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.
[Footnote 137: One evening, while at the Brow, Burns was visited by
two young ladies. The sun, setting on the western hills, threw a
strong light upon him through the window. One of them perceiving
this, proceeded to draw the curtain; "Let me look at the sun, my
dear," said the sinking poet, "he will not long shine on me."]
* * * * *
CCIV.--To MRS. DUNLOP.
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 bourne 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.
* * * * *
CCV.--To MR. JAMES BURNESS, WRITER, MONTROSE.
DUMFRIES, _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 a 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. Melancholy and low
spirits are half my disease. If I had it settled, I would be, I think,
quite well in a manner.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCVI.--To HIS FATHER-IN-LAW, JAMES ARMOUR, MASON, MAUCHLINE.[138]
DUMFRIES, _18th July 1799._
MY DEAR SIR,--Do, for heaven's sake, send Mrs. Armour here immediately.
My wife is hourly expecting to be put to bed. Good God! what a situation
for her to be in, poor girl, without a friend! I returned from
sea-bathing quarters to-day, and my medical friends would almost
persuade me that I am better, but I think and feel that my strength is
so gone that the disorder will prove fatal to me.--Your son-in-law,
R. B.
[Footnote 138: Mrs. Burns's father. This is the very last of Burns's
compositions, being written only three days before his death.]
* * * *
THE THOMSON LETTERS.
PREFATORY NOTE.
This correspondence began in September 1792, when Burns had already been
domiciled nine months in the town of Dumfries, and ended only with his
death in July 1796. It originated in the request of a stranger for a
series of songs to suit a projected collection of the best Scottish
airs. The stranger was George Thomson, a young man of about Burns's own
age, and head clerk in the office of the Board of Manufactures in
Edinburgh. Thomson outlived his great correspondent by more than half a
century. He died so recently as 1851, at the advanced age of ninety-two.
Robert Chambers has described him as a most honourable man, of
singularly amiable character and cheerful manners. It may interest some
people to know that his granddaughter was the wife of Dickens, the
famous novelist.
THE THOMSON LETTER.
I.
DUMFRIES, _16th September 1792._
Sir,--I have just this moment got your letter. As the request you make
to me will positively add to my enjoyments in complying with it, I shall
enter into your undertaking with all the small portion of abilities I
have, strained to their utmost exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm.
Only, don't hurry me. "Deil tak the hindmost" is by no means the _crie
de guerre_ of my muse. Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in
enthusiastic attachment to the poetry and music of old Caledonia, and,
since you request it, have cheerfully promised my mite of
assistance--will you let me have a list of your airs, with the first
line of the printed verses you intend for them, that I may have an
opportunity of suggesting any alteration that may occur to me? You know
'tis in the way of my trade; still leaving you, gentlemen,[139] the
undoubted rights of publishers, to approve or reject at your pleasure,
for your own publication. _Apropos_ if you are for _English_ verses,
there is, on my part, an end of the matter. Whether in the simplicity of
the ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can only hope to please myself
in being allowed at least a sprinkling of our native tongue. English
verses, particularly the works of Scotsmen, that have merit, are
certainly very eligible. "Tweedside;" "Ah! the Poor Shepherd's Mournful
Fate;" "Ah! Chloris, could I now but sit," etc., you cannot mend; but
such insipid stuff as "To Fanny fair, could I impart," etc., usually set
to "The Mill, Mill, O," is a disgrace to the collections in which it has
already appeared, and would doubly disgrace a collection that will have
the very superior merit of yours. But more of this in the farther
prosecution of the business, if I am to be called on for my strictures
and amendments--I say, amendments; for I will not alter, accept where I
myself, at least, think that I amend.
As to any renumeration, you may think my songs either above or below
price; for they shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the honest
enthusiasm with which I embark in your undertaking, to talk of money,
wages, fee, hire, etc., would be downright sodomy of soul! A proof of
each of the songs that I compose or amend I shall receive as a favour.
In the rustic phrase of the season, "Gude speed the wark!"--I am, Sir,
your very humble servant,
R. BURNS.
P.S.--I have some particular reasons for wishing my interference to be
known as little as possible.
[Footnote 139: Thomson in his letter spoke of coadjutors, but in less
than a year he became sole editor of the collection.]
* * * * *
II.
