• Where are the joys I have met in the morning,' &c. Adieu, my dear Sir! The post goes, so I shall defer some other remarks until more leisure. No. 193. MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 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.-See Poems, p. 415. 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, 'Baving winds around her blowing.' Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are downright 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 sawt? 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 Fie, let us a' to the bridal, to any other words than its own. What pleases me, as simple and nïave, disgusts you as ludicrous and low. For this reason, Fie, gie me my coggie, Sirs, Fie, let us 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.' No. 194. MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. October, 1793. YOUR last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Erskine* The recollection that he was a coadjutor 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. The honourable A. Erskine, brother to lord Kelly, whose melancholy death Mr. Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter, which he has suppressed. What is life, when wanting love? 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. O, condescend, dear charming maid, While here, all melancholy, I heard of love, and with disdain, I laughed at every lover's pain, But how my state is alter'd! O, yield, illustrious beauty, yield, Let generous pity warm thee, My wonted peace restore; And, grateful, I shall bless thee still, 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. BY G. TURNBULL. THOU sweetest minstrel of the grove, Awake thy tender tale of love, And sooth a poor forsaken swain. For tho' the muses deign to aid, And teach him smoothly to complain; Is deaf to her forsaken swain. All day, with fashions' gaudy sons, When evening shades obscure the sky, And sooth a poor forsaken swain. I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's. which would go charmingly to Lewie Gordon. |