THE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS, WITH AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, &c. &c. By JAMES CURRIE, M.D. RR.S. THE EIGHTH EDITION, IN FOUR VOLUMES. WITH MANY ADDITIONS, COMMUNICATED BY HIS BROTHEIJ, Mk. GILBERT BURNS. VOL. IV. LONDON. 1820. THE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS; WITH AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, AND A CRITICISM ON HIS WRITINGS, TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED, SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. By JAMES CURRIE, M. D. F. R. S. IN FOUR VOLUMES. VOL. IV. THE EIGHTH EDITION. TO WHICH ARE NOW ADDED, SOME FURTHER PARTICULARS OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE, NEW NOTES, ILLUSTRATIVE OF HIS POEMS AND LETTERS, AND MANY OTHER ADDITIONS, By GILBERT BURNS. LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND; AND A. CONSTABLE AND CO., MANNERS AND MILLER, FAIRBAIRN AND ANDERSON, A. BLACK, W. AND C. TAIT, AT EDINBURGH; AND G. CLARK, AT ABER- DEEN. 1820. J. M'Cicery, Printer, lilackUorse-Court, LodJoh. VOL. IV. CORRESPONDENCE WITH Mr. GEORGE THOMSON, INCLUDING POETRY, HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED OR UNCOLLECTED. ( ix ) CONTENTS OF VOL IV. Correspondence between Mr. Thomson and Mr. Barns, No. Page I. Mr. Thomson to Mr. Burns, (1792) De- siring the Bard to furnish verses for some of the Scottish airs, and to revise former songs, 1 II. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Promising assistance, . 3 III. Mr. T. to Mr. B. sending some tunes, . . 6 IV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with "The Lea Rig," and " Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary" . 8 V. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zoith " My wife's a ztinsome wee thing,'' and " O saw ye bonnie Lesley," 14 VI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Highland Mary;' 17 VII. Mr. T. to Mr. B, Thanks, and critical ob- servations, 20 VIII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with an additional stanza to " The Lea Rig," 24 IX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zoith " Juld Rob Morris," and " Duncan Gray," 26 X. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zeith " O Poortith caiild," ^c. arid " Galla Water," 30 XI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Jan. 1793. Desiring anecdotes on the origin of particular songs. Tytler of Woodhouselee — Pleyel — sends P. Pindar's " Lord Gregory." — Postscript from the Hon. A. Erskine, S3 XII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Has Mr. Ty tier's anec- dotes, and means to give his oz&n — sends his own " Lord Gregory," 38 VOL, IV. C CONTENTS. No. Puge Xrir. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zcith " Mary Modson," 42 XiV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Wandering Willie;' 44 XV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zcith '' Open the door to me, Oh!" 46 XV r. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zcith " Jessie" ... 47 XVII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. with a list of songs, and " Wandering Willie" altered, . . 48 XVIII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " When wild war's deadly blast was blown," and " Meg o' the Mill," 52 XIX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Voice of Coila- Cri- ticism— Origin of '■^ The Lass o^ Patie's Mill," 56 XX. Mr. T. to Mr. B 62 XXI. Mr. B. to JVIr. T. Simplicity requisite in a so?ig — 0}ie poet should not mangle the zcoiks of another, '63 XXII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " Farewell thou stream that winding fows" — Wishes that the national music may preserve its native features, 68 XX I II. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and observa- tions, 69 XXIV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Blithe hae I ^ been on yon hill," 71 XXV. Mr. B. to JMr. T. with " O Logan sweetly didst thou glide." " O gin my love were yon red rose," &)C 74 XXVI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Enclosing a note— Thanks, 78 XXVI 1. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zcith " There was a lass and she was fair " . . . • . 81 CONTENTS. XI No. Page XXVIir. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Hurt at the idea of pecuniary recompense — Remarks on songs, 84 XXIX. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Musical expression, 87 XXX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. For Mr. Clarke, 88 XXXI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Phillis the fair," 89 XXXIl. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Mr. Allan— Drawitig from " John Anderson my jo," 92 XXXIII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Had I a cave," &jc. — Some airs common to Scotland and Ireland, .... 94 XXX IV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " By Allan stream I chanced to rove," . . . 96 XXXV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zeith " Whistle and I'll come to you my lad," and " Awa wi your belles and your beauties," 99 XXXVI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Come let me take thee to my breast," . . , .103 XXXVII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. « Daintie Davie," 105 XXXVIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Delighted with the 'productions of Burns's muse, . 107 XXXIX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Bruce to his troops at Bannock-burn," . . . 109 XL. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Behold the hour, the boat arrive," . . . . 1J2 XLI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Observations on ^' Bruce to his troops," . . . .114 XLI I. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Remarks on songs in Mr. T.'s list — His ozcn method of forming a song — " Thou has left me ever, Jamie" — " Where are the Joys c 2 Xll CONTENTS. No. Page I hae met in the morning*' — " Auld lang syne" 117 XLllI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Kith a variation of " Bajinock-hurn" 127 XLIV. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and observa- tions, 129 XLV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. On " Bannock- burn" — sends " Fair Jenny" . . .131 X LVI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zoith " Deluded swain, the pleasure" — Remarks, .... 135 XLVII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zmth " Thine am I, my faithful fair" — " O condescend, dear charming maid" — " The Nightin- gale"— " Laura," — (the three last by G. Turnbull) 139 XLVIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Apprehensions — Thanks, 145 XLIX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Husband, hus- band, cease your strife," and, " Wilt thou be my dearie," 146 L. Mr. T. to Mr. B. 1794. Melancholy comparison betzceen Burns and Car- Uni — Mr. Allan has begun a sketch from the Cotter's Saturday night, . 149 LI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Praise of Mr. Allan —" Banks of Cree," 151 LI I. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Pleyel in France— " Here, zvhere the Scottish Muse im- mortal lives," presented to Miss Gra- ham, of Fintry, zcith a copy of Mr. Thomson's collection, 153 CONTENTS. Xlll No. Page LIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Does not expect to hear from Pleyel soon, hut desires to be pre- pared with the poetry, 155 LIV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " On the seas and far away," . . .156 LV. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Criticism, . . . .159 LVI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Ca the y owes to the knowes" 160 LVII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " She says she lo'es me best of a'," — " O let me in," S^c. — Stanza to Dr. Maxwell, l63 LVJH, Mr. T. to Mr. B. Advising him to write a Musical Drama, l68 LIX. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Has been examining Scottish collections — Ritson — Difficult to obtain ancient melodies in their original state, 170 LX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Recipe for producing a love-song — '' Sazc ye my Phely" — Re- marks and anecdotes — " How lono; and dreary is the night" — " Let not woman e'er complain" — " The Lcver^s morning salute to his mistress" — " The Auld Man" — " Keen blazes the wind o'er Do- 7iocht-head,'" i?i a note, 173 LXI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Wishes he knew the in- spiring Fair One — Ritson's historical essay not interesting — Allati — Maggie Lazoder, 1 B6 LXIl. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Has begun his Anec- dotes, S^c. — " My Chloris, mark how green the groves" — Love — " It zcas the charming month of May" — " Lassie zei' the lint-white locks" — History of the XIV CONTENTS. No. Pftge Air — " Ye batiks and braes o bonnie Doou' — James Millar — Clarke — The black keys — Instance of the difficulty of tracing the origin of ancient airs, 188 LXIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Kith three copies of the Scottish Airs, lyQ LXIV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. rcith " O Philly, happy be that day' — Starting note — " Contented zci little, and cantie wi' mair' — " Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy" — (The reply, " Stay my JVillie — yet believe me," in a note) — Stock and horn, 201 LXV. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Praise— Desires more songs of the humorous cast — Means to have a picture from " The Soldier s return," 211 LXVI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zcith '' My Nanies awa," 214 LXVII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. (1795) zcith'' For a' that an a that," and " Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn," . . . .216 LXVIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks, . . . . 220 LXIX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet," and the Ansreer, . ,221 LXX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " Praise of Eccle- fechan," 224 LXXI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks, .... 226 LXX 1 1. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " Address to the Wood-lark"-" On Chloris beina, ill"— " Their groves o' szceet myrtle, 8^c." — " 'Tzras na her bonnie blue e'e,"^c. . 227 No. Lxxiir. LXXIV. LXXV. LXXVI. LXXVII. LXXVIII. LXXIX. LXXX. LXXXI. LXXXII. LXXXIII. LXXXIV. CONTENTS. XY Page Mr. T. to Mr. B. with Jllcnis de- sign from " The Cotter's Saturday Night," 231 Mr. B. to Mr. T. zvith " How cruel are the parents" and " Mark yon- der pomp of costly fashion," . . Q,SS Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thanks for Allan's designs, 135 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Compliment, . . 237 Mr. B. to Mr. T. zaith an improve- ment in " Whistle and I'll come to yon, my lad" — " O this is no my ain lassie" — " Now spring has clad the grove in green" — " O bonnie was yon rosy brier" — -" 'Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend," . 238 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Introducing Dr. Brianton, 245 Mr. B. to Mr. T. " Forlorn, my love, no comfort near," 247 Mr. B. to Mr. T. " Last May a braw zoooer cam down the lang glen" — " Why, why tell thy lover," a frag- ment, 249 Mr. T. to Mr. B 253 Mr. T. to Mr. B. (1796) after an awful pause, 254 Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thanks for P. Pindar, 8^c. — " Hey for a lass wi' a tocher," 255 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Allan has de- signed some plates for an octavo edition, 257 XVI CONTENTS. No. Page LXXXV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Affikted hy sick- ness, but pleased with Mr. Allan's etchings y 259 LXXXVI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy— en- couragement, 261 LX XXVII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear," . . . 262 LXXXVIir. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Introducing Mr. Lezcars — Has taken a fancy to ie- view his songs — hopes to recover, . 264 LXXXIX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Dreading the horrors of a jail, solicits the ad- vance of Jive pounds, and encloses " Fairest maid on Devon banks," 265 XC. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy—Ad- vises a volume of poetry to be pub- lished by subscription — Pope pub- lished the Iliad so, .... NOTE respecting the Scots Musical Museum, . . 270 Pages 27 1 to 407| contain SONGS which have appeared in " The Scot's Musical Museum," &c. GLOSSARY, 415 ( xvii ) INDEX TO THE POETRY, ACCORDING TO THE TITLES, IN VOL. IV. SONGS. Page Addrkss to a Lady 393 Aftou "Water 331 A Mother's Lament 338 A red, red rose 343 Auld lang syne 124 Auld Rob Morris 26 Banks of Cree 152 Banks o' Doon 3:25 Banks of Nith 301 Bannock-burn 127 Bess and her spinning-wheel 317 Birks of Aberfeldy 271 Bonnie Bell 333 Braes o' Ballochmyle 294 Bruce to his Troops at Bannock-burn 110 A Variation of the same . , . 127 Caledonia 386 Country Lassie 319 Dainty Davie 105 Dumfries Volunteers 394 Duncan Gray 27 Fair Eliza 321 Fair XVIU INDEX. Page Fair Jenny 134 Farewell to Ayrshire 406 Farewell to the Brethren of St. James's Lodge, T.ubolton . . 373 The Fete Champetre 402 For a' that an' a' that 217 For tiie sake o' Somebody 336 Galla Water 32 Gloomy December 328 Green grow the rashes 363 Hey for a lass wi' a tocher 256 Highland IMaiy 17 I love my Jean 294 Jessie 47 John Barleycorn 344 Laura 143 Lord Gregory 40 Mary Morison 42 Meg o' the Mill 53 My Nanie's awa 214 My Nanie, O 360 My tocher's the jewel 309 O for ane and twenty Tani! 315 On the Seas and far away 157 On Chloris being ill 228 Phillis the fair 90 Saw ye my Pliely ? 175 She says she lo'es me best of a' . 554 Sic a wife as Willie had 3gg Strathallan's Lament 274 Tarn Glen 305 Tiie Auld Man 184 The blue-eyed Lassie 299 The Dumfries Volunteers 394 The gallant \Veaver 334 The Lea Rig 9 The same, continued 05 The Lover's morning salute to his Mistress 182 The Nightingale 142 The Posie 323 Tlie Whistle 33q The INDEX. XIX Page The Young Highland Rover 276 Then Guidwife count the Lawin 311 Wandering Willie 44 The same, altered 50 POEMS. On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair 408 On the Battle of Sheriff. Muir 411 INDEX ( XX ) INDEX TO THE POETRY, IN THE ALPHABETICAL ORDER OF THE FIRST LINES. Page AniEu! a heart- warm, fond adieu ! 373 Adown winding Nitli I did wander 101 Again rejoicing nature sees 366 A rose-bud by my early walk 283 Ab ope, Lord Gregory, thy door ! 41 An' O for anc and twenty Tam ! 315 Ance mair I hail tbee, thou gloomy December ! 328 Anna, thy charms my bosom fire! 379 As down the burn they took their way 117 Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms 256 Behind yon bills where Lugar flows 360 Behold the hour, the boat arrive 113 Blithe, blithe and merry was slie 281 Blithe hae I been on yon hill 73 Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing 314 But lately seen in gladsome green I81 By Allan-stream I chanc'd to rove .......... 97 Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? . 208 Ca' the yowes to the knowcs 161 Clarinda, mistress of my soul 289 Come let me take thee to my breast lOj, Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair 206 Deluded swain, the pleasure 136 Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? 394 Duncan Grey cam here to woo 27 Fairest maid on Devon banks 2fi6 Farewell INI>EX. XXI Page Farewell thou stream tliat winding flows 196 Fate gave the word, the arrow sped 338 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes 331 Forlorn, my love, no comfort near 247 From thee, Eliza, I must go 371 Gane is the day and mirk's the night, 311 Had I a cave on some wild distant shore 94 Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie 44 The same, altered 50 Here is the glen, and here the bower 152 Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear 262 Here where the Scottish Muse immortal lives 154 How can my poor haart be glad . l57 How cruel are the parents 233 How lang and dreary is the night 179 Husband, husband, cease your strife 146 I gaed a waefu' gate, yestreen . . 299 In simmer when the hay was mawn 319 I sing of a Whistle, a whistle of worth 381 Is there, for honest poverty '' 217 It was the charming month of May . 192 It was upon a Lammas uight 354 Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss 398 John Anderson my jo, John 303 Keen blaws the wind o'er Donotht-head 176 Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose? 400 Lassie wi' the lint-white locks 193 Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen 249 I«t mc wander where I will 143 Let not woman e'er complain 180 Long, long the night 228 Loud blaw the frosty breezes 276 Louis what reck I by thee 335 Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion 234 Maxwell, if merit here you crave 167 Musing on the roaring ocean £80 My Chloris, mark how green the groves 189 My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie 305 My heart is sair I dare na tell 336 My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 399 Nae XXII INDEX. Page Nae gentle dames, tlio' e'er sae fair 390 No Cliurcliman am I for to rail and to write 376 Now in lier green mantle blithe nature arrays 214 Now simmer blinks on flowery braes 271 Now spring lias clad tiie grove in green 241 Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers 105 Now westlin winds, and slaugbt'ring guns 357 O bonnie was yon rosy brier 243 O cam you here the tight to shun 411 O condescend, dear, charming maid 141 O gin my love were yon red rose 76 O ken ye what INIeg o' the Mill has gotten 55 O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet 221 O leeze me on my spinning wheel 317 O leeze me on my wee thing 22 O Logan, sweetly didSt thou glide 75 O Luve will venture in where it daur ca weel be seen .... 323 O Mary, at thy window be 42 O May, thy morn was ne'er so sweet 339 O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour 40 O nieikle thinks my luve^' my beauty 309 (J my hive's like a red, red rose 343 O Poortith cauld, and restless love 30 O Philly, happy be that day 202 O saw ye bonny Lesley 15 O saw ye my dear, my Pliely? 175 O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay 227 O tell na me o' wind and rain 222 O this is no my ain lassie 239 O Tibbie, I hae seen the day 287 () wat ye wha's iu yon town 340 O wlia will to St. Stephen's house , , 402 O wlia is she that lo'es me 395 O were I on Parnassus' hill! 292 O were my love yon lilac fair 77 O whistle and I'll come to you »iy lad 99 A Variation in the Chorus 238 O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut 297 Oh open the door, some pity to shew 46 Oh wert thou in the cauld blast 393 Of INDEX. XXIU Page Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 29-1 Raving winds around her blowing 278 Sae flaxen were her ringlets 161 Scenes of woe, and scenes of pleasure 406 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 110 She is a winsome wee thing 15 She's fair and fause that causes my smart 330 Should auld acquaintance be forgot 124 Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou fairest creature 182 Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? 273 Stay, my Willie — yet believe me 209 Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn 219 The Catrine woods were yellow seen 295 The day returns, my bosom burns 290 The gloomy night is gath'ring fast 368 The hunter lo'es the morning sun 25 The lamp of day with ill-presaging glare 408 The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill 291 The lovely lass o' Inverness 337 The smiling spring comes in rejoicing 333 The Thames flows proudly to the sea 301 Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign land» reckon .... 229 There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen 26 There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes 32 There's nought but care on ev'ry han' 363 There was a lass and she was fair 81 There was once a day, but old Time then was young .... 386 ITiere was three kings into the east 344 They snool me sair, and baud nie down 315 Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling! 274 Thine am I, my faithful fair 139 Thou has left me ever, Jamie 122 Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove 142 'Tis fiiendship's pledge my youug, fair friend 243 'Twas nae her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin 230 True hearted was he the sad swain 0' the Yarrow 47 Turn again thou fair Eliza 321 What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie 312 When o'er the hill the eastern star 9 When wild war's deadly blast was blawn . . 52 Where XXIV INDEX. Page Where are the joys I liae met in the itioniing 123 The same, with an additional stanza i . . . 134 When Guilford good oin- pilot stood 349 Where braving angry winter's storms 285 Where Cart rins rowin to the sea 334 While larks witli little wing 90 Why, why tell thy lover 252 Willie Wa»tle dwalt on Tweed 326 Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary ? 13 Wilt thou be my dearie ? 148 Tlie same 329 Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 17 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 325 Yestreen I got a pint of wine 62 CORRESPONDENCE No. 1. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, September, 1792. SIR, For some years past, 1 have, with a friend or two, employed many leisure hours in selecting and collating the most favorite of our national melodies for publication. We have engaged Pleyel, the most agreeable composer living, to put accompaniments to these, and also to compose an instrumental prelude and conclusion to each air, the better to fit them for concerts, both public and private. To ren- der this work perfect, we are desirous to have the poetry improved, wherever it seems un- VOL. IV. B worthy worthy of the music ; and that it is so in many instances, is allowed by every one conversant with our musical collections. The editors of these seem in general to have depended on the music proving an excuse for the verses ; and hence, some charming melodies are united to mere nonsense and doggrel, while others are accommodated with rhymes so loose and in- delicate, as cannot be sung in decent company. To remove this reproach would be an easy task to the author of the Cotters Saturday Night; and, for the honour of Caledonia, I would fain hope he may be induced to take up the pen. If so, we shall be enabled to present the Public with a collection, infinitely more interesting than any that has yet appeared, and acceptable to all persons of taste, whether they wish for correct melodies, delicate accompaniments, or charac- teristic verses. — We will esteem your poetical assistance a particular favor, besides paying any reasonableprice you shall please to demand for it. Profit is quite a secondary consideration with us, and we are resolved to spare neither pains nor expense on the publication. Tell me frankly then, whether you will devote your leisure to writing twenty or twenty-five songs, suited to the particular melodies which I am prepared to send you. A few songs, exceptionable only in some of their verses, I will likewise submit to your consideration; leaving it to you, either to to mend these, or make new songs in their stead. It is superfluous to assure you that T have no intention to displace any of the sterling old songs; those only will be removed, which ap- pear quite silly or absolutely indecent. Even these shall be all examined by Mr. Burns, and if he is of opinion that any of them are deserving of the music, in such cases no divorce shall take place. Relying on the letter accompanying this, to be forgiven, for the liberty I have taken in ad- dressing you, 1 am, with great esteem, Sir, your most obedient humble servant, G. THOMSON. No. II. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Dumfries, Wth Sept. 17.92. SIR, I HAVE just this moment got your let- ter. As the request you make to me will po- sitively add to my enjoyments in complying with it, I shall enter into your undertaking with B 2 all 4 all the small portion of abilities I have, strained to their utmost exertion by the impulse of en- thusiasm. Only, don't hurry me : " Deil tak the hindmost" is by no means the cri de guerre of my muse. Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in enthusiastic attachment to the poetry and music of old Caledonia, and, since you request it, have cheerfully promised my mite of assistance — will you let me have a list of your airs with the first line of the printed verses you intend for them, that I may have an oppor- tunity of suggesting any alteration that may occur to me. You know 'tis in the way of my trade; still leaving you, gentlemen, the un- doubted right of publishers, to approve, or reject, at your pleasure, for your own publication. Apropos, if you are for English verses, there is, on my part, an end of the matter. Whether in the simplicity of the ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can only hope to please myself in being allowed at least a sprinkling of our na- tive tongue. English verses, particularly the works of Scotsmen, that have merit, are cer- tainly very eligible. Tweedside ! — Ah I the poor shepherds inournful fate ! — Ah ! Chloris, could I 7101V hut sit, &c. you cannot mend : But such insipid stuff as 7\> Fanni/Jair could I impart, &c. usually set to The Mill, Mill O, is a disgrace to the collections in which it has already ap- peared, and would doubly disgrace a collection that that will have the very superior merit of yours. But more of this in the farther prosecution of the business, if I am called on for my strictures and amendments — I say amendments; for I will not alter except where I myself at least think that I amend. As to any remuneration, you may think my songs either above or below price; for they shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the honest enthusiasm with which 1 embark in your undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, &c. would be downright prostitution of soul! A proof of each of the songs that T compose or amend, I shall receive as a favor. In the rustic phrase of the season, " Gude speed the wark !" I am, Sir, your very humble servant, R. BURNS. P. S. I have some particular reasons for wishing my interference to be known as little as possible. No. 6 No. III. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edmburgh, 13th Oct. 1792. DEAR SIR, I rp:ceived with much satisfaction your pleasant and obliging letter, and I return my warmest acknowledgments for the enthusiasm with which you have entered into our under- taking. We have now no doubt of being able to produce a collection, highly deserving of pub- lic attention, in all respects. I agree with you in thinking English verses, that have merit, very eligible, wherever new verses are necessary ; because the English be- comes every year, more and more, the language of Scotland ; but if you mean that no English verses, except those by Scottish authors, ought to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ from you. I should consider it unpardonable to sacrifice one good song in the Scottish dialect, to make room for English verses ; but, if we can select a few excellent ones suited to the unprovided or ill provided airs, would it not be the very bigotry of literary patriotism to reject such such, merely because the authors were born south of the Tweed ? Our sweet air My Nanie O, which in the collections is joined to the poorest stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, beginning. While some for pleasure paivn their health, answers so finely to Dr. Percy's beau- tiful song, O Nancy ivilt thou go with me, that one would think he wrote it on purpose for the air. However, it is not at all our wish to con- fine you to English verses : you shall freely be allowed a sprinkling of your native tongue, as you elegantly express it ; and, moreover, we will patiently wait your own time. One thing only I beg, which is, that however gay and sportive the muse may be, she may always be decent. Let her not write what beauty would blush to speak, nor wound that charm- ing delicacy, which forms the most precious dowry of our daughters. I do not conceive the song to be the most proper vehicle for witty and brilliant conceits : simplicity, I believe, should be its prominent feature ; but, in some of our songs, the writers have confounded sim- plicity with coarseness and vulgarity; although between the one and the other, as Dr. Beattie well observes, there is as great a difference as between a plain suit of clothes and a bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or pathetic complaint, is best suited to our artless melodies ; and more interesting indeed in all songs than the 8 the most pointed wit, dazzling descriptions, and riowery fancies. Witli these trite observations, I send you ele- ven of the songs, for which it is my wish to substi- tute others of your writing. I shall soon trans- mit the rest, and, at the same time, a prospectus of the whole collection : and you may believe we will receive any hints that you are so kind as to give for improving the work, with the greatest pleasure and thankfulness. I remain, dear Sir, &c. No. IV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. MY DEAR SIR, Let me tell you, that you are too fasti- dious in your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that your criticisms are just; the songs you specify in your list have all but o7ie the faults you remark in them ; but who shall mend the matter? Who shall rise up and say — Go to, I will make a better ? For instance, on reading over The Lea-rig, I immediately set about trying trying my band on it, and, after all, [ could make nothing* more of it than the following, which, Heaven knows, is poor enough. When o'er the hill the eastern star, Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; And owsen frae the furrow'd field, Return sae dowf and Meary O ; Down by the burn, where scented birks* Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I '11 meet thee on the lea-rig. My ain kind dearie O. In mirk est glen, at midnight hour, I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O ; If thro' that glen I gaed to thee. My ain kind dearie O. Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,f And I were ne'er sae wearie O, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O. Your * For " scented birks," in some copies, " birken buds." E. t In the copy transmitted to Mr, Thomson, instead of wild, was inserted ivet. But in one of the manuscripts, pro- bably written afterwards, wet was changed into wild; evidently a great improvement. The lovers might meet on the lea-rig " although 10 Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Percy's ballad to the air, Nanie O, is just. It is besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad in the English language. But let me remark to you, that in the sentiment and style of our Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a something that one may call the Doric style and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native tongue and manners is particularly, nay peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, and, upon my honor, for this reason alone, I am of opinion (but, as I told you before, my opinion is yours, freely yours, to approve or reject, as you please) that my ballad of Nanie O might perhaps do for one set of verses to the tune. Now " although the night were ne'er so uild," that is, although the summer-wind blew, the sky loured, and the thunder mur- mured : such circumstances might render their meeting still more interesting. But if the night were actually Avet, why should they meet on the lea-rig? On a wet night, the ima- gination cannot contemplate their situation there with any complacency — TibuUus, and after him Hammond, has con- ceived a happier situation for lovers on a wet night. Pro- bably Burns had in his mind the verse of an old Scottish song, in which icet and weary are naturally enough conjoined. " When my ploughman comes hame at ev'n, " He 's often wet and weary : " Cast off the wet, put on the dry, *' And gae to bed my deary." E. 11 Now don't let it enter into your head, that you are under any necessity of taking my verses. I have long ago made up my mind as to my own reputation in the business of authorship ; and have nothing to be pleased or offended at, in your adoption or rejection, of my verses. Though you should reject one half of what 1 give you, I shall be pleased with your adopting the other half, and shall continue to serve you with the same assiduity. In the printed copy of my Na7iie O, the name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will alter it, " Behind yon hills where Lugar flows." Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of syllables. I will soon give you a great many more re- marks on this business; but I have just now an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, free of postage, an expense that it is ill able to pay : so, with my best compliments to honest Allan, Good be wi' ye, &c. Friday Night. Saturday 12 Saturday Morning. As I find I have still an hour to spare this morning before my conveyance goes away, I will give you Nanie O at length. Your remarks on Ewe-hvghts, 3Iarion, are just; still it has obtained a place among our more classical Scottish songs ; and what with many beauties in its composition, and more prejudices in its favor, you will not find it easy to supplant it. In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West-Indies, I took the follow- ing farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, and has nothing of the merits of Eice-hughts ; but it will fill up this page. You must know, that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings of ardent passion, and though it might have been easy in after-times to have given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, and who perhaps alone cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my heart, which was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race. Wil: 13 Will ye go to the indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's shore? Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across th' Atlantic's roar? 0 sweet grows the lime and the orange, And the apple on the pine ; But a' the charms o' the Indies Can never equal thine. 1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; And sae may the Heavens forget me, When 1 forget my vow ! O plight me your faith, my Mary, And plight me your lily white hand ; O plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand. We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join, And curst be the cause that shall part us ! The hour and the moment o' time!* Galla Water, and Auld Rob Morris, I think, will * This song Mr. Thomson has not adopted in his collec- tion. It deserves however to be preserved. E. 14 will most probably be the next subject of my musings. However, even on my verses, speak out your criticisms with equal frankness. My wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying bigot of opinidtrete, but cordially to join issue with you in the furtherance of the work. No. V. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. November 8th, 1792. If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs in your collection shall be poetry of the first merit, I am afraid you will find more diffi- culty in the undertaking than you are aware of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what I would call the feature- notes of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, in the air, 31i/ wife's a ivanton ivee thing, if a few lines smooth and pretty can be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The following 15 following were made extempore to it, and though on farther study, I might give you something more profound, yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this random clink. MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer ; And niest my heart I '11 wear her, For fear my jewel tine. She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. The warld's wrack we share o't, The wars tie and the care o't ; Wi'her I'll blythly bear it, And think my lot divine. I have 16 I have just been looking over the Colliers honny Dochter ; and if the following rhapsody, which I composed the other day, on a charm- ing Ayrshire girl. Miss , as she passed through this place to England, will suit your taste better than the Collier Lassie^ fall on and welcome. O saw ye bonnie Lesley As she gaed o'er the border ? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever ; For Nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither ! Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee : Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee. The Deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He 'd look into thy bonnie face, And say, " I canna wrang thee.'* The powers aboon will tent thee ; Misfortune sha' na steer thee. Thou 'rt like themselves so lovely, That ill they '11 ne'er let near thee. Return 17 Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag, we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie. 1 have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will take, and deserve, a greater effort. However, they are all put into your hands, as clay into the hands of the potter, to make one vessel to honour, and another to dishonour. Farewell, &c. No. VI. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. HIGHLAND MARV. Tune — " Katharine Ogie." Ye banks, and braes, and streams around, The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! VOL. IV. c There 18 There simmer first unfald her robe$, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom ! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me, as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my i3ower sae early ; Now green 's the sod, and cauld 's the clay, That wrajis my Highland Mary ! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! And closd for ay the sparkling glance, That dwelt on me sae kindly ! And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! I But still within my bosom's core. Shall live my Highland Mary. 14th 19 l^th November, 1792. MY DEAR SIR, I AGREE with you that the song, Katha- rine Ogie, is very poor stuff, and unworthy, altogether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I tried to mend it ; but the aukward sound, Ogie recurring so often in the rhyme, spoils every attempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. The foregoing song pleases myself; I think it is in my happiest manner : you will see at first glance that it suits the air. The subject of the song is one of the most interesting passages of my youthfid days; and, I own that 1 should be much flattered to see the verses set to an air, ■which would insnre celebrity. Perhaps, after all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart, that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of the composition. I have partly taken your idea of Auld Rob Morris. I have adopted the two first verses, and am going on with the song on a new plan, which promises pretty well. I take up one or another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes in my bonnet-lug; and do you, sans ceremoiiiey make what use you chuse of the productions. Adieu! &c. c 2 No. 20 No. VII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, Nov. 1792. DEAR SIR, I WAS JList going to write to you, that on meeting with your Nanie, I had fallen vio- lently in love with her. 1 thank you, therefore, for sending the charming rustic to me, in the dress you wish her to appear before the public. She does you great credit, and will soon be admitted into the best company. I regret that your song for the Lea-rig is so. short; the air is easy, soon sung, and very pleasing : so that, if the singer stops at the end of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost, ere it is well possessed. Although a dash of our native tongue and manners is doubtless peculiarly congenial and appropriate to our melodies, yet I shall be able to present a considerable number of the very Flowers of English Song, well adapted to those melodies, which, in England at least, will be the 21 the means of recommending them to still greater attention than they have procured there. But you will observe, my plan is, that every air shall in the first place have verses wholly by Scottish poets ; and that those of English writers shall follow as additional songs for the choice of the singer. What you say of the Eive-huglits is just; I admire it, and never meant to supplant it. All 1 requested was, that you would try your hand on some of the inferior stanzas, which are ap- parently no part of the original song ; but this I do not urge, because the song is of sufficient length, though those inferior stanzas be omitted, as they will be by the singer of taste. You must not think I expect all the songs to be of superlative merit ; that were an unreasonable expectation. I am sensible that no poet can sit down doggedly to pen verses, and succeed well at all times, I am highly pleased with your humorous and amorous rhapsody on JBonnie Leslie: it is a thousand times better than the Colliers Lassie. " The deil he ^cou'd na scaith thee," &c. is an eccentric and happy thought. Do you not think, however, that the names of such old heroes as Alexander, sound rather queer, un- less in pompous or mere burlesque verse? Instead 22 Instead of the line, " And never made anither," 1 would humbly suggest, " And ne'er made sic anither ;" and I would fain have you substitute some other line for " Return to Caledonie," in the last verse, because I think this alteration of the orthography, and of the sound of Cale- donia, disfigures the word, and renders it Hu- dibrastic. Of the other song. 3If/ wife 's a winsome tvee thing, I think the first eight lines very good : but I do not admire the other eight, because four of them are a bare repetition of the first verses. I have been trying to spin a stanza, but could make nothing better than the follow- ing: do you mend it, or, as Yorick did with the love-letter, whip it up in your own way. O leeze me on my wee thing. My bonnie blithsome wee thing; Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, I'll think my lot divine. Tho' warld's care we share o't, And may see meikle mair o't, Wi' her I'll blithly bear it, And ne'er a word repine. You 23 You perceive, my dear Sir, I avail myself of the liberty, which you condescend to allow me, by speaking freely what I think. Be assured, it is not my disposition to pick out the faults of any poem or picture I see : my first and chief object is to discover and be delighted with the beauties of the piece. If I sit down to examine critically, and at leisure, what, perhaps, you have written in haste, I may happen to observe careless lines, the reperusal of which might lead you to improve them. The wren will often see what has been overlooked by the eagle. I remain yours faithfully, &c. P. S. Your verses upon Highland Mary are just come to hand: they breathe the genuine spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will last for ever. Such verses, united to such an air, with the delicate harmony of Pleyel superadded, might form a treat worthy of being presented to Apollo himself. I have heard the sad story of your Mary : you always seem inspired when you write of her. No. 24 No. VIH. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Dumfries, \st Dec. 179*2, Your alterations of my Nanie O are perfectly right. So are those of My wife's a wanton ivee thins;. Your alteration of the second stanza is a positive improvement. Now, my dear Sir, with the freedom which charac- terises our correspondence, 1 must not, cannot alter Bonnie Leslie. You are riij;ht, the word " Alexander," makes the line a little uncouth, but [ think the thought is pretty. Of Alexan- der, beyond all other heroes, it may be said, in the sublime language of Scripture, that " he went forth conquering and to conquer." " For nature made her zchat she is, " And never made anither." (such a person as she is.) This is, in my opinion, more poetical than " Neer made sic anither." However, it is im- material ; make it either way.* " Caledonie," I agree * Mr. Thomson has decided on Ne'er made sic anither. E. 25 I agree with you, is not so good a word as could be wished, though it is sanctioned in three or four instances by Allan Ramsay ; but I cannot help it. In short, that species of stanza is the most difficult that I have ever tried. The Lea-rig is as follows. (Here the Poet gives the two first stanzas as before, p. 9, ivith the following iji addition.) The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ; At noon the fisher seeks the glen. Along the burn to steer, my jo ; Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey. It maks my heart sae cheery, O, To meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O. I am interrupted. Yours, &c. No. 26 No. IX. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. AULD ROB MORRIS.* There's aiild Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He'sthekingo'guid fellows and waleofauld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he hasowsenand kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. She 's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. But Oh ! she 's an heiress, an Id Robin 's a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, Thewoundslmust hide that will soon bemy dead. The * The two first lines are taken from an old ballad — the rest is wholly original. E. 27 The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. 0 had she but been of a lower degree. 1 then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me ! O, how past descriving had then been my bliss. As now my distraction no words can express! DUNCAN GRAY. Duncan Gray cam here to woo, Ha, ha, the ivooing ot. On blythe yule night Vrhen we were fu', Ha, ha, the wooing ot. Maggie coost her head fu' high, Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Duncan 28 Duncan fleecli'd, and Duncan pray'd ; Ha, ha, SjC. Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,* Ha, ha, SfC. Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; Ha, ha, 6fc. Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, S^c. Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, S^c. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to — France for me ! Ha, ha, ^T. How it comes let Doctors tell. Ha, ha, ^^c. Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, Ha, ha, <SfC. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings ; And O, her een, they spak sic things ! Ha, ha, ^c. Duncan A well-known rock in the frith of Clyde. E. 29 Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, Sfc. Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, ha, Sfc. Duncan could na be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; Now they 're crouse and canty baith. Ha, ha, the wooing ot* 4th December, 1792. The foregoing I submit, my dear Sir, to your better judgment. Acquit them or con- demn them as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of an air, which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling feature. JNo. * This has nothing in common with the old licentious bal- lad of Duncan Gray, but the first line, and part of the third. — The rest is wholly original. E. 30 No. X. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. SONG. Tune — " I HAD A Horse." O pooRTiTH cauld, and restless lave, Ye wreck my peace between ye ; Yet poortith a' I could forgive, An' 'twere na' for my Jeanie. O why should fate sic pleasure have, Life's dearest bands untwining? Or why sae sweet a flower as love. Depend on Fortune's shining ? This warld's wealth when I think on. It's pride, and a' the lave o't; Fie, fie on silly coward man. That he should be the slave o't. O why, ^c. Her 31 Her een sae bonnie blue betray, How she repays my passion ; But prudence is her o'erword ay, She talks of rank and fashion. O IV hy, ^c. O wha can prudence think upon. And sic a lassie by him ? O wha can prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am? O why, 6fc, How blest the humble cotter's fate!* He woos his simple dearie ; The silly bogles, wealth and state, Can never make them eerie. O why should fate sic pleasure have, Life's dearest bands untwining ! Or why sae sweet a flower as love. Depend on Fortune's shining ? GALLA " The wild- wood Indian's fate" in the original MS. E, 32 GALLA WATER. There's braw braw lads, on Yarrow braes, That wander thro' the blooming heather ; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettric shaws, Can match the lads o' Galla Water. But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a' I loe him better; And 1 '11 be his, and he '11 be mine, The bonnie lad o' Galla Water. Altho' his daddie was nae laird, And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher ; Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water. It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ; The bands and bliss o' mutual love, O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! Jan. 33 Jan. 1793. Many returns of the season to you, my dear Sir. How comes on your publication? will these two foregoing be of any service to you? 1 should like to know what songs you print to each tune, besides the verses to which it is set. In short, I would wish to give you my opinion on all the poetry you publish. You know, it is my trade ; and a man in the way of his trade may suggest useful hints, that escape men of much superior parts and endowments in other things. If you meet with my dear, and much-valued C greet him, in my name, with the compli- ments of the season, Yours, &c. No. XI. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, Jan. 20, 1793. 1 ou make me happy, my dear Sir, and thousands will be happy to see the charming , VOL. IV. D songs 34 songs you have sent me. Many merry returns of the season to you, and may you long con- tinue among the sons and daughters of Cale- donia, to delight them and to honour yourself. The four last songs with which you favoured me, for Auhl Rob Mmris, Duncan Gray^ Galla Water, and Caiild Kail, are admirable. Dun- can is indeed a lad of grace, and his humour will endear him to every body. The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and the happy shepherdess in Galla Water, exhibit an excellent contrast: they speak from genuine feeling, and powerfully touch the heart. The number of songs which 1 had originally in view was limited, but [ now resolve to in- clude every Scotch air and song worth singing; leaving none behind but mere gleanings, to which the publishers of omnegatherum are wel- come. I would rather be the editor of a collection from which nothing could be taken away, than of one to which nothing could be added. We intend presenting the subscribers with two beautiful stroke engravings; the one characteristic of the plaintive, and the other of the lively songs; and 1 have Dr. Beattie's promise of an essay upon the subject of our national music, if his health will permit him to wTite 36 write it. As a number of our songs have doubt- less been called forth by particular events, or by the charms of peerless damsels, there must be many curious anecdotes relating to them. The late Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, I believe, knew more of this than any body, for he joined to the pursuits of an antiquary, a taste for poetry, besides being a man of the world, and possessing an enthusiasm for music beyond most of his contemporaries. He was quite pleased with this plan of mine, for 1 may say it has been solely managed by me, and we had several long conversations about it, when it was in embryo. If I could simply mention the name of the heroine of each song, and the incident which occasioned the verses, it would be gratifying. Pray will you send me any in- formation of this sort, as well with regard to your own songs, as the old ones ? To all the favourite songs of the plaintive or pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate ac- companiments, &c. of Pleyel. To those of the comic and humorous class, I think accom- paniments scarcely necessary ; they are chiefly fitted for the conviviality of the festive board, and a tuneful voice, with a proper delivery of the words, renders them perfect. Never- theless, to these 1 propose adding bass accom- D 2 paniments, 36 paniments, because then they are fitted either for singing, or for instrumental performance, when there happens to be no singer. I mean to employ our right trusty friend Mr. Clarke to set the bass to these, which he assures me he will do con amove, and with much greater attention than he ever bestowed on any thing of the kind. But for this last class of airs I will not attempt to find more than one set of verses. That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has started I know not how many difficulties, about writing for the airs I sent to him, because of the peculiarity of their measure, and the tram- mels they impose on his flying Pegasus. I subjoin for your perusal the only one I have yet got from him, being for the fine air " Lord Gregory." The Scots verses printed with that air, are taken from the middle of an old ballad, called, The Loss of Lochroyan, which I do not admire. I have set down the air therefore as a creditor of yours. Many of the Jacobite songs are replete with wit and humour ; might not the best of these be included in our volume of comic songs? POSTSCRIPT, 37 POSTSCRIPT, From the Hon. A. ERSKINE. Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as to give me a perusal of your songs. Highland Mary is most inchantingly pathetic, and Dun- can Gray possesses native genuine humour: " spak o' lowpin o'er a linn," is a line of itself that should make you immortal. I sometimes hear of you from our mutual friend C. who is a most excellent fellow, and possesses above all men I know, the charm of a most obliging disposition. You kindly promised me, about a year ago, a collection of your unpublished productions, religious and amorous; 1 know from experience how irksome it is to copy. If you will get any trusty person in Dumfries to write them over fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever money he asks for his trouble ; and I certainly shall not betray your confidence. I am your hearty admirer, ANDREW ERSKINE. No S8 No. XII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. 26th January, 1793. I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans. Dr. Beattie's essay will of itself be a treasure. On my part I mean to draw up an appendix to the Doctor's essay, containing my stock of anecdotes, &c. of our Scots songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes, I have by me, taken down in the course of my acquain- tance with him from his own mouth. I am such an enthusiast, that in the course of my several peregrinations through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every song took its rise, Lochaber, and the J^raes of JBallenden, excepted. So far as the locality, either from the title of the air, or the tenor of the song, could be ascertained, I have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scots muse. I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable collection of Jacobite songs, but would it give no offence ? In the mean time, do not you 89 you think that some of them, particularly The sotvs tail to Geot'die, as an air, with other vvords, might be well worth a place in your collection of lively songs ? If it were possible to procure song:s of merit, it would be proper to have one set of Scots words to every air, and that the set of words to which the notes ought to be set. There is a naivete, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and I will add to every genuine Caledonian taste) with the simple pathos, or rustic spright- liness of our native music, than any English verses whatever. The very name of Peter Pindar is an acqui- sition to your work. His Gregory is beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, which are at your service. Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter; that would be presumption in- deed. My song, though much inferior in poetic merit has, I think, more of the ballad s: implicity in it. LORD 40 LORD GREGORY O MiKK, mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempest's roar ; A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, Lord Gregory, ope thy door. An exile frae her father's ha\ And a' for loving thee; At least some piti/ on me shaw, If love it may na be. Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, By bonnie Irvvine-side, Where first I own'd that virgin-love I lang, lang had denied ? How aften didst thou pledge and vow Thou wad for ay be mine ; And my fond heart, itsel sae true. It ne'er mistrusted thine. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast: Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, O wilt thou give me rest ! i Ye 41 Ye mustering thunders from above Your willing victim see ! But spare, and pardon my fause love, His vvrangs to heaven and me !* My * The Song of Dr. Walcott ou the same subject is as follows : Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door, A midnight wanderer sighs, Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar, And lightnings cleave the skies. Who comes with woe at this drear night — A pilgrim of the gloom ? If she whose love did once delight, My cot shall yield her room. Alas ! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn, That once was priz'd by thee : Think of the ring by yonder burn Thou gav'st to love and me. But should'st thou not poor Marian know, I'll turn my feet and part; * And think the storms that round me blow, Far kinder than thy heart. It is but doing justice to Dr. Walcott to mention, that his song is the original. Mr, Burns saw it, liked it, and imme- diately wrote the other on the same subject, which is derived from an old Scottish ballad of uncertain origin. E. 42 My most respectful compliments to the honourable gentleman, who favoured me with a postscript in your last. He shall hear from and receive his MSS. soon. No. XIII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. IMh March, 1793. MARY MORISON. Tune — " Bide ye yet." O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithly wad I bide tlie stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun ; Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen 43 Yestreen when to the trembling string, The dance gaed thro' the hghted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard or saw : Tho' this was fair, and that was braw. And yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh'd, and said amang them a', ** Ye are na Mary Morison." O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie. At least be pity to me sho^yn ; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison. MY DEAR SIR, The song prefixed is one of ray juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits or demerits. It is impossible (at least 1 feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always original, entertaining, and witty. What 44 What is become of the list, &c. of your songs ? I shall be out of all temper with you by and by. 1 have always looked on myself as the prince of indolent correspondents, and valued myself ac- cordingly ; and I will not, cannot bear rival- ship from you, nor any body else. No. XIV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. March, 1793. WANDERING WILLIE. Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Now tired with wandering, hand awa hame; Come to my bosom my ae only dearie, And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our part- in <r • It was nae the blast brought the tear in my e'e : Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to iije. Ye I 45 Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers! O how your wild horrors a lover alarms ! Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But if he 's forgotten his faithfullest Nanie, O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main; May I never see it, may I never trow it, But dying believe that my Willie's my ain ! 1 leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine whether the above, or the old Thro' the lang muir, be the best. 46 No. XV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Open the door to me, Oh ! WITH ALTERATIONS. Oh, open the door, some pity to shew. Oh, open the door to me, Oh !* Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, Oh, open the door to me, Oh ! Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me, Oh ! The frost that freezes the life at my heart, Is nought to my pains frae thee. Oh ! The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, And time is setting with me, Oh ! False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee. Oh ! She * This second line was originally. If love it may na be, Oh. E. 47 She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide'; She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh ! My true love she cried, and sank down by his side. Never to rise again, Oh ! T do not know whether this song be really mended. No. XVI. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. JESSIE. Tune — " Bonnie Dundee." True hearted was he, the sad swain o* the Yarrow, And fair are the maids on the banks o* the Ayr, But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over; To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover. And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. O fresh 48 O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning. And sweet is the lily at evening close ; But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : And still to her charms she alone is a stranger! Her modest demeanor 's the jewel of a'. I No. XVII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. ""■""""~ I I WILL not recognise the title you give yourself " the Prince of indolent correspon- dents ;" but if the adjective were taken away, I think the title would then fit you exactly. It gives me pleasure to find you can furnish anec- dotes * The justly praised fair one of this song was Miss Jessie Staig, Dumfries, afterward Mrs. Miller; but who died ia early life. ^ G. B. 49 dotes with respect to most of the songs: these w ill be a literary curiosity. I now send you my list of the songs, which I believe will be found nearly complete. I have put down the first lines of all the English songs, which I propose giving in addition to the Scotch verses. If any others occur to you, better adapted to the character of the airs, pray mention them, when you favour me with your strictures upon every thing else relating to the work. Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the songs, with his symphonies and accompani- ments added to them, f wish you were here, that I might serve up some of them to you with your own verses, by way of dessert after dinner. There is so much delightful fancy in the symphonies, and such a delicate simplicity in the accompaniments : they are indeed beyond all praise. I am very much pleased with the several last productions of your muse : your Lord Gregory, in my estimation, is more interesting than Peter's, beautiful as his is ! Your Here awa Willie must undergo some alterations to suit the air. Mr. Erskine and I have been VOL. IV. E 50 conning it over ; he will suggest what is neces- sary to make them a fit match.* The * WANDERING WILLIE. As altered by Mr. Erskine and Mr. Thomson. Here avva, there awa, wandering Willie, Hei'e awa, there aica, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. Winter-winds blew loud and caul at our parting. Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'<?, Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, As simmer to nature, so Willie to me. Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slumbers. How your dread howliny a lover alarms ! Blorv soft ye breezes ! roll gently ye billows ! And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. Bid oh if he's faithless and minds na his Nanie, Flow still between us thou dark-heaving main I May I never see it, may I never trow it. While dying I think that my Willie's my ain. Our poet, with his usual judgment, adopted some of these alterations, and rejected others. The last edition is as fol- lows : Here 51 The gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine taste you are no stranger to, is so well pleased both with the musical and poetical part of our work, that he has volunteered his assistance, and has already written four songs for it, which, by his own desire, I send for your perusal, E 2 No. Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Here awa, there awa, hand awa hame ; Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie. Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our 'edrting, Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e, Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. Hest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, ■ How your dread howling a lover alarms ! Wauken ye breezes, row gently ye billows. And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But oh, if he 's faithless, and minds na his Nanie, Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main ; May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. Several of the alterations seem to be of little importance in themselves, and were adopted, it may be ])resumed, for the sake of suiting the words better to the music. The Homeric epithet for the sea, dark-heaving, suggested by Mr 52 No. XVIIl. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. When wild war's deadly blast was hlawm Air — " The mill mill O." When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning, Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, And mony a widow mourning.* I left Mr. Erskine, is in itself more beautiful, as well perhaps as more sublime than wide-roaring, which he has retained; but as it is only applicable to a placid state of the sea, or at most to the swell left on its surface after the storm is over, it gives a picture of that element not so well adapted to the ideas of eternal separation which the fair mourner is supposed to imprecate. From the original song of Here awa Willie, Burns has borrowed nothing but the second line and part of the first. The superior excellence of this beau- tiful poem will, it b hoped, justify the different editions of it which we have given. E. * Variation, lines 3rd and 4th: And eyes again with pleasure beam'd. That had been blear 'd with mourning. See No. XXIV. 53 I left the lines and tented field, Where lang I'd been a lodger. My humble knapsack a' my wealth, A poor and honest sodger. A leal, light heart was in my breast, My hand iinstain'd wi' plunder; And for fair Scotia, hame again, I cheery on did wander. I thought upon the banks o' Coil, I thought upon my Nancy, I thought upon the witching smile That caught my youthful fancy. At length I reach'd the bonny glen, Where early life I sported ; I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn, Where Nancy aft 1 courted : Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, Down by her mother's dwelling ! And turn'd me round to hide the flood That in my een was swelling. Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, O ! happy, happy may he be. That 's dearest to thy bosom : My 54 My purse is light, I 've far to gang, And fain wad be thy lodger ; I 've serv'd my king and country lang, Take pity on a sodger. Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, And lovelier was than ever; Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed, Forget him shall 1 never : Our humble cot, and hamely fare, Ye freely shall partake it, That gallant badge, the dear cockade. Ye 're welcome for the sake o't. She gaz'd — she reddend like a rose — Syne pale like ony lily ; She sank within my arms, and cried. Art thou my ain dear Willie? By him who made yon sun and sky — By whom true love 's regarded, I am the man ; and thus may still True lovers be rewarded. The wars are o'er, and I 'm come hame, And find thee still true-hearted; Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, And mair we'se ne'er be parted. Quo' 55 Quo' she, my gramlsire left me gowd, A mail en plenish'd fairly ; And come, my faithful sodger lad, Thou'rt welcome to it dearly! For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor ; But glory is the sodger's prize, The sodger's wealth is honor; The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, Nor count him as a stranger, Remember he 's his country's stay In day and hour of danger. MEG O' THE MILL. Alt' ** O BONNIE LASS WILL YOU LIE IN A BARRACK." O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? She has gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller. And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. The 56 The Miller was strappiii, the Miller was ruddy ; A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; She s left the guid-fellow and ta'en the churl. The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving ; The Laird d id address her wi' matter m air moving, A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear chained bridle, A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing 5 And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen! A tocher 's nae w ord in a true lover's parle, Butj gie me my love, and a fig for the warl ! No. XIX. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Ith 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 early attachment 57 attachment to ballads, your book, &c. b allad making is now as completely my hobby-horse, as ever fortification was Uncle Toby's ; so I '11 e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my race, (God grant that 1 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^ 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 beau- tiful ; 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 hraes, are sweetly susceptible of rural imagery : I '11 try that * Burns here calls himself the Voice of Coda, in imita- tion of Ossian, who denominates himself the Voice ofCona. Sae merry as ice a' hae been ; and Good night and joy be wi' you a', are the names of two Scottish tunes. E. 58 that likewise, and, if I succeed, the other song' may class among the English ones, I remem- ber the two last lines of a verse in some of the old songs of Logmi Water (for I know a good many different ones) which 1 think pretty : " Now my dear lad maun face his faes, " Far, far frae me and Logan braes." My Patie is a lover gay, is unequal. *' His mind is never muddy," 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 thresh a few loose senti- ments out of it, I will submit it to your con- sideration. 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 considera- tion. In Sir J. Sinclair's Statistical volumes, are two claims, one, I think, from Aberdeen- . shire, and the other from Ayrshire, for the honour of this song. The following anecdote, which 1 had from the present Sir William Cunningham, 59 Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon, 1 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 to- gether, his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet, romantic spot on Irwine Water, still called, " Patie's Mill," where a bonie lass was '* tedding hay, bare headed, on the green.". My Lord ob- served to Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and, lin- gering 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 " Ado- nis." Were there ever such banns published as a purpose of marriage between Adimis and Mary ? 1 agree with you that ray song, There 's nought hut care on every hand, is much superior to Poortith cauld. The original song The Milly 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, Langoleey to 60 to slow time. The song is well enough, but has some false imagery in it, for instance, " And sweetly the nightingale sung 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. Ex- otic 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, Tihhie Fowler, and several others, which, in my humble judgment, are well worthy of preserva- tion? * It will be found in the course of this correspondence that the Bard produced a second stanza of The Chevalier's Lament, (to which he here alludes) worthy of the first. E. 61 tion? 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 Cragiehurn 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 Scot- tish music, against the taste of most connois- seurs. 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 * ^ * * * ###^###*# i^y^ |j^ j^y original state is not quite a lady's song. I inclose an altered, not amended copy for you, if you chuse to set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow.* Mr. * 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 MSS. beginning, " Yestreen 62 Mr. Erskiue's songs are all pretty, but his Lone Vale is divine. Yours, &c. Let me know just how you like these random hints. No. XX. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, April, 1793. I REJOICE to find, my dear Sir, that ballad-making continues to be your hobby- horse.— *' Yestreen I got a pint of wine, " A place where body saw na ! " 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 pro- poses it should be aUied. E. i 63 horse. — Great pity 'twould be were it other- wise. ] hope you will amble it away for many a year, and " witch the world with your horse- manship." 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, except the last stanza.* No. XXI. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. April, 1793. I HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this mo- ment. I shall answer it and your former letter, in * 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. 64 ill my desultory way of saying whatever comes uppermost. The business of many of our tunes wanting at the beginning what fiddlers call, a starting- note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. *' There \s braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, " That wander thro' the blooming heather," You may alter to " Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, " Ye wander, &c." My song. Here awa, there awa, as amended by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve of, and re- turn you.*' Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only thing in which it is, in my opinion, repre- hensible. You know I ought to know some- thing 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 * The reader has akeady seen that Burns did iiot finaUy adopt all of Mr. Erskine's alterations. E. 6b 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 can- not approve of taking such liberties with an author as Mr. W. proposes doing with The last time I came oer the moor. Let a poet, if he chuses, 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. W. well, and esteem him much ; let him mend the song, as the Highlander mended his gun : he gave it a new stock, a new lock, and a new barrel, I do not, by this, object to leaving out im- proper stanzas, where that can be done without spoiling the whole. One stanza in The lass o' Paties milly 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 honnie. Perhaps it might want the last stanza, and be the better for it. Cauld hail in Aberdeen, you must leave with me yet a while. 1 have vowed to. have a song to that air, on the lady whom I VOL. IV. F attempted 66 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 that 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 your judgment on the alarm. I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this country, to suit Bonnie Dundee. I send you also a ballad to the Mill mill O.* The last time I came o'er the moor^ I 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 MSS. Scots airs by me which I have pickt up, mostly from the singing of country lasses. They please me vastly ; but your * The song to the tune of Bonnie Dundee, is that in No. XVI. The ballad to the Mill mill O is that beginning, " \^Tien wild war's deadly blasts are blawn." E. 67 your learned lugs* would perhaps be displeased with the very feature for which J like them. I call them simple; you would pronounce them silly. Do you know a tine air, called Jackie Humes Lament ? I have a song of considerable merit to that air. 1 '11 inclose you both the song and tune, as I had them ready to send to Johnson's Museum. f I send you likewise, to me, a beautiful little air, which I had taken down from viva voce.^ Adieu ! P 2 No Ears. E. t The song here mentioned is that given in No. XVIH, O ken ye uluit Meg o' the Milt has gotten? This song ia surely Mr. Burns's own writing, though he does not gene- tally praise his own songs so much. Note by Mr. Thomson. X The air here mentioned is that for which he wrote the ballad of Bonnie Jean, to be found p. 81. E. 08 No. XXII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. April, 1793. MY DEAR SIR, 1 HAD scarcely put my last letter into the post office, when I took up the subject of The last time I came oer the moor, and ere I slept drew the outlines of the foregoing.* How far 1 have succeeded, I leave on this, as on every other occasion, to you to decide. 1 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 — what- ever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota of the original Scottish airs ; I mean in the song^ department; but let 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, depend* a great part of their effect. No. * The song alluded to here, will be found in a subsequent part of this volume. E. m 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 ac- companied them. I am always both instructed and entertained by your 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 con- versant 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 sim- plicity 70 plicity, rightly understood, as a most essential quality in composition, and the groundwork of beauty in all the arts. 1 will gladly appro- priate your most interesting new ballad When ivild 2cars 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 or- der 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 Higs of JBarley. If the loose sen- timents are threshed out of it, I will find an air for it ; but as to this there is no hurry. INo. 71 No. XXIV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. 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 com- mands. I cannot alter the disputed lines, in the Mill mill O* What you think a defect, I esteem as a positive * The lines were the third and fourth. See p. 52. *' Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, " And mony a widow mourning." As our poet had maintained a long silence, and the first num- ber 72l a positive beauty: so you see how doctors dif- fer. I .shall now, with as much alacrity as I can muster, go on with your commands. You know Fraser, 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 Quakers Wife ; and which 1 re- member a grand aunt of mine used to sing, by the name of Liggeram Cosh, my bomiie tvee lass. Mr. Fraser plays it slow, and with an expression that quite charms me. I became such an en- thusiast about it, that I made a song for it, which I here subjoin ; and inclose Fraser'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. T'une ber of Mr. Thomson's 3Iusical 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 beamed, " That had been bleared with mourning." 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. E. 73 Tune — " LiGGERAM Cosh." Blythe liae I been on yon hill, As the lambs before me ; Careless ilka thought and free, As the breeze flew o'er me : Now nae langer sport and play, Mirth or sang can please me; Lesley is sae fair and coy. Care and anguish seize me. Heavy, heavy, is the task, Hopeless love declaring: Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr, Sighing, dumb, despairing! If she winna ease the thraws, In my bosom swelling ; Underneath the grass-green sod, Soon maun be my dwelling. I ^should wish to hear how this pleases you. No. 74 No. XXV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. June 2oth, 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 ambi- tion, or often from still more ignoble passions ? In a mood of this kind to-day, 1 recollected the air of JLogan 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 over- whelm'd 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. Tune M 75 Tune — ** Logan Water." O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide,' That day I was my Willie's bride ; And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, Like Logan to the simmer sun. But now thy flow'ry banks appear Like drnmlie winter, dark and drear, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes. Again the merry month o' May, Has made our hills and valleys gay ; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers. The bees hum round the breathing flowers : Blythe, morning lifts his rosy eye, And evening's tears are tears of joy : My soul, delightless, a' surveys, While Willie 's far frae Logan braes. Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, Or wi' his song her cares beguile : But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pass widow d nights and joyless days. While Willie 's far frae Logan braes. O wae 76 O wae upon you, men o' state, That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, Sae may it on your heads return ! How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ?* But soon may peace bring happy days And Willie, hame to Logan braes ! Do you know the following beautiful little fragment, in Witherspoon's collection of Scots songs ? Air — " HuGHiE Graham." " O GIN my love were yon red rose, " That grows upon the castle wa'; " And 1 mysel' a drap o' dew, " Into her bonnie breast to fa'! " Oh ! * Originally, " Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joys, " The widow's tears, the orphan's cries." E. n ** Oh, there beyond expression blest, ** 1 'd feast on beauty a' the night ; ** Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, « Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light." 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. 1 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. 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 renewed. No. 78 No. XXVI. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Monday, \st 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 dispatched 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 Quakers 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 79 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, 1 should be somewhat compensated for my labour, by the pleasure I shall receive from the music. I can- not 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 inclose 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 corres- pondence 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 respectable and interesting, Wednesday 80 Wednesdaif Morning. I THANK you for your delicate additional ■verses to the old fragment, and for your excel- lent song to Logan Water: Thomson's truly elegant one will follow for the English singer. Your apostrophe to statesmen is admirable, but 1 am not sure if it is quite suitable to the supposed gentle character of the fair mourner who speaks it. No. 81 No. XXVII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. July 2nd, 1793. MY DEAR SIR, I HAVE just finished the following bal- lad, and, as I do think it in my best style, I send it you. Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs. Burns's wood-note wild, is very fond of it ; and has given it a celebrity by teaching it to some young ladies of the first fashion here. \i 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 remember it. There was a lass, and she was fair, At kirk and market to be seen, When a' the fairest maids were met. The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. VOL. IV. G And And ay she wrought her mammie's wark. And ay she sang sae merrilie: The blithest bird upon the bush Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little lintwhite's nest; And frost will blight the fairest flowers, And love will break the soundest rest. Young Robie was the brawest lad, The flower and pride of a' the glen ; And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, And wanton naigies nine or ten. He gaed wi' Jenny to the tryste, He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. As in the bosom o' the stream. The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; So trembling, pure, was tentler love Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.* And - In the original MS, our poet asks Mr. Thomson if this staaza is not original ? M. 83 And now she works her mammie's wark, And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ; Yet wist na what her ail might be, Or what wad niak her weel again. But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, And did na joy blink in her e'e, As Robie tanld a tale o' love Ae e'enin on the lily lea ? The sun was sinking in the west, The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; His cheek to hers he fondly prest, And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear; O canst thou think to fancy me ! Or wilt thou leave thy manimie's,cot, And learn to tent the farms wi' me? At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, Or naething else to trouble thee ; But stray amang the heather-bells, And tent the waving corn wi' me. Now what could artless Jeanie do ? She had nae will to say him na : At length she blush'd a sweet consent, And love was ay between them twa. G 2 I have 84 I liave some thoughts of inserting in your in- dex, or in my notes, the names of the fair-ones, the themes of my songs. I do not mean the name at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so as ingenuity may find them out. The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M., daughter to Mr. M. of D., one of your sub- scribers. I have not painted her in the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress and character of a cottager. No. XXVIII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. 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 and creditor kind ; 1 swear, by that Honour which crowns the upright statue of Robert Burns's Inte- grity— on the least motion of it, I will indig- nantly spurn the by-past transaction, and from that moment commence entire stranger to you ! Burns's 85 BuRNs's character for generosity of sentiment and independence of mind, will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants, which the cold un- feeling ore can supply : at least, I will take care that such a character he shall deserve. . Thank j'^ou 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 effort in the future progress of the work. The following are a few remarks on the songs in the list you sent me. I never copj'^ what I write to you, so I may be often tautological, or per- haps contradictory. The flowers o the forest^ is charming as a poem ; and should be, and must be, set to the notes, but, though out of your rule, the thre^ stanzas beginning, " I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling," are worthy of a place, were it but to immortal- ize 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 m 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 dayT The old ballad, / ivish I were ivhere Helen lies, is silly, to contemptibility.