My Dear Sir,--Let me tell you that you are too fastidious in your ideas
of songs and ballads. I own that your criticisms are just; the songs you
specify in your list have, _all but one_, the faults you remark in them;
but how shall we mend the matter? Who shall rise up and say--Go to, I
will make a better? For instance, on reading over "The Lea-rig," I
immediately set about trying my hand on it, and, after all, I could make
nothing more of it than the following, which, Heaven knows, is
poor enough:--
When o'er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo, (etc.)
Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Percy's ballad to the air,
"Nannie O," is just. It is besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad
in the English language. But let me remark to you, that in the sentiment
and style of our Scottish airs there is a pastoral simplicity, a
something that one may call the Doric style and dialect of vocal music,
to which a dash of our native tongue and manners is particularly, nay,
peculiarly apposite. For this reason, and upon my honour, for this
reason alone, I am of opinion (but, as I told you before, my opinion is
yours, freely yours to approve or reject as you please) that my ballad
of "Nannie, O", might perhaps do for one set of verses to the tune. Now
don't let it enter into your head that you are under any necessity of
taking my verses. I have long ago made up my mind as to my own
reputation in the business of authorship; and have nothing to be pleased
or offended at, in your adoption or rejection of my verses. Though you
should reject one half of what I give you, I shall be pleased with your
adopting the other half, and shall continue to serve you with the same
assiduity.
In the printed copy of my "Nannie, O", the name of the river is horridly
prosaic. I will alter it,
Behind yon hills where _Lugar_ flows.
Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza best,
but Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of syllables.
I will soon give you a great many more remarks on this business; but I
have just now an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, free of
postage, an expense that it is ill able to pay; so, with my best
compliments to honest Allan,[140] goodbye to ye.
_Friday night.
Saturday morning._
As I find I have still an hour to spare this morning before my
conveyance goes away, I will give you "Nannie, O", at length.
Your remarks on "Ewe-bughts, Marion", are just; still it has obtained a
place among our more classical Scottish songs; and what with many
beauties in its composition, and more prejudices in its favour, you will
not find it easy to supplant it.
In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies,
I took the following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, and
has nothing of the merits of "Ewe-bughts", but it will fill up this
page. You must know that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings
of ardent passion, and though it might have been easy in after-times to
have given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, and
who perhaps alone cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my
heart, which was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth
simplicity was, as they say of wines, their _race_.
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, (etc.)
"Gala Water," and "Auld Rob Morris," I think, will most probably be the
next subject of my musings. However, even on _my verses_, speak out your
criticisms with equal frankness. My wish is, not to stand aloof, the
uncomplying bigot of _opiniâtretè_, but cordially to join issue with you
in the furtherance of the work. Gude speed the wark!
Amen.
[Footnote 140: David Allan, the artist.]
* * * * *
III.
_November_ 8_th_, 1792,
If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs in your collection shall be
poetry of the first merit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty in
the undertaking than you are aware of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in
many of our airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis,
or what I would call the _feature-notes_ of the tune, that cramp the
poet, and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. For instance,
in the air, "My Wife's a wanton wee Thing", if a few lines, smooth and
pretty, can be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The enclosed
were made extempore to it; and though, on farther study, I might give
you something more profound, yet it might not suit the light-horse
gallop of the air so well as this random clink.
I have just been looking over the "Collier's bonny Dochter", and if the
enclosed rhapsody which I composed the day, on a charming Ayrshire girl,
Miss Baillie, as she passed through this place to England, will suit
your taste better than the "Collier Lassie", fall on and welcome.
I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic airs until more
leisure, as they will take, and deserve a greater effort. However, they
are all put into your hands, as clay into the hands of the potter, to
make one vessel to honour, and another to dishonour. Farewell, etc.
* * * * *
IV.
Inclosing "Highland Mary".--Tune--_Katharine Ogie_.
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around, (etc.)
14_th November_ 1792.
My Dear Sir,--I agree with you, that the song "Katharine Ogie", is very
poor stuff, and unworthy, altogether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I
tried to mend it; but the awkward sound "Ogie," recurring in the rhyme,
spoils every attempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. The
foregoing song pleases myself; I think it is in my happiest manner; you
will see at the first glance that it suits the air. The subject of the
song is one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days; and I
own that I should be much flattered to see the verses set to an air
which would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after all,'tis the still glowing
prejudice of my heart that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of
the composition.
I have partly taken your idea of "Auld Rob Morris". I have adopted the
two first verses, and am going on with the song on a new plan, which
promises pretty well. I take up one or another, just as the bee of the
moment buzzes in my bonnet-lug; and do you, _sans ceremonie_, make what
use you choose of the productions. Adieu! etc.
