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 poete_--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.