* My alteration of it, iu Johnson's, is not much better. Mr. Pinkerton, iu 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 considera- tion, a few songs which may have escaped your hurried notice. In the mean time allow me to congratulate yon now, as a brother of the quill. You have committed your character and fame ; which will now be tried, for ages to come, by the illustrious jury of the Sons and Daughters of Taste — all whom poesy can please, or music charm. Being * There is a copy of this ballad given in the account 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 ap- plicable. E. 87 Being a bard of nature, 1 have some preten- sions to second sight ; and I am warranted by the spirit to foretel and affirm, that your great- grand-chikl will hold up your volumes, and say with honest pride, " This so much admired selection was the work of my ancestor." No. XXIX. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, \st Aug. 1793. PEAR SIR, I HAD the pleasure of receiving your last two letters, and am happy to find you are quite pleased with the appearance of the first book. When you come to hear the songs sung and accompanied, you will be charmed with them. The honnie brucket Lassie, certainly deserves better verses, and I hope you will match her. Cauld hail in Aberdeen, Let me in this ae night, and several of the livelier airs, wait the muse's leisure: these are peculiarly worthy of her choice gifts : besides, yau '11 notice, that in airs of this sort 88 sort, the singer can always do greater justice to the poet, than in the slower airs of 2^he hush ahoon Traquair, Lord Gregory, and the like ; for in the manner the latter are frequently sung, you must be contented with the sound without the sense. Indeed both the airs and words are disguised by the very slow, languid, psalm- singing style in M'hich they are too often per- formed : they lose animation and expression altogether, and instead of speaking to the mind, or touching the heart, they cloy upon the ear, and set us a yawning! Your ballad, There was a lasSy and she was fair, is simple and beautiful, and shall un- doubtedly grace my collection. No. XXX. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. August, 1793. MY DEAR THOMSON, I HOLD the pen for our friend Clarke, who, at present, is studymg the music of the spheres 89 spheres at my elbow. The Georgium Sidus, he thinks, is rather out of tune ; so, until he rec- tify that matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial affairs. He sends you six of the Rondeau subjects, and if more are wanted he says you shall have them. Confound your long stairs ! S. CLARKE, No. XXXI. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. August, 1793. Your objection, my dear Sir, to the passages in my song of Logan Water, is right in one instance; but it is difficult to mend it: if 1 can [ will. The other passage you object to, does not appear in the same light to me. I have 90 I have tried my hand on Robin Adair, and, you will probably think, with little success; but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure, that I despair of doing any thing bet- ter to it. PHILLIS THE FAIR. Time — *' Robin Adair." While larks with little wing, Fann'd the pure air. Tasting the breathing spring, Forth I did fare : Gay the sun's golden eye, Peep'd o'er the mountains high ; Such thy morn ! did 1 cry, Phil lis the fair. In each bird's careless song, Glad, I did share; While yon wild flowers among. Chance led me there: Sweet to the opening day. Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; ^uch thy bloom! did 1 say, Phillis the fair. Down 91 Down in a shady walk, Doves cooing were, I mark'd the cruel hawk Caught in a snare : So kind may fortune be. Such make his destiny ! He who would injure thee, Phillis the fair. So much for namby-pamby. 1 may, after all, try my hand on it in Scots verse. TheVe I always find myself most at home. I have just put the last hand to the song 1 meant for Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. If it suits you to insert it, 1 shall be pleased, as the heroine is a favorite of mine: if not, I shall also be pleased; because I wish, and will be glad, to see you act decidedly on the business.* 'Tis a tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor, which you owe yourself No. The song herewith sent, is that in p. 30 of this volume. E. 92 No. XXXII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. August, 1793, MY GOOD SIR, I CONSIDER it one of the most agreeable circumstances attending this publication of mine, that it has procured me so many of your much valued epistles. Pray make my acknowledg- ments to St. Stephen for the tunes : tell him I admit the justness of his complaint on my stair- case, conveyed in his laconic postscript to your jeu cFesprit; which I perused more than once, without discovering exactly whether your dis- cussion was music, astronomy, or politics: though a sagacious friend acquainted with the convivial habits of the poet and the musician, offered me a bet of two to one, you were just drowning care together; that an empty bowl was the only thing that would deeply affect you, and the only matter you could then study how to remedy ! I shall be glad to see you give Rohin Adair a Scottish 93 a Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing him with an English suit for a change, and you are well matched together. Robin's air is excellent, though he certainly has an out-of-the-way mea- sure as ever poor Parnassian wight was plagued with. I wish you would invoke the muse for a single elegant stanza to be substituted for the concluding objectionable verses of Down the IBurn Davie, so that this most exquisite song may no longer be excluded from good company. Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing from your John Anderson my Jo, which I am to have engraved as a frontispiece to the humorous class of songs ; you will be quite charmed with it, I promise you. The old couple are seated by the fireside. Mrs. Anderson, in great good humour is clapping John's shoulders, while he smiles and looks at her with such glee, as to shew that he fully recollects the pleasant days and nights when they vfexe first acquent. The drawing would do honour to the pencil of Teniers. No. 94 No. XXXIII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. AiigHst, 1793. That crinkum-crankum tune, Robin Adair, has run so in my head, and 1 succeeded so ill in my last attempt, that I have ventured, iu this morning's walk, one essay more. You, my dear Sir, will remember an unfortunate part of our worthy friend C.'s story, which hap- pened about three years ago. That struck my fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea justice, as follows. SONG. Had [ a cave on some wild, distant shore. Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing- roar : There would I weep my woes. There seek my lost repose. Till grief my eyes should close, Ne'er to wake more. Falsest 95 Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, All thy fond plighted vows—fleeting as air ! To thy new lover hie, Laugh o'er thy perjury. Then in thy bosom try, What peace is there ! By the way, J have met with a Musical High- lander, in Breadal bane's Fencibles, which are quartered here, who assures me that he well re- members his mother's singing Gaelic songs to both Robin Adair and Gramachree. They certainly have more of the Scotch than Irish taste in them. This man comes from the vicinity of Inver- ness ; so it could not be any intercourse with Ireland that could bring them ; — except, what [ shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wander- ing minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to go frequently errant through the wilds both of Scotland and Ireland, and so some favorite airs might be common to both — A case in point — They have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish air, as they say, called Caun du delish. The fact is, in a publication of Corri's a great while ago, you will find the same air, called a High- land 96 land one, with a Gadic song set to it. Its name there, 1 think, is Oran Gaoil, and a fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic Parson, about these matters. No. XXXIV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. August, 1793. MY DEAR SIR, Let me in this ae night, I will reconsider. I am glad that you are pleased with my song, Had I a cave, &c. as I liked it myself. I walked out yesterday evening, with a volume of the Museum in my hand ; when, turning up Allan Water, '* What numbers shall the muse repeat, &c." as the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air; and recollecting, that it is on your list, I sat, and raved, under the shade of an old thorn, 'till I wrote one to suit the measure. 1 may be wrong ; but I think it not in my worst style. Ton must know, that in Ramsay's Tea-table, where the modern song first 97 first appeared, the ancient name of the tune, Allan says, is Allan Water or My love Annie 's very bonnie. This last has certainly been a line of the original song ; so I took up the idea, and, as you will see, have introduced the line in its place, which, I presume, it formerly occupied ; though I likewise give you a chusing line^ if it should not hit the cut of your fancy. By Allan-stream I chanc'd to rove, While Phoibus sank beyond Benleddi ;* The winds were whispering thro' the grove. The yellow corn was waving ready : I listen'd to a lover's sang, And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony; And ay the wild-wood echoes rang — O dearly do I lo'e thee, Annie !| O happy be the woodbine bower, Nae nightly bogle make it eerie; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour. The place and time I met my dearie ! VOL. IV. H Her * A mountain west of Strath- Allan, 3,009 feet high. R. B. t Or, " O my love Annie 's very bonnie." R. B. ,98 Her liead upon my throbbing breast, She, sinking, said, " I'm thine forever!" While mony a kiss the seal imprest, The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, The simmer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery, thro' her shortening day. Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ! But can they melt the glowing heart, Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart. Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure? Bravo ! say I: it is a good song. Should you think so too (not else) you can set the music to it, and let the other follow as English verses. Autumn is my propitious season, 1 make more verses in it, than all the year else. God bless you ! No. 99 No. XXXV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. August, 1793. Is Whistle, and Til come to you, my lad, one of your airs ? I admire it much ; and yes-ter- day I set the following verses to it. Urban], whom 1 have met with here, begged them of me, as he admires the air much ; but, as I understand that he looks with rather an evil eye on your work, I did not chuse to comply, flowever, if the song does not suit your taste, 1 may pos- sibly send it him. The set of the air which I had in my eye, is in Johnson's Museum. O WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad,* O whistle, and I 11 come to you, my lad : H 2 Tho' * In some of the MSS. the first four lines run thus, O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo, O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo; Tho' father and mother and a' should say no, O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jt>- See also No. LXXVII. 100 Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle, and 1 11 come to you, my lad. But warily tent, when you come to court me, And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; Syne up the back-stile and let nae body see. And come as ye were na comin to me. And come, &c. O ivhisile, ^c. At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie ; But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, Yet look as ye were na lookin at me. Yet look, &c. O ivhistle, Sfc. Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me. And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; But court nae anither, tho' jokin ye be. For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. For fear, &c. O ivhistle^ Sfc. Another fa\orite air of mine, is. The muckin o' Geordies byre. When sung slow with expres- sion, I have wished that it had had better poetry: that, I have endeavoured to supply, as follows: A down 101 Adown winding Nith 1 did wander, To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ; Adown winding Nith I did wander, Of Phillis to muse and to sins:. •&• CHORUS. Awa wi your belles and your beauties, Tliey never wi her can compare : Whaever has met wi my Phillis^ Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. The daisy amus'd my fond fancy. So artless, so simple, so wild ; Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, For she is simplicity's child. Awa, Sfc. The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer. Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : How fair and how pure is the lily, But fairer and purer her breast. Awa, SfC. Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. Away Sfc. Her 102 Her voice is the song of the morning That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, "When Phffibus peeps over the mountains, On music, and pleasure, and love. Awa, (^c. But beauty how frail and how fleeting, The bloom of a fine summer's day ! While worth in the mind o' my Phillis Will flourish without a decay.* Awa, <^'c. Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a corner in your book, as she is a particular flame of his. She is a Miss P. M., sister to Sonnie Jean. They are both pupils of his. You shall hear from me, the very first grist 1 get from my rhyming mill. No. * This song, certainly beautiful, would appear to more advantage without the chorus : as is indeed the case with several other sonars of our author. E. 103 No. XXXVI. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Augtist, 1793. That tune, Ccmld Kail, is such a favo- rite of yours, that I once more roved out yes- terday 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. 1 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 Coda's native haunts, not a fragment of a poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by catching inspiration from her; so 1 more than suspect that she has followed me hither, or at least makes me occasional visits: secondly, the last stanza of this song I send you, is the \ery words * Gloamin — twilight, probably from glooming. A beau- tiful poetical word which ought to be adopted ia England. A gloarain-shotj a twilight-interview. E. 104 words that Coila taught me many years ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson's Museum. Air—" Cauld Kail." Come, let me take thee to my breast, And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; And I shall spurn as vilest dust The warld's wealth and grandeur; And do I hear my Jeanie own, That equal transports move her? I ask for dearest life alone, That I may live to love her. Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charmvS, 1 clasp my countless treasure; I '11 seek nae mair o' heaven to share, Than sic a moment's pleasure : And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 1 swear I 'm thine for ever ! And on thy lips I seal my vow, And break it shall I never. If you think the above will suit your idea of your favorite air, I shall be highly pleased. The 105 The last time I came o'er the moor, I cannot meddle with, as to mending it; and the musi- cal world have been so long accustomed to Ramsay's words, that a different song, though positively superior, would not be so well re- ceived. I [am not fond of chorusses to songs, so 1 have not made one for the foregoing. No. XXXVII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Angust, 1793. DAINTY DAVIE. Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers ; And now comes in my happy hours, To wander wi' my Davie. CHORUS. Meet me on the warlock knowe. Dainty Davie, dainti/ Davie, There 1 11 spend the day ivi you. My ain dear dainty Davie. The 106 The crystal waters round us fa'. The merry birds are lovers a', The scented breezes round us blaw, A wandering wi' my Davie. 3l€et me, ^^c. When purple morning starts the hare, To steal upon her early fare, Then thro' the dews I will repair, To meet my faithfu' Davie. Meet me, 6fc. When day, expiring in the west. The curtain draws o' nature's rest, I flee to his arms I lo e best, And that's my ain dear Davie. CHORUS. Meet me on the warlock hnowe, JBonnie Davie, dainty Davie, There HI spend the day ici you, My ain dear dainty Davie* So * Dainty Davie is the title of an old Scotch song, from •yvhich Burns has taken nothing but the title and the mea- sure. E. 107 So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, is to the low part of the tune. See Clarke's set of it in the Museum. N. B. In the Museum they have drawled out the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which is * # * * nonsense. Four lines of song;, and four of chorus, is the way. No. XXXVIII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, 1st Sept. 1793. MY DEAR SIR, Since writing you last, I have received half a dozen songs, with which I am delighted beyond expression. The humour and fancy of Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, will render it nearly as great a favourite as Duncan Gray. Come, let me take thee to my breast — A down ivinding 108 winding NitJi, and By Allan stream, &c. are full of imagination and feeling, and sweetly suit the airs for which they are intended. Had la cave on some wild distant shore, is a striking and affecting composition. Our friend, to whose story it refers, read it with a swelling heart, 1 assure you. The union we are now forming, I think, can never be broken ; these songs of yours will descend with the music to the latest pos- terity, and will be fondly cherished so long as genius, taste, and sensibility exist in our island. While the muse seems so propitious, I think it right to inclose a list of all the favours I have to ask of her, no fewer than twenty and three ! I have burdened the pleasant Peter with as many as it is probable he will attend to : most of the remaining airs would puzzle the English poet not a little ; they are of that peculiar mea- sure and rhythm, that they must be familiar to him who writes for them. No. 109 No. XXXIX. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Sept. 1793. 1 ou may readily trust, my dear Sir, that any exertion in my power, is heartily at your service. But one thing 1 must hint to you ; the very name of Peter Pindar 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, un- taught 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 you connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise than merely as melodious din. On the other hand, by way of amends, 1 am delighted with many little melodies, which the learned musician despises as silly and insipid. I do not know whether the old air Heif tuttie laitie may rank among^ no among this number; but well I know that, with Eraser'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 Bannock-burn. 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 BANNOCK-BURN. TO ITS AIN TUNE. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has afteii led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie. Now 's * This noble strain was conceived by our poet during a storm among the wilds of Glen-Ken, in Galloway. A more finished copy will be found after-wards. £. Ill Now's the day, and now's the hour ; See the front o' battle lour ; See approach proud Edward's power- Chains and slaverie ! Wha will be a traitor-knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee ! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Free-man stand, or Free-man fa', Let him follow me ! By oppression's woes and pains ! By your sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free ! Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty 's in every blow ! Let us DO, or die ! So may God ever defend the cause of Truth and Liberty, as he did that day ! — Amen. P. S. 11*2 P. S. I shewed the air to Urbaui, 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 acci- dental 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 1 am afraid that the air is not what will entitle it to a place in your elegant selection. No, XL. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Sept. 1793. I DARE say, my dear Sir, that you will begin to think my correspondence is persecu- tion. No matter, 1 can't help it; a ballad is my hobby-horse; which, though otherwise a simple sort of harmless idiotical beast enough, has yet this blessed headstrong property, that when once it has fairly made off with a hapless wight, it gets so enamoured with the tinkle- gingle. 113 gingle, tinkle-gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to niri poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite beyond any useful point or post in the common race of man. The following song I have composed for Oran-gaoil, the Highland air that you tell me in your last, you have resolved to give a place to in your book. I have this moment finished the song; so you have it glowing from the mint. If it suit you, well ! — If not, 'tis also well I Tune — " Oran-gaoil." Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ! Sever'd from thee can I survive ? But fate has will'd, and we must part. I'll often greet this surging swell, Yon distant isle will often hail : " E'en here, I took the last farew^ell ; " There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." VOL. IV. I Along 114 Along the solitary shore, While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar, I '11 westward turn my wistful eye : Happy, thou Indian grove, I '11 say, Where now my Nancy's path may be ! While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, O tell me, does she muse on me ! No. XLI. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, 5th Sept. 1793. I BELIEVE it is generally allowed that the greatest modesty is the sure attendant of the greatest merit. While you are sending me verses that even Shakspeare might be proud to own, you speak of them as if they were ordinary pro- ductions ! Your heroic ode is to me the noblest composition of the kind in the Scottish language. I happened 115 1 happened to dine yesterday with a party of your friends, to whom I read it. They were all charmed with it, intreated me to find out a suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea of giving it a tune so totally devoid o interest or grandeur as Hey tuttie taitie. Assuredly your partiality for this tune must arise from the ideas associated in your mind by the tradition con- cerning it ; for I never heard any person, and I have conversed again and again with the great- est enthusiasts for Scottish airs — I say, I never heard any one speak of it as worthy of notice. I have been running over the whole hundred airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; and I think Lewie Gordonis most happily adapted to your ode; at least with a very slight variation of the fourth line, which I shall presently sub- mit to you. There is in Lewie Gordon more of the grand than the plaintive, particularly when it is sung with a degree of spirit, which your "words would oblige the singer to give it. I would have no scruple about sul^stituting your ode in the room of Lewie Gordon, which has neither the interest, the grandeur, nor the poetry that characterize your verses. Now the variation I have to suggest upon the last line of each verse, the only line too short for the air, is as follows : Verse Ist, Or to glorious victorie. I 2 Verse 116 Verse 2nd, Chains — chains, and slaverie. 3;t/, Let him, let him turn and flie. 4th, Let him hravely follow me. bth. But they shall, they shall be free. Qth, Let us, let us do, or die ! If you connect each line with its own verse, I do not think you will find that either the sentiment or the expression loses any of its energy. The only line which I dislike in the whole of the song is, " Welcome to your gory bed." Would not another word be preferable to ivelcome ? In your next I will expect to be informed whether you agree to what I have proposed. The little alterations I submit with the greatest deference. The beauty of the verses you have made for Oran-gaoil will insure celebrity to the air. No. 117 No. XLIJ. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. September, 1793. 1 HAVE received your list, my dear Sir, and here go my observations on it.* Doivn the burn Davie. I liave 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 ay the tale. With * Mr. Thomson's list of songs for his publication. In his remarks, the bard proceeds in order, and goes through the whole ; but on many of them he merely signifies his appro- bation. All his remarks of any importance are presented to the reader. £. 118 With " Mary, when shall we return, " Sic pleasure to renew?" Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, " And ay shall follow you."* Thro the wood, laddie — I am decidedly of opinion, that both in this, and There'll never he peace till Jamie comes liame, the second or high part of the tune being a repetition of the first part an octave higher, is only for instru- mental music, and would be much better omitted in singing. Cotvden-hiowes. Remember in your index, that the song in pure English to this tune, be- ginning, " When summer comes, the swains on Tweed." is the production of Crawford. Robert was his Christian name. JLaddie lie near me, must lie hy me for some time. I do not know the air ; and until I am complete master of a tune, in my own singing, (such * This alteration Mr. Thomson has adopted, (or at least intended to adopt) instead of the last stanza of the original song, which is objectionable in point of delicacy. E. 119 (such as it is) 1 can never compose for it. My way is : I consider the poetic sentiment corres- pondent to my idea of the musical expression; then chuse 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 round 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 fire-side 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 ! Gill 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, Cragieburn Wood, and Roys Wife. The first, beside its intrinsic merit, has novelty ; and the last has high merit as well as great ce- lebrity. I have the original words of a song for the last air, in the hand-writing of the lady who composed 120 composed it: and they are superior to any edi- tion 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 Italian- ized one. There is a third, and what Oswald calls, the old Highland-laddie, which pleases me more than either of them, it is sometimes called Ginglan Johnnie ; it being the air of an old humourous tawdry song of that name. You will find it in the Museum, I hae heen at Crookieden, &c. I would advise you in this musical quandary, to offer up your prayers to the muses for inspiring direction; and in the mean time, waiting for this direction, bestow a libation to Bacchus; and there is no doubt but you will hit on a judicious choice. Prohatum est. Auld Sir Simon, I must bes: vou to leave out, and put in its place The Quakers Wife. JBlythe hae I been o'er the hill, is one of the finest songs ever I made in my life; and besides, is composed on a young ladj% positively the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As I purpose * This song, so much admired by our bard, will be found in a future part of the volume, No. LXIV. E.. 121 1 purpose giving you the names and designa- tions of all my heroines, to appear in some future edition of your work, perhaps half a century hence, you must certainly include the honniest lass in a' the warld in your collection. Daintie Davie, 1 have heard sung, nineteen thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times, and always with the chorus to 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 1 proposed, we will lay two of the stanzas together, and then make the chorus follow. Fee him Father — I inclose you Eraser'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 pos- sible, in singing, to give it half the pathos which Fraser gives it in playing, it would make an admirably pathetic song. I do not give these verses for any merit they have. I composed them at the time in which Patie Allans mither died, that tvas, about the back o' midnight ; and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in company, except the hautbois and the muse. Thou Jockie * Hie Scottish (the Editor uses the word substantively, as the English) employ the abbreviation 77/ for I shall as well as In-ill; and it is for I sha Hit is used here. In Annandale as in the northern counties of England, for / shall, they use Fsc. E. t This is the whole of the song. Tlie bard never proceeded farther. Note by Mr. Thomson, 122 Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left | me ever. Aften hast thou vow'tl that death, Only should us sever. Now thou's left thy lass for ay — I maun see thee never, Jamie, I '11 see thee never.* Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken. Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken. Thou canst love anither jo. While my heart is breaking : Soon my weary e'en I'll close — Never mair to waken, Jamie, Ne'er mair to waken.f i 123 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 bal- lad. Saw ye my Father? is one of my greatest favourites. The evening before last 1 wandered out, and began a tender song; in what I think is 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? &c. My song is but 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 JEnglish.