* * * * *
V.
26_th January_ 1793.
I approve greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans. Dr. Beattie's essay will
of itself be a treasure. On my part, I mean to draw up an appendix to
the Doctor's essay, containing my stock of anecdotes, etc., of our Scots
songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken down in
the course of my acquaintance with him, from his own mouth. I am such an
enthusiast, that in the course of my several peregrinations through
Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every
song took its rise, Lochaber and the Braes of Ballendean excepted. So
far as locality, either from the title of the air, or the tenor of the
song, could be ascertained, I have paid my devotions at the particular
shrine of every Scots Muse.
I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable collection of Jacobite
songs--but would it give no offence? In the meantime, do not you think
that some of them, particularly "The Sow's Tail to Geordie", as an air,
with other words, might be well worth a place in your collection of
lively songs?
If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it would be proper to
have one set of Scots words to every air, and that the set of words to
which the notes ought to be set. There is a _naïvetè_, a pastoral
simplicity, in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology,
which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and, I will add, to every
genuine Caledonian taste), with the simple pathos or rustic
sprightliness of our native music, than any English verses whatever.
The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisition to your work. His
"Gregory" is beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in
Scots, on the same subject, which are at your service. Not that I intend
to enter the lists with Peter; that would be presumption indeed. My
song, though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think, more of the
ballad simplicity in it.
LORD GREGORY.
O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, (etc.)
Your remark on the first stanza of my "Highland Mary" is just, but I
cannot alter it, without injuring the poetry.
* * * * *
VI.
_20th March 1793._
My Dear Sir,--The song prefixed ("Mary Morison") is one of my juvenile
works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very remarkable,
either for its merits or demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel it
so in my stinted powers) to be always original, entertaining, and witty.
What is become of the list, etc., of your songs? I shall be out of all
temper with you by and by. I have always looked on myself as the prince
of indolent correspondents, and valued myself accordingly; and I will
not, cannot bear rivalship from you, nor anybody else.
* * * * *
VII.
_7th April 1793. _
Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine how much
this business of composing for your publication has added to my
enjoyments. What, with my early attachment to ballads, your book, etc.,
ballad-making is now as completely my hobby-horse as ever fortification
was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit
of my race (God grant that I may take the right side of the
winning-post!) and then cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with
whom I have been happy, I shall say, or sing, "Sae merry as we a' hae
been" and raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words
of the voice of Coila shall be, "Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!" So
much for my last words; now for a few present remarks as they have
occurred at random, on looking over your list.
The first lines of "The last time I came o'er the Moor", and several
other lines in it, are beautiful; but in my opinion--pardon me, revered
shade of Ramsay!--the song is unworthy of the divine air. I shall try to
_make_ or _mend_. "For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove," is a charming
song; but "Logan Burn and Logan Braes" are sweetly susceptible of rural
imagery; I'll try that likewise, and if I succeed, the other song may
class among the English ones. I remember the two last lines of a verse
in some of the old songs of "Logan Water" (for I know a good many
different ones), which I think pretty--
Now my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me, and Logan braes.
"My Patie is a lover gay", is unequal. "His mind is never muddy," is a
muddy expression indeed.
Then I'll resign and marry Pate,
And syne my cockernony--
This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your book. My song, "Rigs of
Barley", to the same tune, does not altogether please me; but if I can
mend it, and thresh a few loose sentiments out of it, I will submit it
to your consideration. The "Lass o' Patie's Mill" is one of Ramsay's
best songs; but there is one loose sentiment in it, which my much-valued
friend, Mr. Erskine, will take into his critical consideration. In Sir
J. Sinclair's statistical volumes are two claims, one I think, from
Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire, for the honour of this song.
The following anecdote, which I had from the present Sir William
Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon,
I can on such authorities believe.
Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle with the then Earl, father to
Earl John; and one forenoon, riding or walking out together, his
lordship and Allan passed a sweet romantic spot on Irwine water, still
called "Patie's Mill," where a bonnie lass was "tedding hay, bareheaded
on the green." My lord observed to Allan, that it would be a fine theme
for a song, Ramsay took the hint, and lingering behind, he composed the
first sketch of it, which he produced at dinner.
