around her blowing.[251]
Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are rank Irish. If they were like
the "Banks of Banna," for instance, though really Irish, yet in the
Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so fond of Irish
music, what say you to twenty-five of them in an additional number? We
could easily find this quantity of charming airs; I will take care
that you shall not want songs; and I assure you that you would find it
the most saleable of the whole. If you do not approve of "Roy's wife,"
for the music's sake, we shall not insert it. "Deil tak the wars" is a
charming song; so is, "Saw ye my Peggy?" "There's nae luck about the
house" well deserves a place. I cannot say that "O'er the hills and
far awa" strikes me as equal to your selection. "This is no my ain
house," is a great favourite air of mine; and if you will send me your
set of it, I will task my muse to her highest effort. What is your
opinion of "I hae laid a herrin' in saut?" I like it much. Your
jacobite airs are pretty, and there are many others of the same kind
pretty; but you have not room for them. You cannot, I think, insert
"Fy! let's a' to the bridal," to any other words than its own.
What pleases me, as simple and _naive_, disgusts you as ludicrous and
low. For this reason, "Fy! gie me my coggie, Sirs," "Fy let's a' to
the bridal," with several others of that cast, are to me highly
pleasing; while "Saw ye my father, or saw ye my mother?" delights me
with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, "Ken ye what Meg o'
the mill has gotten?" pleases myself so much, that I cannot try my
hand at another song to the air, so I shall not attempt it. I know you
will laugh at all this: but "ilka man wears his belt his ain gait."
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 250: Song CCXII.]
[Footnote 251: Song LII.]
* * * * *
CCLXXVII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Of the Hon. Andrew Erskine an account was communicated in a letter to
Burns by Thomson, which the writer has withheld. He was a gentleman of
talent, and joint projector of Thomson's now celebrated work.]
_October, 1793._
Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed laden with heavy news.
Alas, poor Erskine![252] The recollection that he was a co-adjutator in
your publication, has till now scared me from writing to you, or
turning my thoughts on composing for you.
I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air of the "Quaker's
wife;" though, by the bye, an old Highland gentleman, and a deep
antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of
"Leiger m' choss." The following verses, I hope, will please you, as
an English song to the air.
Thine am I, my faithful fair:[253]
Your objection to the English song I proposed for "John Anderson my
jo," is certainly just. The following is by an old acquaintance of
mine, and I think has merit. The song was never in print, which I
think is so much in your favour. The more original good poetry your
collection contains, it certainly has so much the more merit.
SONG.--BY GAVIN TURNBULL.[254]
Oh, condescend, dear charming maid,
My wretched state to view;
A tender swain, to love betray'd,
And sad despair, by you.
While here, all melancholy,
My passion I deplore,
Yet, urg'd by stern, resistless fate,
I love thee more and more.
I heard of love, and with disdain
The urchin's power denied.
I laugh'd at every lover's pain,
And mock'd them when they sigh'd.
But how my state is alter'd!
Those happy days are o'er;
For all thy unrelenting hate,
I love thee more and more.
Oh, yield, illustrious beauty, yield!
No longer let me mourn;
And though victorious in the field,
Thy captive do not scorn.
Let generous pity warm thee,
My wonted peace restore;
And grateful I shall bless thee still,
And love thee more and more.
The following address of Turnbull's to the Nightingale will suit as an
English song to the air "There was a lass, and she was fair." By the
bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS., which I can command, if
you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may
be prejudiced in his favour; but I like some of his pieces very much.
THE NIGHTINGALE.
Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove,
That ever tried the plaintive strain,
Awake thy tender tale of love,
And soothe a poor forsaken swain.
For though the muses deign to aid
And teach him smoothly to complain,
Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid,
Is deaf to her forsaken swain.
All day, with fashion's gaudy sons,
In sport she wanders o'er the plain:
Their tales approves, and still she shuns
The notes of her forsaken swain.
When evening shades obscure the sky,
And bring the solemn hours again,
Begin, sweet bird, thy melody,
And soothe a poor forsaken swain.
I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's, which would go
charmingly to "Lewie Gordon."