* Todlin hame. Urbani mentioned an idea of his * This song appears afterwards. It begins, ** Where are the joys I hae met in the morning." E. 124 his, which has long been mine ; that 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. AULD LANG SYNE. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min' ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne ? CHORUS. For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne. We 7/ tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. We 126 We twa hae run about the braes, And pu't the gowans fine ; But we've wandered mony a weary foot, Sin auld lang syne. For auld, ^-c. We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin sun till dine : But seas between us braid hae roar'd, Sin auld lang syne. For auld, Sfc. And here 's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie 's a hand o' thine ; And we '11 tak a right guid willie-waught, For auld lang syne. For auld, Sfc. And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp, And surely I '11 be mine ; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne.* For auld, Sfc. Now, * This song, of the olden time, is excelleut. It is worthy of our bard. E. 126 Now, I suppose, I have tired your patience fairly. You must, after all is over, have a num- ber of ballads, properly so called. Gill Morice, Tranent 31uir, M'Pherson's Farewell, ]3attleof Sheriff ]\hiir, or We ran and they ran, (1 know the author of this charming ballad, and his his- tory) 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 w2iS 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 Ty tier's history of Scot- tish 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. No. 127 No. XLIIL xMr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. September, 1793. I AM happy, my dear Sir, that my ode pleases you so much. Your idea, *' honour's bed," is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea; so, if you please, we will let the line stand as it is. I have altered the song as follows: BANNOCK-BURN. Robert Sruce's Address to his Army. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victorie. Now 's the day, and now 's the hour ; See the front o' battle lower ; See approach proud Edward's power — Edward! chains and slaverie ! Wha 128 Wha will be a traitor-knave? Wlia can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Free-man stand, or free-man fa', Caledonian ! on wi' me ! By oppression's woes and pains ! By your sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be — shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty 's in every blow ! Forward ! let us do, or die ! N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from the common stall edition of Wallace. *' A false usurper sinks in every foe, " And liberty returns with every blow:" A couplet 129 A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you liad enough of my correspondence. The post goes, and my head aches miserably. One com- fort! I suffer so much, just now, in this world, for last night's joviality, that I shall escape scot-free for it in the world to come. Amen ! No. XLIV. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Vlili Sept. 1793. A THOUSAND thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your observations on the list of my songs. I am happy to find your ideas so much in unison with my own respecting the generality of the airs, as well as the verses. About some of them we differ, but there is no disputing about hobby-horses. I shall not fail to profit by the remarks you make; and to reconsider the whole with attention. Dainty Davie must be sung, two stanzas to- gether, and then the chorus ; 'tis the proper way. VOL. IV. K I agree 130 1 agree with you, that there may be something of pathos, or tenderness at least, in the air of Fee Mm, Father, when performed with feeling : but a tender cast may be given almost to any lively air, if you sing it very slowly, expressively, and with serious words. I am, however, clearly and invariably for retaining the cheerful tunes joined to their own humorous verses, wherever the verses are passable. But the sweet song for Fee him, Father, which you began about the back of midnight, 1 will publish as an additional one. Mr. James Balfour, the king of good fel- lows, and the best singer of the lively Scottish ballads, that ever existed, has charmed thou- sands of companies with Fee him, Father, and with Todlin hame also, to the old words, which never should be disunited from either of these airs. Some Bacchanals I would wish to discard. Fy let's a to the bridal, for instance, is so coaise and vulgar, that 1 think it fit only to be sung in a company of drunken colliers; and Saw ye my Father appears to me both indelicate and silly. One word more with regard to your heroic ode. I think, with great deference to the poet, that a prudent general would avoid saying any thing to his soldiers which might tend to make death more frightful than it is. Gory presents a disagreeable image to the mind ; and to tell them, " Welcome 131 " Welcome to your gory bed," seems rather a discouraging address, notwithstanding the al- ternative which follows. I have shewn the song to three friends of excellent taste, and each of them objected to this line, which emboldens me to use the freedom of bringing it again under your notice. I would suggest, " Now prepare for honour's bed, " Or for glorious victorie." No. XLV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. September, 1793. ^' Who shall decide when doctors dis- agree?" My ode 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 im- proved it. Instead of " soger ! hero !" 1 will have it " Caledonian! on wi' me!" K 2 I have 13'i I have scrutinized it, over and over; and to he 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 Lo- gan's verses.* I have * Mr. Thomson has very properly adopted this song (if it may be so called) as the bard presented it to him. He has attached it to the air of Lewie Gordon, and perhaps among: the existing airs he could not find a better ; but the poetry is suited to a much higher strain of music, and may employ the genius of some Scottish Handel, if any such should in future arise. The reader will have observed, that Burns adopted the alterations proposed by his friend and correspondent in former instances, with great readiness ; perhaps indeed, on all indifferent occasions. In the present instance, however, he rejected them, though repeatedly urged with determined resolution . With every respect for the j udgment of Mr. Thom- son and his friends, we may be satisfied that he did so. He who in preparing for an engagement attempts to withdraw his imagination from images of death, will probably have but imperfect success, and is not fitted to stand in the ranks of battle, where the liberties of a kingdom are at issue. Of such men the conquerors at Bannock-burn were not com.- posed. Bruce's troops were inured to war, and familiar with all its sufferings and dangers. On the eve of that memorable day, their spirits were without doubt wound up to a pitch of enthusiasm, suited to the occasion ; a pitch of enthusiasm, at which danger becomes attractive, and the most terrific form* of death are no longer terrible. Such a strain of sentiment, this 135 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, it this heroic " welcome" may be supposed well calculated to elevate — to raise their hearts high above fear, and to nerve their arms to the utmost pitch of mortal exertion. These ob- servations might be illustrated and supported, by a reference, to the martial poetry of all nations, from the spirit-stirring strains of Tyrtaeus to the war-song of General Wolfe. Mr. Thomson's observation, that " Welcome to your gory bed, is a discouraging address," seems not sufiiciently considered. Perhaps, indeed, it may be admitted, that the term gory is somewhat objectionable, not on account of its presenting a frightful, but a disagreeable image to the mind. But a great poet, uttering his conceptions on an interesting occasion, seeks always to present a picture that is vivid, and is uni- formly disposed to sacrifice the delicacies of taste on the altar of the imagination. And it is the privilege of superior genius, by producing a new association, to elevate expressions that were originally low, and thus to triumph over the deficiencies of language. In how many instances might this be exempli- fied from the works of our immortal Shakspeare. *' Who wovXd. fardels bear, " To groan and sweat under a weary life ; — " When he himself might his quietus make " With a bare hodkinf It were easy to enlarge, but to suggest s«ich reflections is probably sufficient. E. 134 it 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 judg- ment with you. Of the poetry I speak with confidence; but the music is a business where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence. The old verses have merit, though unequal, and are popular: my advice is to set the air to the old words, and let mine follow as English verses. Here they are — FAIR JENNY Seep. 123. Tune — " Saw ye my Father?" Where are the joys I have met in the morning, That danc'd to the lark's early song? Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, At evening the wild woods among? No more a-winding the course of yon river. And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure. But sorrow and sad sighing care. Is 135 Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, And grim, surly winter is near? No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, Proclaim it the pride of the year. Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, Yet long, long too well have 1 known, All that has caused this wreck in my bosom. Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, ]\or hope dare a comfort bestow : Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, JEnjoyment I'll seek in my woe. Adieu, my dear Sir! The post goes, so I shall defer some other remarks until more leisure. No. XLVI. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. September, 1793. I HAVE been turning over some volumes of songs, to find verses whose measures would suit 136 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 Colliers Dochter, take the following old Bac- chanal, Deluded swain, the pleasure The fickle Fair can give thee, Is but a fairy treasure, Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. The billows on the ocean, The breezes idly roaming, The clouds' uncertain motion. They are but types of woman. O ! art thou not ashamed, To doat upon a feature? If man thou wouldst be named, Despise the silly creature. Go, find an honest fellow ; Good claret set before thee: Hold on till thou art mellow, And then to bed in glory. The 137 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 Hua-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 : *' Raving winds around her blowing." * Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are down- right Irish. If they were like the Sanks of Jiaitnu, 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 Roys Wife, for the music's sake, we shali not insert it. Deil tak the wars, is a charming song; so is, Saw ye my Peggy? There's nae luck about the housCy well deserves a place. * This will be found in the latter part of this volume. E. 138 a place. I cannot say that. O'er the hills and far aiva, strikes me as equal to your selection. This is no my ain house, is a great favorite air of mine ; and if you will send me your set of it, 1 will task my muse to her highest effort. What is your opinion of, / hae laid a herrin in satvt? 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 naive, dis- gusts 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 3Iother? 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. 139 No. XLVIT. 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 co- adjutor 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 Quakers Wife; though, by the by, an old Highland gentleman and a deep anti- quarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of Leiger m' choss. The following verses, 1 hope, will please you as an English aong to the air : — Thine am I, my faithful fair, Thine, my lovely Nancy ; Ev'ry pulse along my veins, Ev'ry roving fancy. To * The honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Kelly, whose melancholy death Mr. Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter which he has suppressed. E. 140 To thy bosom lay my heart, There to throb and languish : Tho' despair had wrung its core, That would heal its anguish. Take away these rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure: Turn away thine eyes of love. Lest I die with pleasure. What is life when wanting love? Night without a morning : Love 's the cloudless summer sun, Nature gay adorning. Your objection to the English song I pro- posed 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 [ think is so much in your favor. The more original good poetry your collection contains, it certainly has so much the more merit. SONG, 141 SONG, By Gavin Turnbull. 0 CONDESCEND, dear, charming maid, My wretched state to view ; A tender swain to love betray 'd, And sad despair, by you. While here, all melancholy, My passion I deplore, Yet, urg'd by stern resistless fate, [ love thee more and more. 1 heard of love, and with disdain, The urchin's power denied ; I laugh 'd at every lover's pain. And mock'd them when they sigh'd But now my state is alter'd ! Those happy days are o'er ; For all thy unrelenting hate, I love thee more and more. O yield, illustrious beauty, yield, No longer let me mourn ; And, tho' victorious in the field, Thy captive do not scorn. Let 142 Let generous pity warm thee, Mj^ wonted peace restore ; And gratefnl, I shall bless thee still. And love thee more and more. The following address of Turnbull's to the nightingale, will suit as an English song to the air, There ivas a lass and she icasfair. By the by, 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 favor; but I like some of his pieces very much. THE NIGHTINGALE, By G. Turnbull. Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove, That ever tried the plaintive strain, Awake thy tender tale of love, And soothe a poor forsaken swain. For, tho' the muses deign to aid, And teach him smoothly to complain ; Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid, Is deaf to her forsaken swain. All 143 All day, with fashion's gaudy sons, In sport she wanders o'er the plain ; Their tales approves, and still she shuns The notes of her forsaken swain. When evening shades obscure the sky, And bring the solemn hours again, Begin, sweet bird, thy melody. And sooth a poor forsaken swain. I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's, which would go charmingly to Leivie Gordon. LAURA. By G. Turnbull. Let me wander where I will, By shady wood, or winding rill ; Where the sweetest May-born flowers Paint the meadows, deck the bowers ; Where the linnet's early song Echoes sweet the woods among : Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still. If 144 If at rosy dawn I chuse To indulge the smiling muse ; If I court some cool retreat, To avoid the noon-tide heat ; If beneath the moon's pale ray, Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray; Let me wander where 1 will, Laura haunts my fancy still. When at night the drowsy god Waves his sleep-compelling rod. And to fancy's wakeful eyes Bids celestial visions rise ; While with boundless joy I rove Thro' the fairy land of love : Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still. The rest of your letter I shall answer at some other opportunity. No. 145 No. XLVin. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Ith November, 1793. MY GOOD SIR, After so long a silence it gave me peculiar pleasure to recognise your well-known hand, for I had begun to be apprehensive that all was not well with you. I am happy to find, however, that your silence did not proceed from that cause, and that you have got among the ballads once more. I have to thank you for your English song to Leiger m c/ioss, which I think extremely good, although the colouring is warm. Your friend Mr. Turnbull's songs have doubtless consider- able merit ; and as you have the command of bis manuscripts, 1 hope you may find out some that will answer as English songs, to the airs yet unprovided. VOL. IV. L No. 146 No. XLIX. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Decetnber, 1793. Tell me, how you like the following verses to the tune of Jo Janet. Husband, husband, cease your strife, Nor longer idly rave, sir ; Tho' I am your wedded wife, Yet I am not your slave, sir. " One of two must still obey, " Nancy, Nancy; " Is it man, or woman, say, " My spouse, Nancy ?" If 'tis still the lordly word, Service and obedience ; 1 '11 desert my sov'reign lord, And so, good b'ye allegiance ! Sad 147 " Sad will I be, so bereft, *' Nancy, Nancy, " Yet I '11 try to make a shift, " My spouse, Nancy." IVIy poor heart then break it must, My last hour f 'm near it : When you lay me in the dust, Think, think, how you will bear it. *' 1 will hope and trust in heaven, *' Nancy, Nancy : " Strength to bear it will be given, " My spouse, Nancy." Well, sir, from the silent dead, Still I '11 try to daunt you; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you. *' I '11 wed another, like my dear " Nancy, Nancy; " Then all hell will fly for fear, " My spouse, Nancy." L 2 Air 148 Air — " The Sutor's Dochter." Wilt thou be my dearie ? When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, Wilt thou let me cheer thee? By the treasure of my soul, That 's the love I bear thee ! I swear and vow that only thou Shall ever be my dearie. Only thou, I swear and tow, Shall ever be my dearie. Lassie, say thou lo'es nie; Or if thou wilt na be my ain. Say na thou 'It refuse me : If it winna, canna be. Thou, for thine may choose me, Let me, lassie, quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es me. Lassie, let me quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es me. No. 149 No. L. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, VJth April, 1794, MY DEAR SIR, Owing to the distress of our friend for the loss of his child, at the time of his receiving your admirable but melancholy letter, I had not an opportunity 'till lately of perusing it.* How sorry I am to find Burns saying, " canst thou not minister to a mind diseased ?" while he is delighting others from one end of the island to the other. Like the hypochondriac who went to consult a physician upon his case — Go, says the doctor, and see the famous Carlini, who keeps all Paris in good humour. Alas! Sir, replied the patient, I am that unhappy Carlini ! Your plan for our meeting together pleases me A letter to Mr. Cunningham, to be found in vol. ii. E. 150 me greatly, and I trust that by some means or other it will soon take place; but your Bac- chanalian challenge almost frightens me, for I am a miserable weak drinker ! Allan is much gratified by your good opinion of his talents. He has just begun a sketch from your Cotter's Saturday Night, and if it pleases himself in the design, he will probably etch or engrave it. In subjects of the pastoral and humorous kind, he is perhaps unrivalled by any artist living. He fails a little in giving beauty and grace to his females, and his colouring is sombre, otherwise his paintings and drawings would be in greater request. I like the music of the Sutors Dochter, and will consider whether it shall be added to the last volume ; your verses to it are pretty ; but your humorous English song to suit, Jo Janet, is inimitable. W'hat think you of the air. Within a mile of Edmhiirgh. It has always struck me as a modern English imitation, but it is said to be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that I be- lieve I must include it. The verses are little better than namhy immhy. Do you consider it worth a stanza or two ? No. I i 151 No. LI. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. May, 1794. MY DEAR SIR, I RETURN you the plates, with which I am highly pleased ; 1 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 JBurin, is quite charmed with Allan's manner. 1 got him a peep of the Gentle Shepherd ; and he pronounces Allan a most original artist of great excellence. For ray part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing my favorite poem for his subject, to be one of the highest compliments I have ever received. I am 152 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 he 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 fol- lowing song to it. BANKS OF CREE. Here is the glen, and here the bower, All underneath the birchen shade ; The village-bell has told the hour, O what can stay my lovely maid? 'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, Mixt with some warblers dying fall The dewy star of eve to hail. It is Maria's voice I hear ! So calls the wood lark in the grove. His little, faithful mate to cheer, At once 'tis music— and 'tis love. And 153 And art thou come ! and art thou true ! O welcome, dear to love and me ! And let us all our vows renew, Along the flowery banks of Cree. No. LIE. Mr. burns to Mr. TPIOMSON. July, 1794. 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 democratic discords? Alas the day ! And woe is me ! That auspicious period, pregnant with the happiness of mil- I * ■iU .4£. .U. -IL ■U- ■tf- Cf- -Ig- I I rf^ v^ tj ^„^,^^J^ ^ "ff "TP TT "fv* Tl* I have presented a copy of your songs to the daughter of a much-valued, and much-honoured friend * A portion of this letter has been left out, for reasons that will be easily imagined. E. J 54 friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintry. \ wrote, on the blank side of the title-page, the following address to the young lady. Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives, Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. So may no ruffian* feeling in thy breast, Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest. Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears. As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; While conscious virtue all the strain endears, And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. * It were to have been wished, that instead of ruffian feeling f the bard had used a less rugged epithet, e. g. ruder. E. No. 155 No. LIII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, \Qth August, 1794. MY DEAR SIR, I OWE you an apology for having so long delayed to acknowledge the favour of your last. I fear it will be as you say, I shall have no more songs from Pleyel 'till France and we are friends; but, nevertheless, 1 am very de. sirous to be prepared with the poetry, and as the season approaches in which your muse of Coila visits you, 1 trust I shall, as formerly, be frequently gratified with the result of your amo- rous and tender interviews ! No. 156 No. LIV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. 30^^ August, 1794. The last evening, as I was straying out, and thinking of, O'er the hills and far away^ 1 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. 1 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. ON 157 ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. Tune — " O'er the hills, &c." How can my poor heart be glad, When absent from my sailor lad ? How can 1 the thought forego, He 's on the seas to meet the foe ? Let me wander, let me rove, Still my heart is with my love ; Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day Are with him that 's far away. CHORUS. On the seas and far away^ On stormy seas and far away ; Nightly dreams and thoughts by day Are ay with him that 'sfar away. When in summer's noon I faint, As weary flocks around me pant, Haply in this scorching sun My sailor 's thund'ring at his gun: Bullets, spare my only joy ! Bullets, spare my darling boy ! Fate 158 Fate do with me what you may, Spare but him that 's far away ! On the seas, SfC, At the starless midnight hour, When winter rules with boundless power ; As the storms the forest tear, And thunders rend the howling air, Listening to the doubling roar, Surging on the rocky shore, All 1 can — I weep and pray, For his weal that 's far away. On the seas, Sfc. Peace, thy olive wand extend, And bid wild war his ravage end, Man with brother man to meet, And as a brother kindly greet : Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales, Fill my sailor's welcome sails. To my arms their charge convey, My dear lad that 's far away. On the seas, Sfc. J give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Christian meekness. No. 159 No. LV. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, 16th Sept. 1794. MY DEAR SIR, I ou have anticipated my opinion of, On the seas and far away ; T do not think it one of your very happy productions, though it cer- tainly contains stanzas that are worthy of all acceptation. The second is the least to my liking, particu- larly, " Bullets, spare my only joy." Confound the bullets. It might, perhaps, be objected to the third verse, " At the starless midnight hour," that it has too much grandeur of imagery, and that greater simplicity of thought would have better suited the character of a sailor's sweetheart. The tune, it must be remembered, is of the brisk, cheerful kind. Upon the whole, therefore, in my humble opinion, the song would be better adapted to the tune, if it consisted only of the first and last verses, with the chorusses. No. 160 No. LVI. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Sept. 1794. I SHALL withdraw my, On the seas and far away, altogether: it is unequal, and un- worthy 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 1 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 * This Vir^lian order of the poet, should, I think, be disobeyed with respect to the song in question, the second stanza excepted. Note by Mr. Thomson. Doctors differ. The objection to the second stanza does not strike the Editor. E. 161 the yoii^s to the knoives, 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 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, follow- ing up the idea of the chorus, which I would preserve. Here it is, with all its crudities and imperfections on its head. CHORUS. Ca' the yowes to the knoives, Co£ them whare the heather growes, Cd them whare the hurnie roives. My bonnie dearie. Hark, the mavis' evening sang Sounding Clouden's woods amang f Then a faulding let us gang, My bonnie dearie. Ca' the, 6fc. VOL. IV. M We'll * The river Clouden, or Cluden, a tributary stream to the Nith. E. 162 We'll gae down by Clouden side, Thro' the hazels spreading wide, O'er the waves that sweetly glide To the moon sae clearly. Ca' the, 6fc. Yonder Clouden's silent towers, Where at moonshine midnight hours, O'er the dewy bending flowers, Fairies dance sae cheery. Co! the, SfC, Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; Thou 'rt to love and heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near. My bonnie dearie. Ca' the, Sfc. Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stown my very heart ; 1 can die — but canna part. My bonnie dearie. Ca the, ^c. I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs, my first scribbling fit. No. 163 No. LVII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. September, 1794. Do you know a blackguard Irish song, called Onaglts Water-fail? The ah* is charming, and I havexiften 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 favorite 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 men- tioned, 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 before ladies. M 2 SHE 164 SHE SAYS SHE LOES ME BEST OF A'. Tune — •' Onaoh's Water-fall.** Sae flaxen were her ringlets, Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Bewitchiugly o'er-arching Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. Her smiling sae wyling, Wad make a wretch forget his woe ; What pleasui'e, what treasure. Unto these rosy lips to grow: Such was my Chloris' bonnie face. When first her bonnie face I saw, And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'. Like harmony her motion ; Her pretty ancle is a spy Betraying fair proportion, Wad make a saint forget the sky. Sae warming, sae charming, Her faultless form and gracefu' air ; Ilk feature— auld nature Declar'd that she could do nae mair: Hers 165 Her's are the willing chains o' love, By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'. Let others love the city, And gaudy shew at sunny noon ; Gie me the lonely valley. The dewy eve, and rising moon Fair beaming, and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang ; While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes his sang There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, And hear my vows o' truth and love, And say thou lo'es me best of a'. Not to compare small things with great, my taste in music is like the mighty Frederic of Prussia's taste in painting : we are told that he frequently admired what the connoisseurs de- cried, and always, without any hypocrisy, con- fessed 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 166 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 shewing disgust. For instance, I am just now making verses for Roihemurches Ranty 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 recommenda- tion 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* 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 do not altogether like the third line of the first stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I am just three stanzas deep in it. Would you have * In the original follow here two stanzas of a song, be- ginning, " Lassie wi' the lintwhite locks ;" which will be found at full length afterwards, p. 193. E. 16t have the denouement to be successful or other- wise ? 