original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you
altogether, unless you gave it a place. I have often tried to eke a
stanza to it, but in vain. After balancing myself for a musing five
minutes, on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the following.
The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, I frankly confess; but if
worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place; as every poet,
who knows anything of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a
concluding stroke.
O were my love yon lilac fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;
And I a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing;
How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.
* * * * *
XI.
_July_ 1793.
I assure you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me with your pecuniary
parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. However, to return it would
savour of affectation; but as to any more traffic of that debtor or
creditor kind, I swear by that HONOUR which crowns the upright statue of
ROBERT BURNS'S INTEGRITY--on the least motion of it, I will indignantly
spurn the by--past transaction, and from that moment commence entire
stranger to you! BURNS'S character for generosity of sentiment and
independence of mind will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants, which
the cold, unfeeling ore can supply: at least, I will take care that such
a character he shall deserve.
Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never did my eyes behold, in
any musical work, such elegance and correctness. Your preface, too, is
admirably written; only, your partiality to me has made you say too
much: however, it will bind me down to double every eifort in the future
progress of the work. The following are a few remarks on the songs in
the list you sent me. I never copy what I write to you, so I may be
often tautological, or perhaps contradictory.
"The Flowers of the Forest" is charming as a poem; and should be, and
must be, set to the notes; but, though out of your rule, the three
stanzas, beginning,
I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling,
are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalise the author of them,
who is an old lady[143] of my acquaintance, and at this moment living in
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn; I forget of what place; but from
Roxburghshire. What a charming apostrophe is
O fickle Fortune, why this cruel sporting,
Why, why torment us--_poor sons of a day_!
The old ballad, "I wish I were where Helen lies," is silly, to
contemptibility. My alteration of it, in Johnson's, is not much better.
[Footnote 142: _Nee_ Rutherford, of Selkirkshire. She was then 81
years old.]
* * * * *
XII.
_August_ 1793.
That tune, "Cauld Kail," is such a favourite of yours, that I once more
roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the muses; when the muse that
presides o'er the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring dearest
nymph, Coila, whispered me the following. I have two reasons for
thinking that it was my early, sweet, simple inspirer that was by my
elbow, "smooth gliding without step," and pouring the song on my glowing
fancy. In the first place, since I left Coila's haunts, not a fragment
of a poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by catching
inspiration from her; so I more than suspect she has followed me hither,
or at least makes me occasional visits; secondly, the last stanza of
this song I send you is the very words that Coila taught me many years
ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson's _Museum_.
Autumn is my propitious season. I make more verses in it than in all the
year else. God bless you.
* * * *
XIII.
_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 Finder 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 taittie" may rank
among this number; but well I know that, with Frazer's hautboy, it has
often filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which I have met
with in many places of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce's march at the
battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, 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 that eventful morning.
BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS,
On the Eve of the Battle of Bannockburn.
_Hey tuttie taittie_.
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, (etc.)
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.
* * * * *
XIV.
_September 1793_.
I have received your list, my dear Sir, and here go my observations on
it.[143]
"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."
"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 Crawford; Robert was his Christian name.
"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 never can 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 in nature around me that are in
unison or 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
fireside 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, besides 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 we more than either of them. It is
sometimes called "Jinglan 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
Crookie-den," etc. I would advise you in this 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" 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.
"Daintie Davie" I have heard sung nineteen thousand, nine hundred, and
ninety-nine times, and always with 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 propose, we will lay two of the stanzas together, and then
make the chorus follow.
"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 admirable pathetic
song. I do not give these verses for any merit they have. I composed
them at the time at which _Patie Allan's mither died_; that was _the
back o' midnight_; and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which had
overset every mortal in the company, except the hautbois and the muse.
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, (etc.)
"Jockie and Jenny" I would discard, and in its place would put "There's
nae luck about the house", 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 bobbet", 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 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", etc.
My song is 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.
Fragment.--Tune--"_Saw ye my Father_"
Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, (etc.)
"Todlin hame": Urbani mentioned an idea of his, which has long been
mine; and 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.[144]
AULD LANG SYNE.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, (etc.)
Now, I suppose I have tired your patience fairly. You must, after all is
over, have a number of ballads, properly so called, "Gil Morice",
"Tranent Muir", "M'Pherson's Farewell", "Battle of Sheriff-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. It was then called "The Banks o'
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.
[Footnote 143: Songs for his publication. Burns goes through the
whole; but only his remarks of any importance are presented here.]
[Footnote 144: It is believed to have been his own composition.]
* * * * *
XV.
_September_ 1793.
"Who shall decide when doctors disagree?" My ode[145] 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 scrutinised 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.
[Footnote 145: Scots wha hae.]
* * * * *
XVI.
_May_ 1794.
My Dear Sir,--I return you the plates, with which I am highly pleased. I
would humbly propose, instead of the younker knitting stockings, to put
a stock and horn into his hands. A friend of mine, who is positively the
ablest judge on the subject I have ever met with, and though an unknown,
is yet a superior artist with the _burin_, is quite charmed with Allan's
manner. I got him a peep of the "Gentle Shepherd", and he pronounces
Allan a most original artist of great excellence.
For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing my favourite poem for his
subject to be one of the highest compliments I have ever received.
I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up in France, as it will put
an entire stop to our work. Now, and for six or seven months, I shall be
quite in song, as you shall see by-and-by. I got an air, pretty enough,
composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls "The Banks
of Cree." Cree is a beautiful romantic stream, and, as her ladyship is a
particular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it:--
Here is the glen, and here the bower, (etc.)
* * * * *
XVII.
_Sept_. 1794.
I shall withdraw my "On the seas and far away" altogether; it is
unequal, and unworthy of the work. Making a poem is like begetting a
son; you cannot know whether you have a wise man or a fool, until you
produce him to the world and try him.
For that reason I have sent you the offspring of my brain, abortions and
all; and as such, pray look over them, and forgive them, and burn them.
I am flattered at your adopting "Ca' the yowes to the knowes", as it was
owing to me that it ever saw the light. About seven years ago I was well
acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who
sung it charmingly: and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took it down from his
singing. When I gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the song,
and mended others, but still it will not do for you. In a solitary
stroll which I took to-day, I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines,
following up the idea of the chorus, which I would preserve. Here it is,
with all its crudities and imperfections on its head.
Ca' the yowes, (etc.)
I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs, my first
scribbling fit.
* * * * *
XVIII.
19_th 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, "Craigie-burn 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, a 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
clishmaclaiver 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 divine
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 on 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 enclosed stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they
were formerly when set to another air, may perhaps do instead of
worse stanzas.
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 if it were. It appeared first in the _Edinburgh
Herald_; and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle
post-mark on it[146]
"Whistle o'er the lave o't" is mine; the music is 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 redwud
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 lang 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 the room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the
other page.
Tune--_Cauld Kail in Aberdeen_.
How lang and dreary is the night, (etc.)
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.
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.
[Footnote 146:
"Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht head,
The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale,
The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck,
And, shivering, tells his waefu' tale.
"Cauld is the night, O let me in,
And dinna let your minstrel fa',
And dinna let his winding-sheet
Be naething but a wreath o' snaw."(etc.)]
* * * * *
XIX.
_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, etc., for
your work. I intend drawing it 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, etc., 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 fair 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, (etc,)
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
chlre 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!
* * * * *
XX.
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 modernised 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 as follows.[147]