LAURA.
Let me wander where I will,
By shady wood, or winding rill;
Where the sweetest May-born flowers
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers;
Where the linnet's early song
Echoes sweet the woods among:
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.
If at rosy dawn I choose
To indulge the smiling muse;
If I court some cool retreat,
To avoid the noontide heat;
If beneath the moon's pale ray,
Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray;
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.
When at night the drowsy god
Waves his sleep-compelling rod,
And to fancy's wakeful eyes
Bids celestial visions rise,
While with boundless joy I rove
Thro' the fairy land of love;
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.
The rest of your letter I shall answer at some other opportunity.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 252: "The honorable Andrew Erskine, whose melancholy death Mr.
Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter, which he has
suppressed."--CURRIE.]
[Footnote 253: Song CCXIII.]
[Footnote 254: Gavin Turnbull was author of a now forgotten volume,
published at Glasgow, in 1788, under the title of "Poetical Essays."]
* * * * *
CCLXXVIII.
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.,
WITH A PARCEL.
[The collection of songs alluded to in this letter, are only known to
the curious in loose lore: they were printed by an obscure
bookseller, but not before death had secured him from the indignation
of Burns.]
_Dumfries, [December, 1793.]_
SIR,
'Tis said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest
friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in
which I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money longer
than ever I owed it to any man. Here is Kerr's account, and here are
the six guineas; and now I don't owe a shilling to man--or woman
either. But for these d----d dirty, dog's-ear'd little pages,[255] I
had done myself the honour to have waited on you long ago. Independent
of the obligations your hospitality has laid me under, the
consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man and gentleman, of
itself was fully as much as I could ever make head against; but to owe
you money too, was more than I could face.
I think I once mentioned something to you of a collection of Scots
songs I have for some years been making: I send you a perusal of what
I have got together. I could not conveniently spare them above five or
six days, and five or six glances of them will probably more than
suffice you. When you are tired of them, please leave them with Mr.
Clint, of the King's Arms. There is not another copy of the collection
in the world; and I should be sorry that any unfortunate negligence
should deprive me of what has cost me a good deal of pains.
I have the honour to be, &c.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 255: Scottish Bank notes.]
* * * * *
CCLXXIX.
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.,
DRUMLANRIG.
[These words, thrown into the form of a note, are copied from a blank
leaf of the poet's works, published in two volumes, small octavo, in
1793.]
_Dumfries, 1793._
Will Mr. M'Murdo do me the favour to accept of these volumes; a
trifling but sincere mark of the very high respect I bear for his
worth as a man, his manners as a gentleman, and his kindness as a
friend. However inferior now, or afterwards, I may rank as a poet; one
honest virtue to which few poets can pretend, I trust I shall ever
claim as mine:--to no man, whatever his station in life, or his power
to serve me, have I ever paid a compliment at the expense of
TRUTH.
THE AUTHOR.
* * * * *
CCLXXX.
TO CAPTAIN ----.
[This excellent letter, obtained from Stewart of Dalguise, is copied
from my kind friend Chambers's collection of Scottish songs.]
_Dumfries, 5th December, 1793._
SIR,
Heated as I was with wine yesternight, I was perhaps rather seemingly
impertinent in my anxious wish to be honoured with your acquaintance.
You will forgive it: it was the impulse of heart-felt respect. "He is
the father of the Scottish county reform, and is a man who does honour
to the business, at the same time that the business does honour to
him," said my worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody by me who was
talking of your coming to this county with your corps. "Then," I said,
"I have a woman's longing to take him by the hand, and say to him,
'Sir, I honour you as a man to whom the interests of humanity are
dear, and as a patriot to whom the rights of your country are
sacred.'"
In times like these, Sir, when our commoners are barely able by the
glimmer of their own twilight understandings to scrawl a frank, and
when lords are what gentlemen would be ashamed to be, to whom shall a
sinking country call for help? To the independent country gentleman.
To him who has too deep a stake in his country not to be in earnest
for her welfare; and who in the honest pride of a man can view with
equal contempt the insolence of office and the allurements of
corruption.