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 to- gether. 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 J address the following. To Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Staig's recovery. Maxwell, if merit here you crave, That merit I deny ; You save fair Jessie from the grave ? — An angel could not die. God grant you patience with this stupid epistle ! No. 168 No. LVIII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. I PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is now- attendant upon her favourite poet, whose wood- notes icild are become as enchanting as ever. She says she lo'es me best of a, is one of the pleasant- est table songs I have seen, and henceforth shall be mine when the song is going round. I'll give Cunningham a copy; he can more powerfully proclaim its merit. I am far from undervaluing your taste for the strathspey music ; on the contrary, I think it highly ani- mating and agreeable, and that some of the strathspeys, when graced with such verses as yours, will make very pleasing songs, in the same way that rough Christians are tempered and softened by lovely woman, without whom, you know, they had been brutes. I am clear for having the Sozvs Tail, particu- larly as your proposed verses to it are so ex- tremely promising. Geordie, as you observe, is a name only fit for burlesque composition. Mrs. Thomson's name (Katharine) is not at all poetical. I 169 poetical. Retain Jeanie, therefore, and make the other Jamie, or any other that sounds agree- ably. Your CcC the etves, is a precious little morceau. Indeed I am perfectly astonished and charmed with the endless variety of your fancy. Here let me ask you, whether you never seriously turned your thoughts upon dramatic writing? That is a field worthy of your genius, in which it might shine forth in all its splendor. One or two successful pieces upon the London stage would make your fortune. The rage at present is for musical dramas : few or none of those which have appeared since the Duenna, possess much poetical merit : there is little in the con- duct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to inte- rest the audience. They are chiefly vehicles for music and pageantry. I think you might produce a comic opera in three acts, which would live by the poetry, at the same time that it would be proper to take every assistance from her tuneful sister. Part of the songs, of course, would be to our favourite Scottish airs ; the rest might be left to the London composer — Storace for Drury-lane, or Shield for Covent-garden ; both of them very able and popular musicians. 1 believe that interest and manoeuvring are often necessary to have a drama brought on : so it may be with the namby- 170 namby-pamby tribe of flowery scribblers ; but were you to address Mr. Sheridan himself, by letter, and send him a dramatic piece, I am persuaded he would, for the honour of genius, give it a fair and candid trial. Excuse me for obtruding these hints upon your considera- tion.* No. LIX. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, 14th October, 1794. The last eight days have been devoted to the re-examination of the Scottish collections. I have read, and sung, and fiddled, and con- sidered, 'till I am half blind, and wholly stupid. The few airs I have added, are inclosed. Peter Pindar has, at length, sent me all the songs * Our bard had before received the same advice, and cer- tainly took it so far into consideration, as to have cast about for a subject. E. 171 songs I expected from him, which are, in general, elegant and beautiful. Have you heard of a London collection of Scottish airs and songs, just published by Mr. Ritson, an Englishman? I shall send you a copy. His introductory es- say on the subject is curious, and evinces great reading and research, but does not decide the question as to the origin of our melodies ; though he shews clearly that Mr. Tytler, in his ingenious dissertation, has adduced no sort of proof of the hypothesis he wished to esta- blish ; and that his classification of the airs according to the aeras when they were composed, is mere fancy and conjecture. On John Pinker- ton, Esq. he has no mercy; but consigns him to damnation! He snarls at my publication, on the score of Pindar being engaged to write songs for it; uncandidly and unjustly leaving it to be inferred, that the songs of Scottish writers had been sent a packing to make room for Peter's ! Of you he speaks with some res- pect, but gives you a passing hit or two, for daring to dress up a little, some old foolish songs for the Museum. His sets of the Scottish airs are taken, he says, from the oldest collec- tions and best authorities : many of them, how- ever, have such a strange aspect, and are so unlike the sets 'which are sung by every person of taste, old or young, in town or country, that we can scarcely recognize the features of our 172 our favourites. By going to the oldest collec- tions of our music, it does not follow that we find the melodies in their original state. These melodies had been preserved, we know not how long, by oral communication, before being col- lected and printed : and as different persons sing the same air very differently, according to their accurate, or confused recollection of it, so, even supposing the first collectors to have pos- sessed the industry, the taste and discernment, to choose the best they could hear, (which is far from certain,) still it must evidently be a chance, whether the collections exhibit any of the melodies in the state they were first com- posed. In selecting the melodies for my own collection, I have been as much guided by the living, as by the dead. Where these differed, I preferred the sets that appeared to me the most simple and beautiful, and the most generally approved : and, without meaning any compli- ment to my own capability of choosing, or speaking of the pains I have taken, I flatter myself that my sets will be found equally freed from vulgar errors on the one hand, and affected graces on the other. No. 173 No. LX. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. \mi 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 favorite, Cragie-burn Wood,' in your selection : It is as great a favorite 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, or friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Pla- tonic 174 tonic love. (Now don't put any of your squint- ing constructions on this, or liave any clishma- claiver 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 m song ; to be in some de- gree equal to your diviner airs ; do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial emanation? Tout au contraire ! 1 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. J put my- self 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, Whe7i she cam hen she bohbit, the following stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they were formerly, when set to another air, may, perhaps, do instead of worse stanzas. SAW 175 SAW YE MY PHELY. (Quasi dicat Phillis.) Tune — " When she cam ben she bobbit." O SAW ye my dear, my Phely ? O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love, She winna come hame to her Willy. What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? What says she, my dearest, my Phely? She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot. And for ever disowns thee, her Willy. O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely! O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely! As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. The Posie, (in the Museum) is my composition ; the air 176 air was takeu down from Mrs. Burns's voice.* It is well known in the West Country, but the old words are trash. By the by, 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. Strathalla7is Lament is mine : the music is by our right trusty and deservedly well- beloved, Allan Masterton. Donocht-Head is not mine : 1 would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald; and came to the editor of that paper with the New- castle post-mark on it.f Whistle o'er the lave o't is mine: the music said to be by a John Bruce, * The Posie will be found afterwards. This, and the other poems of which he speaks, had appeared in Johnson's Mu- seum, and Mr. T. had inquired whether they were our bard's. E. t The reader will be curious to see this poem, so highly praised by Burns. Here it is : Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-Head,t The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale, The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck. And shivering tells his waefu' tale. " Cauld X A mountain in the North. E. 177 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. Andretv and his cutty gun. The song to which VOL. IV. N this " 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. " Full ninety winters hae I seen, " And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew, " And mony a day I've danc'd, I ween, " To lilts which from my drone I blew." My Eppie waked, and soon she cry'd, * Get up, guidman, and let him in ; * For weel ye ken the winter night ' Was short when he began his din.' My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet. Even tho' she bans and scaulds a wee ; But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale, O, haith, it's doubly dear to me ! Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, I'll make it bleeze a bonnie flame ; Your bluid is thin, ye 've tint the gate, Ye should na stray sae far frae hame. " Nae 178 this is set, in the Museum, is mine ; and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lint- rose, commonly and deservedly called, the Flower of Strathmore. Hoiv long and dreary is the night! I met with some such words in a collection of songs somewhere, which I alter'd and enlarged ; and, to please you, and to suit your favorite air, I have taken a stride or two across my room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the other page. Tune " Nae hame have I, the minstrel said, " Sad party-strife o'erturned my ha"; " And, weeping at the eve of Ufe, " I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw." ^ ^ * -rT * -JF 'SF This affecting poem is apparently incomplete. The author need not be ashamed to own himself. It is worthy of Burns, or of Macneill. E. A writer in the Monthly Magazine for October, 1800, in- forms us that the author of this fragment is Mr. George Pickering, then of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. G. B. 179 Tune — " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." How lang and dreary is the night, When I am frae my dearie; I restless lie frae e'en to morn, Though I were ne'er sae weary. CHORU s. For oh ! her lanely nights are lang ; And oh^ her dreams are eerie ; And oh, her widow'd heart is sah\ That 's absent frae her dearie. When J think on the lightsome days I spent wi' thee, my dearie ; And now what seas between us roar How can I be but eerie. For oh, Sfc. How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; The joyless day how dreary ! It was na sae, ye glinted by. When I was wi' my dearie. For oh, Sfc. N 2 Tell 180 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.* These English songs gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue. 1 have been at Dun- can Gray, to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance: Tune — ** Duncan Gray." Let not woman e'er complain, Of inconstancy in love; Let not woman e'er complain, Fickle man is apt to rove ; Look Mr. Ritson. E. 181 Look abroad through nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change ; Ladies, would it not be strange, Man should then a monster prove ? IMark the winds, and mark the skies ; Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow: Sun and moon but set to rise, Round and round the seasons go : Why then ask of silly man. To oppose great nature's plan? We'll be constant while we can — You can be no more, you know. Since the above, I have been out in the country, taking a dinner with a friend, where I met with the lady whom 1 mentioned in the se- cond page of this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usual, I got into song ; and, returning home, I composed the following : The 182 The JLovers Morning Salute to his Mistress, Tune — " Deil tak the Wars." Sleep'st tliouj or wak'st thou, fairest creature ; Kosy morn now lifts his eye, Numbering ilka bud which nature Waters wi' the tears o' joy : Now through the leafy woods, And by the reeking floods ; Wild nature's tenants, freely, gladly, stray; The lintwhite in his bower Chants o'er the breathing flower ; The lav'rock to the sky Ascends wi' sangs o' joy. While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.* Phoebus * Variation. Now to the streaming fountain, Or up the heathy mountain. The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wiklly-wanton stray; Tn twining hazel bowers His lay the linnet pours : The lav'rock, &c. E. 183 Phcebus gilding the brow o' morning, Banishes ilk darksome shade, Nature gladdening and adorning; Such to me my lovely maid. When absent frae my fair, The murky shades o' care, With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky ; But when, in beauty's light. She meets my ravish'd sight. When thro' my very heart Ber beaming glories dart ; 'Tis then 1 wake to life, to light, and joy * If you honor my verses by setting the air to them, I will vamp up the old song and make it English enough to be understood. 1 inclose * Variation. When frae my Chloris parted. Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, Then night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my sky : But when she charms my sight, In pride of beauty's light ; When thro' my very heart Her beaming glories dart; Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy. E. 184 I inclose you a musical curiosity, an East Indian air, which you would swear was a Scot- tish 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 base to it, and I intend putting it into the Musical Museum. Here follow the verses I intend for it. THE AULD MAN. But lately seen in gladsome green The woods rejoic'd the day. Thro' gentle showers, the laughing flowers In double pride were gay : But now our joys are fled, On winter blasts awa ! Yet maiden May, in rich array, Again shall bring them a'. But my white pow, nae kindly thowe **lhall melt the snaws of age; My trunk of eild, but buss or bield. Sinks in time's wintry rage. Oh 185 Oh, age has weary days, And nights o' sleepless pain ! Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, Why com'st thou not again ? 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 let- ter. 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 correspon- dence ? No. 186 No. LXI. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, 21th October, 1794. I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a genuine poet can no more exist without his mistress than his meat. [ wish I knew the adorable she, whose bright eyes and witching smiles have so often enraptured the Scottish bard ! that I might drink her sweet health when the toast is going round. Cragie-hurn Wood must certainly be adopted into my family, since she is the object of the song : but, in the name of decency, I must beg a new chorus verse from you. O to he lying beyond thee dearie, is, per- haps, a consummation to be wished, but will not do for singing in the company of ladies. The songs in your last will do you lasting credit, and suit the respective airs charmingly. I am perfectly of your opinion with respect to the additional airs. The idea of sending them into the world naked as they were born, was un- generous. 187 generouf?. They must all be clothed and made decent by our friend Clarke. I find I am anticipated by the friendly Cun- ningham in sending you Ritson's Scottish col- lection. Permit me, therefore, to present you with his English collection, which you will receive by the coach. 1 do not find his histori- cal essay on Scottish song interesting. Your anecdotes and miscellaneous remarks will, I am sure, be much more so. Allan has just sketched a charming design from Maggie Lauder. She is dancing with such spirit as to electrify the piper, who seems almost dancing too, while he is playing with the most exquisite glee. 1 am much inclined to get a small copy, and to have it engraved in the style of Ritson's prints. P. S. Pray what do your anecdotes say con- cerning Maggie Lauder? Was she a real per- sonage, and of what rank ? You would surely spier for her^ if you cad at A?istruther town. No. 1B8 No. LXII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. November, 1794. Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your present : it is a book of the utmost import- ance to me. 1 have yesterday begun my anec- dotes, &c. for your work. I intend drawing it up ill 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, &c. 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 * It does not appear whether Burns completed these anec- dotes, &c. Something of the kind (probably the rude draughts) was found amongst his papers, and appears in Vol, ii. E. 189 My lodging is on the cold ground. On ray visit the other day to my fair Chloris, (that is the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my in- spiration) she suggested an idea, which I, in my return from the visit, w^rought into the fol- lowing song. My Chloris, mark how green the groves, The primrose banks how fair : The balmy gales awake the flowers. And wave thy flaxen hair. The lav'rock shuns the palace gay. And o'er the cottage sings : For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, To shepherds as to kings. Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string In lordly lighted ha' : The shepherd stops his simple reed, Blithe, in the birken shaw. The princely revel may survey Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; But are their hearts as light as ours, Beneath the milk-white thorn ? The 190 The shepherd, in the flowery g;len, In shepherd's phrase will woo : The courtier tells a finer tale, But is his heart as true? These wild-wood flowers I 've pu'd, to deck That spotless breast o' thine : The courtier's gems may witness love — But 'tis na love like mine. How do you like the simplicity and tender- ness of this pastoral ? — I think it pretty well. I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of 3Ia chere 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 191 has powers equal to all the intellectual modu- lations 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 gene- rosity disdains the purchase f ****** * Despairing of my own powers to give you variety enough in English songs, I have been turning over old collections, to pick out songs of which the measure is something similar to- what I want ; and, with a little alteration, so as to suit the rhythm of the air exactly, to give you them for your work. Where the songs have hitherto been but little noticed, nor have ever been set to music, I think the shift a fair one. A song, which, under the same first verse you will find in Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, I have cut down for an English dress to your, " Daintie Davie" as follows. SONG, 192 SONG, Altered from mi old English one. It was the charming month of May, When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, One morning, by the break of day, The youthful, charming Chloe ; From peaceful slumber she arose. Girt on her mantle and her hose, And o'er the flowery mead she goes. The youthful, charming Chloe. CHORUS. Lovely tvas she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe, The feather'd people you might see, Perch'd all around, on every tree, In notes of sweetest melody They hail the charming Chloe ; 'Till, painting gay the eastern skies. The glorious sun began to rise, Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes Of youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she, Sec. You 193 You may think meanly of this, but take a look at the bombast original, and you will be surprised that I have made so much of it. I have finished my song to Rothemurches Rant ; and you have Clarke to consult, as to the set of the air for LASSIE WITHE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. T'une — " Rothemurche's Rant." CHORUS. Lassie wi' the lint-white locks^ £onnie lassie, artless lassie. Wilt thou ivt me tent the Jiocks ? Wilt thou he my dearie O ? Now nature deeds the flowery lea, And a' is young and sweet like thee; O wilt thou share its joy wi' me, And say thou 'It be my dearie O ? Lassie wi\ ^c. And when the welcome simmer-shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. We '11 to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie O. Lassie wi, Sfc. VOL. IV. o When 194 When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way ; Thro' yellow waving fields we '11 stray, And talk o' love, my dearie O. Lassie wi\ Sfc. And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ; Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, I '11 comfort thee, my dearie O.* Lassie wi the lint-ivhite locks, Honnie lassie, artless lassie. Wilt thou ivi me tent the flocks ? Wilt thou be my dearie O ? This piece has at least the merit of being a regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter night, • In some of the MSS. this stanza runs thus : And should the howling wintry blast Disturb my lassie's midnight rest ; I '11 fauld thee to my faithfu' breast, And comfort thee, my dearie O. E. 195 night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, well: if not, J will insert it in the Museum. 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 silli- ness oi Sawye my Father : by heavens, the odds is, gold to brass ! Besides, the old song, though now pretty well modernized 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 pre- tensions to be a Scottish production. There is a pretty English song by Sheridan, in the Duenna, to this air, which is out of sight supe- rior to D'Urfey's. It begins, " When sable night each drooping plant restor- ing." The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the very native language of sim- plicity, tenderness, and love. 1 have again gone over my song to the tune, as follows.* o 2 Now * See the song in its first and best dress in page 182. Our bard remarks upon it, " I could easily throw this into an " English mould ; but, to my taste, in the simple and the " tender of the pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scot- *' tish has an inimitable effect" E- 196 Now for my English song to Nancy's to the Greenwood, Sfc. Farewell thou stream that vvindins: flows Around Eliza's dwelling! 0 mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes Within my bosom swelling : Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, And yet in secret languish, To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, Nor dare disclose my anguish. Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, I fain my griefs would cover: The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan^ Betray the hapless lover. 1 know thou doom'st me to despair, Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me; But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, For pity's sake forgive me ! The music of thy voice 1 heard. Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 'Till fears no more had sav'd me: The unwary sailor thus aghast, The wheeling torrent viewing ; 'Mid circling horrors sinks at last In overwhelming ruin. There 197 There is an air, The Caledonian Hunt's De- light^ to which I wrote a song that you will find in Johnson. Ye banks and braes o bonnie Doon ; this air, T think, might find a place among your hundred, as Lear says of his knights. Do you know the history of the air? It is curious enough. A good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, writer in your good town, a gentleman whom, possibly, you know, was in company ■with our friend Clarke; and talking of Scot- tish music, Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve some kind of rhythm ; and he would infallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is, that, in a few days, Mr. Miller produced the rudiments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some touches and corrections, fashioned into the tune in ques- tion. Kitson, you know, has the same story of the Black Keys; but this account which I have just given you, Mr. Clarke informed me of, several years ago. Now, to shew you how dif- ficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly asserted that this was an Irish air ; nay, 1 met with an Irish gentleman who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland among the old women ; while, on the other hand, a Countess informed me, that the first person who introduced the air into this country, was a baronet's 193 baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took down the notes from an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How difficult then to ascertain the truth respecting our poesy and music ! I, myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads sung- through the streets of Dumfries, with my name at the head of them as the author, though it was the first time I had ever seen them. 1 thank you for admitting, Cragie-hurn Wood; and I shall take care to furnish you with a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my work, but a part of some old verses to the air. If I can catch myself in a more than ordinarily pro- pitious moment, I shall write a new Cragie-hurn Wood altogether. My heart is much in the theme. I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request; 'tis dunning your generosity; but, in a moment, when I had forgotten whether I was rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you this; but an ungracious request is doubly so, by a tedious apology. To make you some amends, as soon as I have extracted the neces- sary information out of them, I will return you Ritson's volumes. The lady is not a little proud that she is to make 199 make so distinguished a figure in your collection, and I am not a little proud that I have it in my power to please her so much. Lucky it is for your patience that my paper is done, for when I am in a scribbling humour, I know not when to give over. No. LXIII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. \bth November, 1794. MY GOOD SIR, Since receiving your last, I have had another interview with Mr. Clarke, and a long consultation. He thinks the Caledonian Runt is more Bacchanalian than amorous in its nature, and recommends it to you to match the air ac- cordingly. Pray did it ever occur to you how peculiarly well the Scottish airs are adapted for verses in the form of a dialogue ? The first part of the air is generally low, and suited for a man's voice, and the second part in many in- stances cannot be sung, at concert pitch, but by a female voice. A song, thus performed, makes an agreeable variety, but few of ours are "written 200 written in this form : I wish you would think af it in some of those that remain. The only one of the kind you have sent me, is admirable, and will be an universal favorite. Your verses for Rothemurche are so sweetly pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, for Deil tak the Wars, so passionately tender, that I have sung myself into raptures with them. Your song for, My lodging is on the cold ground, is likewise a diamond of the first water; \ am quite dazzled and delighted by it. Some of your Chlorises, I suppose, have flaxen hair, from your partiality for this colour ; else we differ about it ; for I should scarcely conceive a woman to be a beauty, on reading that she had lint-white locks ! Farewell thou stream that ivinding jlows, I think excellent, but it is much too serious to come after Nancy : at least it would seem an incongruity to provide the same air with merry Scottish, and melancholy English verses ! The more that the two sets of verses resemble each other in their general character, the better. Those you have manufactured for Daiyity Davie will answer charmingly. I am happy to find you have begun your anecdotes : I care not how long they be, for it is impossible that any thing from your pen can be tedious. Let me beseech 201 beseech you not to use ceremony in telling me when you wish to present any of your friends with the songs : the next carrier will bring you three copies, and you are as welcome to twenty as to a pinch of snufF. No. LXIV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Vdth November, 1794. You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual correspondent I am ; though indeed you may thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you have so flattered me on my horsemanship with my favorite hobby, and have praised the grace of his ambling so much, that I am scarcely ever off his back. For instance, this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in my walk before breakfast, I finished my duet, which you were pleased to praise so much. Whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not say ; but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old. Ti U7ie 202 Tune—'' The Sow's Tail." HE. O Philly, happy be that day When roving through the gather'd hay, My youthfu' heart was stown away, And by thy charms, my Philly. SHE. O Willy, ay I bless the grove Where first I own'd my maiden love, Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above To be my ain dear Willy. HE. As songsters of the early year Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, So ilka day to me mair dear And charming is my Philly. SHE. As on the brier the budding rose Still richer breathes and fairer blows. So in my tender bosom grows The love I bear my Willy. HE. 203 HE. The milder sun and bluer sky, That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye As is a sight o' Philly. SHE. The little swallow's wanton wing, Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring. Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, As meeting o' my Willy. HE. The bee that thro' the sunny hour Sips nectar in the opening flower, Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, Upon the lips o' Philly. SHE. The woodbine in the dewy weet When evening shades in silence meet, Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet As is a kiss o' Willy. HE. Let fortune's wheel at random rin, And fools may tyne, and knaves may win ; My thoughts are a' bound up in aue, And that 's my ain dear Philly. SHE. 204 SHE. What's a' the joys that gowd can gie! I care na wealth a single flie; The lad I love 's the lad for me, And that's my ain dear Willy. Tell me, honestly, how you like it ; and point out whatever you think faulty. I am much pleased with your idea of singing our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that you did not hint it to me sooner. In those that remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember your objections to the name, Philly ; but it is the common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the only other name that suits, has, to my ear, a vulgarity about it, which unfits it for any thing except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, whom your brother editor, Mr. Ritson, ranks with me, as my coevals, have always mistaken vulgarity for simplicity : whereas, simplicity is as much eloignee from vulgarity, on the one hand, as from affected point and puerile conceit on the other. I agree with you, as to the air Cragie-bum Wood, i\\dX a chorus would, in some degree, spoil 205 spoil the effect ; and shall certainly have none in my projected song to it. It is not, however, a case in point with Rothemurche ; there, as in Roys Wife of Aldivaloch, a chorus goes, to my taste, well enough. As to the chorus going first, that is the case with Rofs Wife, as well as Rothemurche. In fact, in the first part of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar and irre- gular, and on that irregularity depends so much of their beauty, that we must e'en take them with all their wildness, and humour the verse accordingly. Leaving out the starting note, in both tunes, has I think, an effect that no regu- larity could counterbalance the want of. Try, and {I Rofs Wife of Aldivaloch. lassie wi' the lint-white locks, jy .^j Ci2o?/'s Wife of Aldivaloch. Compare ivitn, < '^ Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable strike you ? In the last case, with the true furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild originality of the air; whereas in the first insipid method, it is like the grating screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. This is my taste ; if I am wrong I beg pardon of the cognoscenti. The 206 The Caledonian Hunt, is so charming that it would make any subject in a song go down ; but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scot- tish Bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few we have are excellent. For instance, Todlin Hame, is, for wit and humour, an un- paralleled composition ; and, Andrew and his cutty Gun^ is the work of a master. By the way, are you not quite vexed to think that those men of genius, for such they certainly were, who composed our fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown ? It has given me many a heart-ache. Apropos to Bacchanalian songs in Scottish ; I composed one yesterday, for an air 1 like much — JLumps o' pudding. Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, Whene'er 1 forgather wi' sorrow and care, I gie them a skelp, as they 're creepin alang, Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang. I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch, And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. A towmond 207 A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past? Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way; Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae : Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure, or pain ; My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome again !" If you do not relish the air, I will send it to Johnson. Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framed a couple of English stanzas, by way of an Eng- lish song to Roys Wife. You will allow me that in this instance, my English corresponds in sentiment with the Scottish. Cansl 2oa Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Tune—'' Roy's Wife." CHORUS. Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Well thou knoivst my achi?ig heart. And canst thou leave me thus for pity 1 Is this thy plighted, fond regard, Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? Is this thy faithful swain's reward — An aching, broken heart, my Katy? Canst thou, ^c. Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! Thou may'st find those will love thee dear — But not a love like mine, my Katy ! Canst thou, 6fc* Well! ♦ To this address in the character of a forsaken lover, a reply was found on the part of the lady, among the MSS. of our bard, evidently in a female hand-writing ; which is doubt- less that referred to in] p. 120 of this volume. The tempta- tion to give it to the public is irresistible ; and if in so doing, offence 209 Well ! I think this, to be done m two or three turns across my room, and with two or three pinches of Irish Blackguard, is not so far amiss. You see, I am determined to have my quantum of applause from somebody. VOL. IV. P Tell offence should be given to the fair authoress, the beauty ur her verses must plead our excuse. Tune—" Roy's Wife." CHORUS. Stay my Willie — yet believe me^ Stay my Willie — yet believe me. For, ah ! thou knovo'st no' every pang Wad wring my bosom, shouldst thou leave me. Tell me that thou yet art true. And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven, And when this heart proves fause to thee, Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. Stay my Willie, Sfc. But to think I was betrayed, That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder! To take the flow'ret to my breast, And find the guilefu' serpent under. Stay my Willie, ifc. Could I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive. Celestial pleasures might I choose 'em, 1 'd slight, nor seek in other spheres That heaven I 'd find within thy bosonu Stay my Willie, 8fc. It 210 Tell my friend Allan (for 1 am sure that we only want the trifling circumstance of being known to one another, to be the best friends on earth) that I much suspect he has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I have, at last, gotten one ; but it is a very rude instrument. It is composed of three parts ; the stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, cixoli as you see in a mutton-ham ; the horn, which is a common Highland cow's horn, cut off at the smaller end, until the aperture be large enough to admit the stock to be pushed up through the horn, until it be held by the thicker end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, an oaten reed exactly cut and notched like that which you see every shepherd-boy have, when the corn-stems are green and full-grown. The reed is not made fast in the bone, but is held by the lips, and plays loose in the smaller end of the stock ; while the stock, with the horn hanging on its larger end, is held by the hands in playing. The stock has six or seven ventiges on the upper side, and one back-ventige, like the It may amuse the reader to be told, that on this occasion the gentleman and the lady have exchanged the dialects of their respective countries. The Scottish bard makes his address in pure English : the reply on the part of the lady, in the Scottish dialect, is, if we mistake not, by a young and beautiful Englishwoman. £. 211 the common flute. This of mine was made by a man from the braes of Athole, and is exactly what the shepherds wont to use in that country. However, either it is not quite properly bored in the holes, or else we have not the art of blowing it rightly ; for we can make little of it. If Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of mine ; as I look on myself to be a kind of bro- ther-brush with him. " Pride in Poets is nae sin," and, I will say it, that I look on Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real painters of Scottish costume in the world. No. LXV. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 2Qth November, 1794. 1 ACKNOWLfeDGE, my dear Sir, you are not only the most punctual, but the most delec- table correspondent J ever met with. To attempt flattering you never entered my head ; the truth is, I look back with surprise at my impudence, in so frequently nibbling at lines p 2 and 212 and couplets of your incomparable lyriV:^, for which, ]5erhaps, if you had served me right, you would have sent me to the devil. On th^ contrary, however, you have, all along, condes- cended to invite my criticism with so much courtesy, that it ceases to be wonderful if 1 have sometimes given myself the airs of a reviewer. Your last budget demands unqualified praise: all the songs are charming, but the duet is a chef d'ceuvre. Lumps of pudding, shall cer- tainly make one of my family dishes: you haVe cooked it so capitally, that it will please all palates. Do give us a few more of this Cast, when you find yourself in good spirits : these convivial songs are more w^anted than those of the amorous kind, of which we have great choice. Besides, one does not often meet with a singer capable of giving the proper eflfect to the latter, while the former are easily sung, and acceptable to every body. I participate in your regret that the authors of some of our best songs are un- known : it is provoking to every admirer of genius. I mean to have a picture painted fi'om your beautiful ballad, The Soldiers Return, to be engraved for one of my frontispieces. The most interesting point of time appears to me, Wheft she first recognizes her ain dear Willy, " She gaz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The three lines 213 lines immediately following are, no doubt, more impressive on the reader's feelings, but were the painter to fix on these, then you '11 observe the animation and anxiety of her countenance is gone, and he could only represent her faint- ing in the soldier's arms. But 1 submit the matter to you, and beg your opinion. Allan desires me to thank you for your accu- rate description of the stock and horn, and for the very gratifying compliment you pay him, in considering him worthy of standing in a niche, by the side of Burns, in the Scottish Pantheon. He has seen the rude instrument you describe, so does not want you to send it ; but wishes to know whether you believe it lo have ever been generally used as a musical pipe, by the Scot- tish shepherds, and when, and in what part of the country chiefly. I doubt much if it was capable of any thing but routing and roaring. A friend of mine says he remembers to have heard one in his younger days (made of wood instead of your bone) and that the sound was abominable. Do not, I beseech you, return any books. No. 214 No. LXVI. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. December, 1794. It is, [ assure you, the pride of my heart to do any thing to forward, or add to the value of your book : and as I agree with you that the Jacobite song in the Museum, to There 11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame, would not so well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love- song to that air, I have just framed for you the following: MY NAME'S AW A. Tune — " There'll never be peace," &c. Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays. And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; But to me it's delightless — my Nanie's awa. The 215 The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in tlie weet o' the morn ; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw. They mind me o' Nanie — and Nanie's awa. Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn. The shepherd to warn o'the grey-breaking dawn, And thou mellow mavis that hails the night fa', Give over for pity — my Nanie 's awa. Come autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, And soothe me with tidings o' nature's decay : The dark, dreary winter, and wild driving snaw, Alane can delight me — Now Nanie *s awa. How does this please you ? As to the point of time, for the expression, in your proposed print from my Sodger's Return : It must cer- tainly be at — " She gaz'd." The interesting dubity and suspense, taking possession of her countenance, and the gushing fondness, with a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike me as things of which a master will make a great deal. In great haste, but in great truth, yours. No. 216 No. LXVII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. January, 1795, I FEAR for my songs ; however, a few may please, yet originality is a coy feature in composition, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the same style, disappears altogether. For these three thousand years, we, poetic folks, have been describing the spring, for instance ; and as the spring continues the same, there must soon be a sameness in the imagery, &c. of these said rhyming folks. A great critic, Aikin on songs, says, that love and wine are the exclusive themes for song-writing. The following is on neither sub- ject, and consequently is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme. FOR FOR A' THAT, AND A' THAT. Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward-slave, we pass him by. We dare be poor for a' that ! For a' that, and a' that. Our toil's obscure, and a' that. The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man 's the gowd for a' that. What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Wear hod din grey, and a' that ; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man 's a man, for a' that : For a' that, and a' that. Their tinsel show, and a' that ; The honest man, though e'er sae poor. Is kina: o' men for a' that. *& Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; Though hundreds worship at his word, He 's but a coof for a' that : For a' that, and a* that, His ribband, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind. He looks and laughs at a' that. A prince ■218 A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man 's aboon his might, Guid faith he mauna fa* that ! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth. Are higher ranks than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that, It 's comin yet, for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er. Shall brothers be for a' that. I do not give you the foregoing song for your book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle ; for the piece is not really poetry. How will the following do for Craigie-burn Wood ? Sweet 2jd Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, And blithe awakes the morrow, But a' the pride o' spring's return Can yield me nocht but sorrow. I see the flowers and spreading trees, I hear the wild birds singing; But what a weary wight can please. And care his bosom wringing ? Fain, fain would 1 my griefs impart, Yet dare na for your anger ; But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer. If thou refuse to pity me, If thou shalt love anither, When yon green leaves fade frae the tree. Around my grave they '11 wither.* Farewell ! God bless you. No. * Craigie-burn Wood is situated on the banks of the river Moffat, and about three miles distant from the village of that name, celebrated for its medicinal waters. The w^oods of Craigie-burn and of Dumcrief, v^^ere, at one time, favourite haunts of our poet. It vk^as there he met the '* Lassie v^i' the lint-white locks," and that he conceived several of his beau- tiful lyrics. £. 920 No. LXVIII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, 'iOth January, 1795. MY DEAR SIR, I THANK you heartily for Nanie 's awa, as well as for Craigie-hurn, which I think a very comely pair. Your observation on the difficulty of original writing in a number of efforts, in the same style, strikes me very forcibly ; and it has again and again excited my wonder to find you continually surmounting this difficulty, in the many delightful songs you have sent me. Your vive la bagatelle song, For a' that^ shall undoubt- edly be included in my list. No. air. 221 No. LXIX. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. February, 1795. Here is another trial at your favorite Tune — " Let me in this ae night/' O lassie, art tbou sleeping yet, Or art thou wakin, 1 would wit. For love has bound me hand and foot, And I would fain be in, jo. CHORUS. O let me ifi this ae nighty This ae, tie, ae night; For- pity's sake this ae night, O rise and let me in, jo. Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet: Tak pity on my weary feet, And shield me frae the rain, jo. O let me in, Sfc. The 222 The bitter blast that round me blaws, Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; The cauldness o' thy heart 's the cause Of a' my grief and pain, jo. O let me in, Sfc. HER ANSWER. O tell na me o' wind and rain, Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! Gae back the gate ye cam again, 1 winna let you in, jo. CHORUS. I tell you now this ae night. This ae, ae, ae night ,* And ancefor a' this ae night, I winna let you in, jo. The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, That round the pathless wand'rek* pours. Is nocht to what poor she endures, That 's trusted faithless man, jo. 1 tell you now, SfC, The 223 The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, Now trodden like the vilest weed : Let simple maid the lesson read, The weird may be her ain, jo. / tell you now J Sfc. The bird that charm'd his summer-day, Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; Let witless, trusting, woman say How aft her fate 's the same, jo. I tell you now, SfC. I do not know whether it will (lo. No. 224 No. LXX. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Ecclefechan, 1th February, 1795. MY DEAR THOMSON, You cannot have any idea of the predi- caJTient in wbich I write to you. In the course of my duty as Supervisor (in which capacity I have acted of late) I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked, little village. J have gone forward, but snows, of ten feet deep, have im- peded my progress : 1 have tried to " gae back the gate I cam again," but the same obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk. 225 drunk, to forget these miseries ; or to hang myself, to get rid of them : like a prudent man, (a character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed) I, of two evils, have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at your service !* I wrote you yesterday, from Dumfries. 1 had not time then to tell you all 1 wanted to say ; and, heaven knows, at present 1 have not capacity. Do you know an air — I am sure you must know it, TVe 'II gang nae mair to yon town. I think, in slowish time, it would make an ex- cellent song. I am highly delighted with it; and if you should think it worthy of your at- tention, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would consecrate it. As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night. * The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to abuse sweet £ccl«fechan at this rate. £. VOL. IV. Q No. 226 No. LXXI. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. loth February, 1795. 1 HAVE to thank you, my dear Sir, for two epistles, one containing", Let me in this ae flight; and the other from Ecclefechan, proving, that, drunk or sober, yonr " mind is never muddy." You have displayed great address in the above song. Her answer is excellent, and at the same time takes away the indelicacy that otherwise would have attached to his entreaties. 1 like the song as it now stands, very much. 1 had hopes you would be arrested some days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile the tedious forenoons by song-making. It will give rcie pleasure to receive the verses you intend for O wat ye wha 's in yon toivn. No. 227 No. LXXII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. May, 1795. ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. Tune — " Where'll bonnie Ann lie." Or, " Loch-Eroch Side." O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing fond complaining. Again, again that tender part. That I may catch tliy melting art; For surely that wad touch her heart, Wha kills me wi' disdaining. Say, vvas thy little mate unkind, AwA heard thee as the careless Avind? Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, Sic notes o' woe could wauken. Q 2 Thou 228 Thou tells o' never-ending care ; C speechless grief, and dark despair : For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair! Or my poor heart is broken ! Let me know, your very first leisure, how you like this song. ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. Tune — " Ay wakin o." CHORUS. JLong, long the night, Heavy comes the morroiv, While my souVs delight, Is on her bed of sorrow. Can I cease to care? Can I cease to languish ? While my darling fair Is on the couch of anguish? Long, 6cc. Every 229 Every hope is fled, Every fear is terror ; Slumber even I dread, Every dream is horror. Lo7ig^ Sfc. Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! Oh, in pity hear me! Take aught else of mine, But my Chloris spare me! Long, 6fc. How do you like the foregoing? The Irish air, Humours of Glen, is a great favorite of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the Poor Soldier, there are not any decent verses for it, 1 have written for it as follows. SONG, Tune^'* Humours of Glen." Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon. Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume, Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom : Far 230 Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue bell and govvan lurk lowly unseen : For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. Tho'rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, And cauld, Caledonia's blast on the wave; Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace. What are they? — The haunt o' the tyrant and slave! The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains. The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save Love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. SONG. Tune — " Laddie, lie near me." *TwAS na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 'Twas 231 Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind ns, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness. Sair do [ fear that to hope is denied me, Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ! But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever. Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. Mary, I 'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest ! And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. Let me hear from you. No. LXXIII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. You must not think, my good Sir, that I have any intention to enhance the value of my gift, when I say, in justice to the ingenious and worthy artist, that the design and execution of the Cotter's Saturday Night, is, in my opinion, one of the happiest productions of Allan's pencil. I shall be grievously disappointed if you are not quite pleased witli it. Thy 232 The figure intended for your portrait, I think strikingly like you, as far as I can remember your phiz. This should make the piece inter- esting to your family every way. Tell me whether Mrs. Burns finds you out among the figures. I cannot express the feeling of admiration with which I have read your pathetic Address to the Wood-lark, your elegant Panegyrick on Caledonia, and your aflfecting verses on Chloris's illness. Every repeated perusal of these gives new delight. The other song, to " Laddie, lie near me," though not equal to these, is very pleasing. No. 233 No. LXXIV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Altered from an old English song. Tune — " John Anderson my jo.'* How cruel are the parents, Who riches only prize, And to the wealthy booby. Poor woman sacrifice ! Meanwhile the hapless daughter Has but a choice of strife; To shun a tyrant father's hate. Become a wretched wife. The ravening hawk pursuing. The trembling dove thus flies, To shun impelling ruin A while her pinions tries ; 'Till of escape despairing, No shelter or retreat. She trusts the ruthless falconer, And drops beneath his feet ! SONG. 234 SONG. Tune — " Deil tak the Wars." Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, Round the wealthy, titled bride : But when compar'd with real passion. Poor is all that princely pride. What are the showy treasures ? What are the noisy pleasures ? The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art : The polish'd jewel's blaze May draw the wond'ring gaze, And courtly grandeur bright The fancy may delight, But never, never can come near the heart. But did you see my dearest Chloris, In simplicity's array; Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, Shrinking from the gaze of day. O then, the heart alarming. And all resistless charming. In Love's delightful fetters she chains the will- ing soul ! Ambition would disown The world's imperial crown. Even Avarice would deny His worshipp'd deity. And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. Well! 235 Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I an- swer your orders : your tailor could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high lit of poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of cri- ticism don't cure me. If you can in a post or two administer a little of the intoxicating: notion of your applause, it will raise your humble ser- vant's phrenzy to any height you want. I am at this moment ** holding high converse" with the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as you are. No. LXXV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. 3Iay, 1795. Ten thousand thanks, for your elegant present; though I am ashamed of the value of it, being bestowed on a man who has not by any means merited such an instance of kind- ness. I have shewn it to two or tinve judges of the first abilities here, and they all agree with me in classing it as a first-rate production. My 236 My phiz is sae kenspeckle, that the very joiner's apprentice whom Mrs. Burns employed to break up the parcel (I was out of town that day) knew it at once. My most grateful com- pliments to Allan, who has honored my rustic muse so much with his masterly pencil. One strange coincidence is, that the little one who is making the felonious attempt on the cat's tail, is the most striking likeness of an ill- deedie, d — wW, wee, rumhle-gairie, urchin of mine, whom, from that propensity to witty wickedness and manfu* mischief, which even at twa days auld I foresaw would form the striking features of his disposition, I named Willie Ni- col ; after a certain friend of mine, who is one of the masters of a grammar-school in a city which shall be nameless. Give the enclosed epigram to my much-va- lued friend Cunningham, and tell him that on Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me, in a manner introduced me — 1 mean a well- known military and literary character. Colonel Dirom. You do not tell me how you liked my two last songs. Are they condemned ? No. 237 No. LXXVI. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. \1ith May, 1795. It gives me great pleasure to find that you are all so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's production. The chance resemblance of your little fellow, whose promising disposition ap- peared so very early, and suggested whom he should be named after, is curious enough. I am acquainted with that person, who is a pro- digy of learning and genius, and a pleasant fel- low, though no saint. You really make me blush when you tell me you have not merited the drawing from me. I do not think I can ever repay you, or suffi- ciently esteem and respect you for the liberal and kind manner in which you have entered into the spirit of my undertaking, which could not have been perfected without you. So I beg you would not make a fool of me again, by speaking of obligation. I like your two last songs very much, and am happy to find you are in such a high fit of poetizing. 