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 bye. 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.1 CCXCV. R. B. TO DAVID M'CULLOCH, ESQ. [The endorsement on the back of the original letter shows in what far lands it has travelled :-"Given by David M'Culloch, Penang, 1810. A. Fraser." "Received, 15th December, 1823, in Calcutta, from Captain Frazer's widow, by me, Thomas Rankine." "Transmitted to Archibald Hastie, Esq., London, March 27th, 1824, from Bombay."] Dumfries, 21st June, 1794. MY DEAR SIR, My long-projected journey through your country is at last fixed: and on Wednesday next, if you have nothing of more importance to do, take a saunter down to Gatehouse about two or 1 Song CCXXIII. [Castle Douglas is a thriving Galloway village it was in other days called "The Carlinwark," but accepted its present proud name from an opulent family of mercantile Douglasses, well known in Scotland, England, and America.] Castle Douglas, 25th June, 1794. HERE, in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy as I may.-Solitary confinement, you know, is Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners; so let me consider by what fatality it happens that I have so long been so exceeding sinful as to neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have on earth. To tell you that I have | been in poor health will not be excuse enough, though it is true. I am afraid that I am about to suffer for the follies of my youth. My medical friends threaten me with a flying gout; but I trust they are mistaken. I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first sketch of a stanza I have been framing as I passed along the road. The subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design it as an irregular ode for General Washington's birth-day. After having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms, I come to Scotland thus: Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death! That arm which nerved with thundering fate, You will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or two. R. B. CCXCVII. TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. [The anxiety of Burns about the accuracy of his poetry, while in the press, was great: he found full employment for months in correcting a new edition of his poems.] Dumfries, 1794. MY DEAR FRIEND, You should have heard from me long ago; but over and above some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I have all this winter been plagued with low spirits and❘ blue devils, so that I have almost hung my harp on the willow-trees. I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems, and this, with my ordinary business, finds me in full employment. I send you by my friend Mr. Wallace fortyone songs for your fifth volume; if we cannot finish it in any other way, what would you think of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs? In the mean time, at your leisure, give a copy of the Museum to my worthy friend, Mr. Peter Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly as he did the Laird of Glenriddel's, that I may insert every anecdote I can learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks on the songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to publish at some after period, by way of making the Museum a book famous to the end of time, and you renowned for ever. I have got an Highland dirk, for which I have great veneration; as it once was the dirk of Lord Balmerino. It fell into bad hands, who stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as the knife and fork. I have some thoughts of sending it to your care, to get it mounted anew. Thank you for the copies of my Volunteer Ballad. Our friend Clarke has done indeed well! 'tis chaste and beautiful. I have not met with anything that has pleased me so much. You Is there no news yet of Pleyel? Or is your work to be at a dead stop, until the allies set our modern Orpheus at liberty from the savage thraldom of democrat discords? Alas the day! And woe is me! That auspicious period, pregnant with the happiness of millions. * I have presented a copy of your songs to the daughter of a much-valued and much-honoured friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintray. I wrote on the blank side of the title-page the following address to the young lady: Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, &c.1 CCXCIX. TO MR. THOMSON. R. B. [Thomson says to Burns, "You have anticipated my opinion of 'O'er the seas and far away."" Yet some of the verses are original and touching.] 30th August, 1794. THE last evening, as I was straying out, and thinking of "O'er the hills and far away," I spun the following stanza for it; but whether my spinning will deserve to be laid up in store, like the precious thread of the silk-worm, or brushed to the devil, like the vile manufacture of the spider, I leave, my dear Sir, to your usual candid criticism. I was pleased with several lines in it at first, but I own that now it appears rather a flimsy business. This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whether it be worth a critique. We have many sailor songs, but as far as I at present recollect, they are mostly the effusions of the jovial sailor, not the wailings of his love-lorn mistress. I must here make one sweet exception-" Sweet Annie frae the sea-beach came." Now for the song:How can my poor heart be glad.2 I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Christian meekness. R. B. CCC. TO MR. THOMSON. [The stream on the banks of which this song is supposed to be sung, is known by three names, Cairn, Dalgonar, and Cluden. It rises under the name of Cairn, runs through a wild country, under the name of Dalgonar, affording fine trout-fishing as well as fine scenes, and under that of Cluden it all but washes the walls of Lincluden College, and then unites with the Nith.] Sept. 1794. I SHALL withdraw my "On the seas and far away" altogether: it is unequal, and unworthy 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 to try him. For that reason I send 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 ever it saw the light. About seven years ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sang 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 today, 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 to the knowes, &c.1 I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit. and narrowly escaped the guillotine, like many other true friends of liberty.] Sept. 1794. Do you know a blackguard Irish song called Onagh's Waterfall?" The air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent verses to it. It is too much, at least for my humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort of hers shall have merit; still I think that it is better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air, than none at all. On this principle I have all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Museum; and as that publication is at its last volume, I intend the following song, to the air above mentioned, for that work. If it does not suit you as an editor, you may be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing in the company of ladies. Sae flaxen were her ringlets.2 Not to compare small things with great, my taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of Prussia's taste in painting: we are told that he frequently admired what the connoisseurs decried, and always without any hypocrisy confessed his admiration. I am sensible that my taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, because people of undisputed and cultivated taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Still, because I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I should deny myself that pleasure? Many of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, give me most exquisite enjoyment, where you and other judges would probably be showing disgust. For instance, I am just now making verses for "Rothemurche's rant," an air which puts me in raptures; and, in fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, I never can make verses to it. Here I have Clarke on my side, who is a judge that I will pit against any of you. "Rothemurche," he says, "is an air both original and beautiful;" and, on his recommendation, I have taken the first part of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last part for the song. I am but two stanzas deep in the work, and possibly you may think, and justly, that the poetry is as little worth your attention as the music. [Here follow two stanzas of the song, beginning "Lassie wi' the lint-white locks." Song CCXXXIII.] I have begun anew, "Let me in this ae night." Do you think that we ought to retain the old chorus? I think we must retain both the old chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I I do not altogether like the third line of the first stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. am just three stanzas deep in it. Would you have the denouement to be successful or otherwise?-should she "let him in" or not? Did you not once propose "The sow's tail to Geordie" as an air for your work? I am quite delighted with it; but I acknowledge that is no mark of its real excellence. I once set about verses for it, which I meant to be in the alternate way of a lover and his mistress chanting together. I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, and yours, I am afraid, is rather burlesque for sentiment, else I had meant to have made you the hero and heroine of the little piece. How do you like the following epigram which I wrote the other day on a lovely young girl's recovery from a fever? Doctor Maxwell was the physician who seemingly saved her from the grave; and to him I address the following: TO DR. MAXWELL, ON MISS JESSIE STAIG'S RECOVERY. Maxwell, if merit here you crave, That merit I deny : You save fair Jessy from the grave?— An angel could not die! women in Scotland; and in fact (entre nous) is in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to him—a mistress, or 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 clishmaclaver 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 jɔy— 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 celestial 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. to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in 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 follow God grant you patience with this stupid ing stanzas of mine, altered a little from what epistle! they were formerly, when set to another air, may perhaps do instead of worse stanzas:— CCCII. TO MR. THOMSON. R. B. 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 "Craigieburn-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 "The O saw ye my dear, my Phely.1 Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. 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 it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it. "Whistle o'er the lave o't" is mine: the music said to be by a John 1 Song CCXXVII. Bruce, a celebrated violin-player in Dumfries, about the beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a red-wud 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 long 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 my room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the other page. How long and dreary is the night, &c.1 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. You cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to your addenda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, a noted performer, plays and sings at the same time so charmingly, that I shall never bear to see any of her songs sent into the world, as naked as Mr. What-d'ye-call-um has done in his London collection.2 These English songs gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at "Duncan Gray," to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance :— Let not woman e'er complain, &c.3 Since the above, I have been out in the country, taking a dinner with a friend, where I met with a lady whom I mentioned in the second page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. usual, I got into song; and returning home I composed the following: As Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature &c.4 If you honour my verses by setting the air to them, I will vamp up the old song, and make it English enough to be understood. I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East Indian air, which you would swear was a Scottish 1 Song CCXXVIII. 2 Mr. Ritson, whose collection of Scottish songs was published this year. one. I know the authenticity of it, as the gentleman who brought it over is a particular acquaintance of mine. Do preserve me the copy I send you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke has set a bass to it, and I intend putting it into the Musical Museum. Here follow the verses I intend for it. But lately seen in gladsome green, &c.5 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 hotchpotch epistle has not completely tired you of my correspondence? VARIATION. Now to the streaming fountain, The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray; In twining hazel bowers, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. When frae my Chloris parted, But when she charms my sight, 'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy! |