"One day I heard Mary say," is a fine song; but for consistency's sake,
alter the name "Adonis." Was there ever such banns published, as a
purpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary? I agree with you that my
song, "There's nought but care on every hand," is much superior to
"Poortith Cauld." The original song, "The Mill, Mill, O," though
excellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible; still I like the
title, and think a Scottish song would suit the notes best; and let your
chosen song, which is very pretty, follow, as an English set. The "Banks
of Dee" is, you know, literally "Langolee" to slow time. The song is
well enough, but has some false imagery in it, for instance,
And sweetly the nightingale sung from the _tree_.
In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from
a tree; and in the second place, there never was a nightingale seen or
heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in
Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is always comparatively flat. If I could
hit on another stanza equal to "The small birds rejoice," etc., I do
myself honestly avow that I think it a superior song. "John Anderson, my
jo"--the song to this tune in Johnson's _Museum_ is my composition, and
I think it not my worst: if it suit you, take it and welcome. Your
collection of sentimental and pathetic songs is, in my opinion, very
complete; but not so your comic ones. Where are "Tullochgorum," "Lumps
o' Puddin'," "Tibbie Fowler," and several others, which, in my humble
judgment, are well worthy of preservation? There is also one sentimental
song of mine in the _Museum_, which never was known out of the immediate
neighbourhood, until I got it taken down from a country girl's singing.
It is called "Craigie-burn Wood;" and in the opinion of Mr. Clarke is
one of our sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about it;
and I would take his taste in Scottish music against the taste of most
connoisseurs.
You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, though they
are certainly Irish. "Shepherds, I have lost my love," is to me a
heavenly air--what would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it? I
have made one a good while ago, which I think is the best love song[141]
I ever composed in my life; but in its original state it is not quite a
lady's song. I enclose an altered, not amended copy for you, if you
choose to set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow.
Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his "Lone Vale" is
divine.--Yours, etc.
Let me know just how you like these random hints.
[Footnote 141: "Yestreen I had a pint o' wine."]
* * * * *
VIII.
_April 1793._
My Dear Sir,--I own my vanity is flattered when you give my songs a
place in your elegant and superb work; but to be of service to the work
is my first wish. As I have often told you, I do not in a single
instance wish you, out of compliment to me, to insert anything of mine.
One hint let me give you--whatever Mr. Peyel does, let him not alter one
_iota_ of the original Scottish airs; I mean in the song department; but
let our national music preserve its native features. They are, I own,
frequently wild, and irreducible to the more modern rules; but on that
very eccentricity, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect.
* * * * *
IX.
_June_ 1793.
When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend of mine, in whom I am much
interested, has fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you will
easily allow that it might unhinge me for doing any good among ballads.
My own loss, as to pecuniary matters, is trifling; but the total ruin of
a much-loved friend is a loss indeed. Pardon my seeming inattention to
your last commands.
I cannot alter the disputed lines in the "Mill, Mill, O."[142] What you
think a defect I esteem as a positive beauty; so you see how doctors
differ. I shall now, with as much alacrity as I can muster, go on with
your commands.
You know Frazer, the hautboy player in Edinburgh--he is here instructing
a band of music for a fencible corps quartered in this country. Among
many of the airs that please me, there is one well known as a reel, by
the name of "The Quaker's Wife"; and which I remember a grand-aunt of
mine used to sing, by the name of "Liggeram Cosh, my bonnie wee lass".
Mr. Frazer plays it slow, and with an expression that quite charms me. I
became such an enthusiast about it that I made a song for it, which I
here subjoin, and inclose Frazer's set of the tune. If they hit your
fancy, they are at your service; if not, return me the tune, and I will
put it in Johnson's _Museum_. I think the song is not in my
worst manner.
Blithe hae I been on yon hill, (etc.)
I should wish to hear how this pleases you.
[Footnote 142: The lines were the third and fourth--
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning.]
* * * *
X.
_June 25th 1793_.
Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom ready to burst with
indignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom
against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the
wantonness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions? In a
mood of this kind to-day I recollected the air of "Logan Water;" and it
occurred to me that its querulous melody probably had its origin from
the plaintive indignation of some swelling, suffering heart, fired at
the tyrannic strides of some public destroyer, and overwhelmed with
private distress, the consequence of a country's ruin. If I have done
anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song,
composed in three quarters of an hour's meditation in my elbow-chair,
ought to have some merit.
[Here follows "Logan Water."]
Do you know the following beautiful little fragment in
Witherspoon's _Collection of Scots Songs_?
Air--_Hughie Graham._
O gin my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa',
And I mysel' a drap o' dew
Into her bonnie breast to fa'!
Oh, there beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Seal'd on her silk saft faulds to rest,
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus light.