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 No. XX nightingale seen, or heard, on the banks MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 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 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 Craigieburn Wood; and in the opinion of Mr. Clarke, is one of the sweetest Scot Edinburgh, April, 1793. I REJOICE to find, my dear Sir, that ballad-making continues to be your hobbyhorse. Great pity 'twould be were it otherwise. I hope you will amble it away for many a year, and "witch the world with your horsemanship.” I know there are a good many lively songs of merit that I have not put down in the list sent you; but I have them all in my eye. My Patie is a lover gay, though a little unequal, is a natural and very pleasing song, and I humbly think we ought not to displace or alter it, ex cept the last stanza.* No. XXI tish songs. He is quite an enthusiast MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. about it and I would take his taste in Scottish music against the taste of most connoisseurs. April, 1793. I HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this moletter, in my desultory way of saying ment. I shall answer it and your former whatever comes uppermost. ing, at the beginning, what fiddlers call The business of many of our tunes wanta starting-note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. "There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, That wander through the blooming heather," you may alter to "Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, Ye wander," &c. Yestreen lay on this breast of mine, The gowden locks of Anna." 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. E. * The original letter from Mr. Thomson contains many observations on the Scottish songs, and on the manner of adapting the words to the music, which, at his desire, are suppressed. The subsequent letter of Mr. Burns refers to several of these observations. E My song, Here awa, there awa, as amended by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve of, and return you.* Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only thing in which it is in my opinion reprehensible. You know I ought to know something of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and point, you are a complete judge: but there is a quality more necessary than either, in a song, and which is the very essence of a ballad, I mean simplicity: now, if I mistake not, this last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to the foregoing. Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been always equally happy in his pieces; still I cannot approve of taking such liberties with an author as Mr. W. proposes doing with The last time I came o'er the moor. Let a poet, if he chooses, take up the idea of another, and work it into a piece of his own; but to mangle the works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue is now mute for ever, in the dark and narrow house; by Heaven 'twould be sacrilege! I grant that Mr. W.'s version is an improvement: but I know Mr. this country, to suit Bonnie Dundee." I send you also a ballad to the Mill Mill O.* I The last time I came o'er the moor, would fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and let Ramsay's be the English set. You shall hear from me soon. When you go to London on this business, can you come by Dumfries? I have still several MS. Scots airs by me which I have picked up, mostly from the singing of country lasses. They please me vastly; but your learned lugs would perhaps be displeased with the very feature for which I like them. I call them simple; you would pronounce them silly. Do you know a fine air called Jackie Hume's Lament? I have a song of considerable merit to that air. I'll enclose you both the song and tune, as I had them ready to send to Johnson's Museum. I send you likewise, to me, a very beautiful little air, which I had taken down from viva voce.f Adieu! No. XXII W. well, and esteem him much; let him MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON mend the song, as the Highlander mended his gun-he gave it a new stock, a new lock, and a new barrel. MY DEAR SIR, April, 1793. the post-office, when I took up the subI HAD Scarcely put my last letter into ject of The last time I came o'er the moor, and, ere I slept, drew the outlines of the foregoing. How far I have succeeded, I leave on this, as on every other occasion, to you to decide. 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 any thing of mine. One hint let me give you I do not by this object to leaving out improper stanzas, where that can be done without spoiling the whole. One stanza in The Lass of Patie's Mill, must be left out: the song will be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we can take the same liberty with Corn rigs are bonnie. Perhaps it might want the last stanza, and be the better for it. Cauld kail in Aberdeen you must leave with me yet a while. I have vowed to have a song to that air, on the lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the verses Poortith cauld and restless love. At any rate my other song, Green grow the rashes, will never suit. That song is current in Scotland under the old title, and to the merry old tune of thato, name, which of course would mar the progress of your song to celebrity. Your book will be the standard of Scots songs for the future: let this idea ever keep vour judgment on the alarm. I send a song, on a celebrated toast in The reader has already seen that Burns did not finally adopt all of Mr. Erskine's alterations. E. The song to the tune of Bonnie Dundee, is that given in the Poems, p. 89. The ballad to the Mill Mill is that beginning, "When wild war's deadly blast was blawn." The song here mentioned is that given in the Poems, p. 89. O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? This song is surely Mr. Burns's own writing, though he does not generally praise his own songs so much. Note by Mr. Thomson. The air here mentioned is that for which he wrote the ballad of Bonnie Jean, given in p. 90 of the Poems See Poems, page 145.- Young Peggy. No. XXIV. whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota of the original Scottish airs; I mean in the song department; but let MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON." 