When wild War's deadly blast was blawn, A leal, light heart was in my breast, I thought upon the banks o' Coyl, At length I reached the bonny glen I passed the mill, and trysting-thorn, Wi' altered voice, quoth I, 'Sweet lass, That's dearest to thy bosom ! 1 Burns, I have been informed, was one summer evening at the inn at Brownhill with a couple of friends, when a poor wayworn soldier passed the window: of a sudden, it struck the poet to call him in, and get the story of his adventures; after listening to which, he all at once fell into one of those fits of abstraction not unusual with him. He was lifted to the region where he had his "garland and singing robes about him," and the result was the adınirable song which he sent you for The Mill, Mill O!'-Correspondent of Mr George Thomson. Mill-Mannoch, a sweet pastoral scene on the Coyl, near Coylton Kirk, is supposed to have been the spot where the poet imagined the rencontre of the soldier and his mistress to have taken place. 2 Variation VOL. III. And eyes again with pleasure beamed, ន My purse is light, I've far to gang, Sae wistfully she gazed on me, She gazed-she reddened like a rose— She sank within my arms, and cried, "The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, Quo' she, 'My grandsire left me gowd, And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, For gold the merchant ploughs the main, But glory is the sodger's prize, The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, farm MEG O' THE MILL. AIR-O Bonny Lass, will you lie in a Barrack? O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? fool lump The Miller was strappin', the Miller was ruddy; The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving; O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing! offered BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 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 carly attachment to ballads, your book, &c., 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 3 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 is 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 1 A poor little creature. The poet had retouched an old song of this name for Johnson's Museum in 1788. It appeared in the sixth volume, as 'written for this work by Robert Burns,' but is so rude and wretched a production, that we cannot believe many words of it to have been supplied by so masterly a pen. 3 Burns here calls himself the Voice of Coila,' in imitation of Ossian, who denominates himself the Voice of Cona.' Sae Merry as we a' hae been! and Good-night, and Joy be wi' you a'! are the names of two Scottish tunes.-CURRIE. 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 : Far, far frae me and Logan braes.' 'Now my dear lad maun face his faes, His mind is never muddy,' My Patie is a Lover gay, is unequal. 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 thrash 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 John 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 Irvine Water, still called Patic's Mill, where a bonny 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. Were there ever such bans 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 Puirtith 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 the 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 sang 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,' &c., I do myself honestly avow that I think it a superior 1 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 Cragieburn Wood, and, in the opinion of Mr Clarke, is one of the 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 to it, a good while ago, which I think * * *, 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.2 Mr Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his Lone Vale is divine. Yours, &c. Let me know just how you like these random hints. The bard did produce a second stanza of The Chevalier's Lament (to which he here alludes), worthy of the first.-CURRIE. See both verses in Vol. II. of the present work, pages 251, 252. 2 Mr Thomson, it appears, did not approve of this song, even in its altered state. It does not appear in the correspondence; but it is probably one to be found in his manuscripts beginning Yestreen I got a pint of wine, A place where body saw na; Yestreen lay on this breast of mine [The hungry Jew in wilderness, Was naething to my hinny bliss Ye monarchs, tak the east and west, Frae Indus to Savannah, Gie me within my straining grasp The melting form of Anna. There I'll despise imperial charms, While dying raptures in her arms, I give and take with Anna! Awa', thou flaunting god o' day! Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray, It is highly characteristic of our bard, but the strain of sentiment does not correspond with the air to which he proposes it should be allied.-CURRIE. |