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. No. XXIII. MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. Edinburgh, 26th April, 1793. I HEARTILY thank you, my dear Sir, for your last two letters, and the songs which accompanied them. I am always both instructed and entertained by observations; and the frankness with which you speak out your mind, is to me highly agreeable. It is very possible I may not have the true idea of simplicity in composition. I confess there are several songs, of Allan Ramsay's for example, that I think silly enough, which another person, more conversant than I have been with country people, would perhaps call simple and natural. But the lowest scenes of simple nature will not please generally, if copied precisely as they are. The poet, like the painter, must select what will form an agreeable as well as a natural picture. On this subject it were easy to enlarge; but at present suffice it to say, that I consider simplicity, rightly understood, as a most essential quality in composition, and the ground-work of beauty in all the arts. I will gladly appropriate your most interesting new ballad, When wild war's deadly blast, &c. to the Mill Mill O, as well as the two other songs to their respective airs; but the third and fourth lines of the first verse must undergo some little alteration in order to suit the music. Pleyel does not alter a single note of the songs. That would be absurd indeed! With the airs which he introduces into the sonatas, I allow him to take such liberties as he pleases; but that has nothing to do with the songs. P. S. I wish you would do as you proposed with your Rigs of Barley. If the loose sentiments are threshed out of it, I will find an air for it; but as to this there is no hurry. 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.* 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 his 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 hear subjoin; and enclose 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. BLYTHE hae I been on yon hill, See Poems, p. 90. * The lines were the third and fourth. See Poems, p. 98. "Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, And mony a widow mourning." As our poet had maintained a long silence, and the first number of Mr. Thomson's Musical Work was in the press, this gentleman ventured by Mr. Erskine's advice, to substitute for them in that publication, "And eyes again with pleasure beam'd Though better suited to the music, these lines are inferior to the original. This is the only alteration adopted by Mr. Thomson, which Burns did not approve, or at least assent to. I should wish to hear how this pleases | you. No. XXV. O, were my love yon lilach fair, No. XXVI. MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 25th June, 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 any thing 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 O LOGAN, Sweetly didst thou glide, Do you know the following beautiful little fragment in Witherspoon's Collection of Scots Songs? "O gin my love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa';" See Poems, p. 90. This thought is inexpressibly beautiful: and quite, so far as I know, 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 any thing of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a concluding stroke. Monday, 1st July, 1793. I AM extremely sorry, my good Sir, that any thing should happen to unhinge you. The times are terribly out of tune; and when harmony will be restored, Heaven knows. The first book of songs, just published, will be despatched to you along with this. Let me be favoured with your opinion of it frankly and freely. I shall certainly give a place to the song you have written for the Quaker's Wife; it is quite enchanting. Pray will you return the list of songs with such airs added to it as you think ought to be included. The business now rests entirely on myself, the gentlemen who originally agreed to join the speculation having requested to be off. No matter, a loser I cannot be. The superior excellence of the work will create a general demand for it as soon as it is properly known. And were the sale even slower than it promises to be, I should be somewhat compensated for my labour, by the pleasure I shall receive from the music. I cannot express how much I am obliged to you for the exquisite new songs you are sending me; but thanks, my friend, are a poor return for what you have done: as I shall be benefited by the publication, you must suffer me to enclose a small mark of my gratitude,* and to repeat it afterwards when I find it convenient. Do not return it, for, by Heaven, if you do, our correspondence is at an end: and though this would be no loss to you, it would mar the publication, which under your auspices cannot fail to be respecta ble and interesting. Wednesday Morning. I thank you for your delicate additional verses to the old fragment, and for your *Five Pounds. excellent song to Logan Water; Thomson's truly elegant one will follow, for the English singer. Your apostrophe to statesmen is admirable: but I am not sure if it is quite suitable to the supposed gentle character of the fair mourner who speaks it. No. XXVII. MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. MY DEAR SIR, July 2d, 1793. and 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 out-live 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 I HAVE just finished the following made you say too much: however, it will ba.lad, and, as I do think it in my best bind me down to double every effort in style, I send it you. Mr. Clarke, who the future progress of the work. The wrote down the air from Mrs. Burns's following are a few remarks on the songs wood-note wild, is very fond of it, and has in the list you sent me. I never copy given it a celebrity, by teaching it to some what I write to you, so I may be often young ladies of the first fashion here. If tautological, or perhaps contradictory. you do not like the air enough to give it a place in your collection, please return it. The song you may keep, as I remem ber it. 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 immortalize the author of them, who is an old lady 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. Mr. Pinkerton, in his what he calls ancient ballads (many of them notorious, though beautiful enough, forgeries) has the best set. It is full of his own interpolations, but no matter. In my next I will suggest to your consideration a few songs which may have of the Parish of Kirkpatrick-Fleeming (which contains the tomb of fair Helen Irvine,) in the Statistics of Sir John Sinclair, vol xiii. p. 275, to which this character is certainly not applicable. * There is a copy of this ballad given in the account |