238 poetizing. Long may it last ! Clarke has made a fine pathetic air to Mallet's superlative ballad of William and Margaret, and is to give it to me, to be enrolled among the elect. No. LXXVH. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. In, Wfiistle, and 111 come to ye, my lad, the iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear. Here goes what I think is an improvement : O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; Tho' father, and mother, and a' should gae mad, Thy Jeany will venture wi* ye, my lad. In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine I, the Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Par- nassus ; a dame whom the Graces have attired in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with lightning, a Fair One, herself the heroine of 239 of the song, insists on the amendment; and dis- pute her commands if you dare ! SONG. Tune — " This is no my ain house." CHORUS. O this is no my ain lassie ^ Fair thoi' the lassie be; O iveel ken I my ain lassie. Kind love is in her e'e. I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : It wants, to me, the witching grace, The kind love that's in her e'e. O this no, Sfc. She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall ; And ay it charms my very saul. The kind love that's in her e'e. O this is no, ^c. A thief 240 A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; But gleg as light are lovers' een, When kind love is in the ee. O this is no, <^c. It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learned clerks ; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that's in her e'e. O this no, 6fc. Do you know that you have roused the tor- pidity of Clarke at last ? He has requested me to write three or four songs for him, which he is to set to music himself. The enclosed sheet contains two songs for him, which please to present to my valued friend Cunningham. I enclose the sheet open, both for your in- spection, and that you may copy the song, O honnie was yon rosy brier. I do not know whether I am right ; but that song pleases me, and as it is extremely probable that Clarke's newly roused celestial spark will be soon smo- thered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the song, it may go as Scottish verses, to the air of 241 of I wish my love was in a mire; and poor Erskine's English lines may follow. I inclose you, a For a' that and a' that, which was never in print : it is a much su- perior song to mine. I have been told that it was composed by a lady. To Mr. CUNNINGHAM. SCOTTISH SONG. Now spring has clad the grove in green, And strew'd the lea wi' flowers : The furrow'd, waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers ; While ilka thing in nature join Their sorrows to forego, O why thus all alone are mine The weary steps of woe! The trout within yon wimpling bum Glides swift, a silver dart, And safe beneath the shady thorn Defies the angler's art: My life was ance that careless stream, That wanton trout was I ; But love, wi' unrelenting beam, Has scorch'd my fountains dry. VOL. IV. R The "242 The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, In yonder cliff that grows, Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot^ Nae ruder visit knows, Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, And blighted a' my bloom, And now beneath the with'ring blast My youth and joy consume. The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs And climbs the early sky. Winnowing blithe her dewy wings In morning's rosy eye ; As little reckt I sorrow's power, Until the flowery snare O' witching love, in luckless hour. Made me the thrall o' care. O had my fate been Greenland snows, Or Afric's burning zone, Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! The wretch whase doom is, " hope nae mair,' What tongue his woes can tell I Within whase bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. SCOTTISH I' 243 SCOTTISH SONG. O BONNIE was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; And bonnie she, and ah, how dear ! It shaded frae the e'enin sun. Yon rosebuds in the morning dew How pure, amang the leaves sae green ; But purer was the lover's vow They witness'd in their shade yestreen. All in its rude and prickly bower, That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! But love is far a sweeter flower Amid life's thorny path o' care. The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn, Its joys and griefs alike resign. Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my poems, presented to the lady, whom, in so many fictitious reveries of passion, R 2 but 244 but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often sung under the name of Chloris. 'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, Nor thou the gift refuse, Nor with unwilling ear attend The moralizing muse. Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, Must bid the world adieu, (A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) To join the friendly few. Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast, Chill came the tempest's lower; (And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast Did nip a fairer flower.) Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, Still much is left behind ; Still nobler wealth hast thou in store, The comforts of the mind! Thine is the self-approving glow, On conscious honour's part ; And, dearest gift of heaven below, Thine friendship's truest heart. The 245 The joys refin'd of sense and taste, With every Muse to rove : And doubly vt^ere the poet blest These joys could he improve. line bagatelle de Vamitie. COILA. No. LXXVIII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, 3rd August, 1795. MY DEAR SIR, Xhis will be delivered to you by a Dr. Brianton, who has read your works, and pants for the honour of your acquaintance. I do not know the gentleman; but his friend, who applied to me for this introduction, being an excellent young man, I have no doubt he is worthy of all acceptation. My 246 My eyes have just been gladdened, and my mind feasted, .with your last packet — full of pleasant things indeed. What an imagination is yours ! it is superfluous to tell you, that 1 am delighted with all the three songs, as well as with your elegant and tender verses to Chloris. I am sorry you should be induced to alter, O whistle and Til come to ye, my lad, to the pro- saic line, Thy Jeany ivill venture wi' ye, my lad. 1 must be permitted to say, that I do not think the latter either reads or sings so well as the former. I wish, therefore, you would in my name petition the charming Jeany, whoever she be, to let the line remain unaltered.* I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke pro- duce a few airs to be joined to your verses. Every body regrets his writing so very little, as every body acknowledges his ability to write well. Pray was the resolution formed coolly before * The Editor, who has heard the heroine of this song sing it herself in the very spirit of arch simplicity that it requires, thinks Mr. Thomson's petition unreasonable. If we mistake not, this is the same lady who produced the lines to the tune of Roys Wife, p. 225. E. 247 before dinner, or was it a midnight vow made over a bowl of punch with the bard ? I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham what you have sent him. P. S. — The lady's, For a' that and a' that, is sensible enough, but no more to be compared to yours than I to Hercules. No. LXXIX. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. ENGLISH SONG. Tune — " Let me in this ae Night.' Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, Far, far from thee, I wander here; Far, far from thee, the fate severe At which I most repine, love. CHORUS. 248 CHORUS. O ivert thou, love, hut near me ; Hut near, near, near me ; Hoiv kindly thou ivouldst cheer me, And mingle sighs icith mine, love. Around me scowls a wintry sky, That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; And shelter, shade, nor home have I, Save in those arms of thine, love. O wert, SfC. Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, To poison fortune's ruthless dart, Let me not break thy faithful heart, And say that fate is mine, love. O ivert, <SfC. But dreary tho' the moments fleet, O let me think we yet shall meet! That only ray of solace sweet Can on thy Chloris shine, love. O ivert, Sfc. How 249 How do you like the foregoing? I have written it within this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus ; but what say you to his bottom ? No. LXXX. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. SCOTTISH BALLAD. T^une — " The Lothian Lassie." Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; I said there was naething I hated like men, The deuce gae wi 'm, to believe, believe me, The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me. He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black e'en, And vow'd for my love he was dying ; I said he might die when he liked, for Jean, The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying. The Lord forgie me for lying ! A weel- 250 A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird, And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, But thought I might hae waur offers. But what wad ye think ? In a fortnight or less. The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,* Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her, Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. But * In the original MS. this line runs, " He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess," Mr. Thomson objected to this word, as well as to the word Dalgarnock in the next verse. Mr. Burns replies as follows : " Gateslack is the name of a particular place, a kind of " passage up among the Lawther hills, on the confines of " this county. Dalgarnock is also^ the name of a romantic " spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined church and a *' burial-ground. However, let the first line run. He up the " lang loan," &c. It is always a pity to throw out any thing that gives locality to our poet's verses. E. 251 But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, And wha but my fine fickle lover was there, I glowr'd as I 'd seen a warlock, a warlock, I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, Least ncebors might say I was saucy ; My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vow'd I was his dear lassie. T spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, Gin she had recovered her hearin. And how her new shoon fit her auld shackl't feet, But, heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin. But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin. He begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow : So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-mor- row, I think I maun wed him to-morrow. FRAGMENT. 252 FRAGMENT. Tune — " The Caledonian Hunt's Delight." Wliy, why tell thy lover, Bliss he never must enjoy ; Why, why undeceive him, And give all his hopes the lie ? O why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers, Chloris, Chloris all the theme, Why, why wouldst thou cruel Wake thy lover from his dream ? Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air, that 1 find it impossible to make another stanza to suit it. I am at present quite occupied with the charming sensations of the tooth-ache, so have not a word to spare. No. 253 No. LXXXI. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. ZrdJunCy 1795. MY DEAR SIR, Your English verses to Let me in this ae night, are tender and beautiful; and your ballad to the " Lothian Lassie," is a master- piece for its humour and naivete. The fragment for the Caledonian Hunt is quite suited to the original measure of the air, and, as it plagues you so, the fragment must content it. I would rather, as I said before, have had Bacchanalian words, had it so pleased the poet; but, never- theless, for what we have received, Lord make us thankful. a^o. 254 No. LXXXir. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. bth Feb. 1796. O Rohhij Burns, are ye sleeping yet ? Or are ye zcaukin, I would wit ? The pause you have made, my dear Sir, is awful ! Am I never to hear from you again ? J know and I lament how much you have been afflicted of late, but I trust that returning health and spirits will now enable you to resume the pen, and delight us with your musings. I have still about a dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I wish '* married to immortal verse." We have several true born Irishmen on the Scottish list; but they are now naturalized, and reckoned our own good sub- jects. Indeed we have none better. I believe I before told you that I have been much urged by some friends to publish a collection of all our favourite airs and songs in octavo, embellished with a number of etchings by our ingenious friend Allan ; what is your opinion of this? No. 255 No. LXXXIII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Fefrruary 17, 1796. Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your handsome, elegant present, to Mrs. B , and for my remaining volume of P. Pindar. — Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first favorite of mine. I am much pleased with your idea of publishing a collection of our songs in octavo, with etchings. I am extremely willing to lend every assistance in my power. The Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding verses for. I have already, you know, equipt three with words, and the other day T strung up a kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I admire much. HEY 256 HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. Tune — " Balinamona ora." AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. CHORUS. Then hey for a lass ivi a tocher, then hey for a lass ivi a tocher. Then hey for a lass tvi a tocher ; the nice yel- loiv guineas for me. Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows, And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes. Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes. Then hey, Sfc. And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest. The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when pos- sest ; But 257 But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im- prest, The langer ye hae them — the mair they're carest. Then hey, ^c. If this will do, you have now four of my Irish engagement. In my by-past songs, T dislike one thing ; the name Chloris — I meant it as the fic- titious name of a certain lady ; but, on second thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral bal- lad.— Of this, and some things else, in my next : I have more amendments to propose. — - What you once mentioned of " flaxen locks" is just : they cannot enter into an elegant descrip- tion of beauty. — Of this also again — God bless you!* No. LXXXIV. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Y OUR Hey for a lass wi' a tocher, is a most excellent song, and with you the subject VOL. IV. s is * Our poet never explained what name he would have sub- stituted for Chloris. Note by Mr. Thomson, 258 is something new indeed. It is the first time I have seen you debasing the god of soft desire into an amateur of acres and guineas. — I am happy to find you approve of my pro- posed octavo edition. Allan has designed and etched about twenty plates, and I am to have my choice of them for that work. Indepen- dently of the Hogarthian humour with which they abound, they exhibit the character and costume of the Scottish peasantry with inimit- able felicity. In this respect, he himself says, they will far exceed the aquatinta plates he did for the Gentle Shepherd, because in the etch- ing he sees clearly what he is doing, but not so with the aquatinta, which he could not manage to his mind. The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely more characteristic and natural than the Scot- tish figures in those etchings. 259 No. LXXXV. Mr. burns to MR. THOMSON. April, 1796. Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some time ere I tune my lyre again ! " By Babel streams I have sat and wept," almost ever since I wrote you Jast : 1 have only known existence by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness; and have counted time by the reper- cussions of pain ! Rheumatism, cold, and fever, have formed to me a terrible combination. I close my eyes in misery, and open them with- out hope. I look on the vernal day, and say with poor Fergusson — *' Say wherefore has an all-indulgent heaven " Light to the comfortless and wretched given ?" This will be delivered to you by a IMrs. Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, whicii for these many years has Ijeen my howff^ s 2 and 2G0 and where our friend Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. Allan's etchings. Woo'd and married an' a\ is admirable! The grouping is beyond all praise. The expression of the figures, con- formable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely faultless perfection. I next admire, Turnim- spike. What I like least is, Jenny said to J ocky. Besides the female being in her appearance ***** if you take her stooping into the account, she is at least two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I sincerely sympa- thize with him ! Happy I am to think that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health and en- joyment in this world. As for me — but that is j^ * * # * * subject ! 261 No. LXXXVI. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Ath May, 1796. I NEED not tell you, my good Sir, what concern the receipt of your last gave me, and how much I sympathise in your sufferings. But do not, I beseech you, give yourself up to despondency, nor speak the language of de- spair. The vigour of your constitution, f trust, will soon set you on your feet again; and then it is to be hoped you will see the wisdom, and the necessity of taking due care of a life so valuable to your family, to your friends, and to the world. Trusting that your next will bring agreeable accounts of your convalescence, and returning good spirits, I remain, with sincere regard, yours. P. S. — Mrs. Hyslop, I doubt not, delivered the gold seal to you in good condition. No. 262 No. Lxxxva. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. MY DEAR SIR, I ONCE mentioned to you an air which I have long admired. Here 's a health to them that 's awa, hiney, but 1 forget if you took any notice of it. I have just been trying to suit it with verses ; and I beg leave to recommend the air to your attention once more. 1 have only begun it. CHORUS. Here 's a health to ane I loe dear. Here 's a health to ane I loe dear ; Thou art sweet as the smile ivhen fond lovers meet, And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! Although 263 Altho' thou iiiann never be mine, Altho' even hope is denied ; 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, Than aught in the world beside— Jessy ! Here 's a health, ^c. I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day. As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, For then 1 am lockt in thy arms — Jeasy! Here 's a health, S)C. I guess by the dear angel smile, I guess by the love rolling e'e ; But why urge the tender confession *Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessy ! Here 's a health, Sfc* * In the letter to Mr. Thomson, the three first stanzas only are given, and Mr. Thomson supposed our poet had never gone farther. Among his MSS. was, however, found the fourth stanza, which completes this exquisite song, the last finished offspring of his muse. !'• No. 264 No. LXXXVIII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a young fellow of uncommon nierit. As he will be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, if you chuse to write me by him ; and if you have a spare half hour to spend with him, I shall place your kinduess to my account. I have no copies of the songs I have sent you, and I have taken a fancy to review them all, and possibly may mend some of them ; so when you have complete leisure, I will thank you for either the originals or copies.* I had rather be the author of five well-written songs than of ten otherwise. [ have great hopes that the genial influence of the approaching summer will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of returning health. I have now reason to be- lieve * It is needless to say, that this revisal Burns did not lire to perform. E. 265 lieve that my complaint is a flying gout : a sad business ! Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and re- member me to him. This should have been delivered to you a month ago. I am still very poorly, but should like much to hear from you. No. LXXXIX. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Brow, on the Solway-frith, 12tk July, 1796. After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel ***** of a haberdasher, to whom 1 owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a pro- cess, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that sun), and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have made me half dis- tracted. •266 tracted. 1 do not ask all this gratuitously ; for, upon returning health, I hereby promise, and engnge to furnish you with five pounds worth of the neatest song genius you have seen. 1 tried ray hand on Rothemurche this morning. The measure is so difficult, that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the lines ; they are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me ! SONG. Time — " Rothemurche." CHORUS. Fairest maid on Devon hanks, Crystal Devon, ivinding DevoUy Wilt thou lay that frown aside , And smile as thou were wont to do ? Full well thou knowest I love thee, dear! Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ! O, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, " Nor use a faithful lover so." Fairest maid, <^c. Then 267 Then come, thou fairest of the fair, Those wonted smiles, O let me share ; And by thy beauteous self I swear, No love but thine my heart shall know. Fairest maid, ^c * No. * These verses, and the letter enclosing them, are written in a character that marks the feeble state of Burns's bodily strength. Mr. Syme is of opinion that he couid not have been in any danger of a jail at Dumfries, where certainly he had many firm friends, nor under any such necessity of im- ploring aid from Edinburgh. But about this time his reason began to be at times unsettled, and the horrors of a jail per- petually haunted his imagination. He died ou the 21st of this month. 268 No. XC. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. \Ath July, 1796. MY DEAR SIR, Ever since I received your melancholy letter by Mrs. Hyslop, I have been ruminating in what manner I could endeavour to alleviate your sufferings. Again and again I thought of a pecuniary offer, but the recollection of one of your letters on this subject, and the fear of offending your independent spirit, checked my resolution. I thank you heartily, therefore, for the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and with great pleasure inclose a draft for the very sum I proposed sending. Would I were Chan- cellor of the Exchequer but for one day, for your sake ! Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you to muster a volume of poetry? If too much trouble to you, in the present state of your health, 269 health, some literary friend might be found here, who would select and arrange from your manu- scripts, and take upon him the task of Editor. In the mean time it could be advertised to be published by subscription. Do not shun this mode of obtaining the value of your labour: remember Pope published the Iliad by sub- scription. Think of this, my dear Burns, and do not reckon me intrusive with my advice. You are too well convinced of the respect and friendship 1 bear you, to impute any thing I say to an unworthy motive. Yours faithfully. The verses to Rothemurche will answer finely. 1 am happy to see you can still tune your lyre 270 In the beginning of the year 1787, another work had com- menced at Edinburgh, entitled. The Scots Musical Museiim, conducted by Mr. James Johnson ; the object of which was to unite the songs and the music of Scotland in one general collectiou. The first volume of this work appeared in May, 1787, when our poet was in Edinburgh ; and in it appeared one of his printed songs, to the tune of Green grow the rashes, beginning, " There 's nought but care on every hand." He appears also to have furnished from his MSS. the last song Ih that volume, which was an early production, and not thought by himself worthy of a place in his works. The second volume appeared in the spring of 1783, and contained several original songs of Burns ; who also contributed liberally to the third, fourth, and fifth volumes, the last of which did not appear till after his death. In his communi- cations to Mr. Johnson, to which his name was not in general affixed, our Bard was less careful than in his compositions for the greater work of Mr. Thomson. Several of them he never intended to acknowledge, and others, printed in the Museum, were found somewhat altered afterwards, among his manuscripts. In the selection which follows, attention has been paid to the wishes of the author as far as they are known. The printed songs have been compared with the MSS., and the last corrections have been uniformly inserted. The reader will probably think many of the songs which fol- low, among the finest productions of his muse. THE 271 THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, ivillye go, ivill ye go, Sonnie lassie, ivill ye go to the JBirks of Aber- feldy? Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, Come let us spend the lightsome days In the birks of Aberfeldy. Honuie lassie, Sfc. While o'er their heads the hazels hing, The little birdies blithely sing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing In the birks of Aberfeldy. Sonnie lassie, 6fc. The braes ascend, like lofty wa's. The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's, O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws. The birks of Aberfeldy. JSonnie lassie, 6fc. Th<? 272 The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers. White o'er the linns the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi' misty showers The birks of Aberfeldy. Sojmie lassie, <^'c. Let fortune's gifts at random flee, They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me. Supremely blest wi' love and thee, In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, Sfc* STAY, * This is written in the same measure as the Birks of Abergeldie, an old Scottish song, from which nothing is bor- rowed but the chorus. E. 273 STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU LEAVE ME? Tune — *' An Gille dubh ciar dhubh." Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! Well you know how much you grieve me; Cruel charmer, can you go? Cruel charmer, can you go? By my love so ill requited ; By the faith you fondly plighted ; By the pangs of lovers slighted ; Do not, do not, leave me so ! Do not, do not, leave me so ! VOL. IV. T STRATHALLAN'S 274 STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling! Howling tempests o'er me rave! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Still surround my lonely cave ! Crystal streamlets gently flowing, Busy haunts of base mankind. Western breezes softly blowing, Suit not my distracted mind. In the cause of right engaged. Wrongs injurious to redress, Honor's war we strongly waged, But the Heavens denied success. Ruin's 275 Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, Not a hope that dare attend! The wide world is all before us — But a world without a friend !* T 2 THE * Strathallan, it is presumed, was one of the followers of the young Chevalier, and is supposed to be lying concealed in some cave of the Highlands, after the battle of CuUoden. This song was written before the year 1788. E. 276 THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. Tmie—" MoRAG." Loud blaw the frosty breezes, The snaws the mountains cover; Like winter on me seizes, Since my young Highland Rover Far wanders nations over. Where'er he go, where'er he stray, May Heaven be his warden : Return him safe to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon I The trees now naked groaning. Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, The birdies dowie moaning, Shall a' be blithely singing. And every flower be springing. Sae 277 Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, When by his mighty warden My youth's retiirn'd to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon * * The young Highland Rover is supposed to be the young Chevalier, Prince Charles-Edward. E. RAVING 278 RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. Tune — *' M'Grigor of Rero's Lament." Raving winds around her blowing, Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, By a river hoarsely roaring, Isabella stray'd deploring. " Farewell, hours that late did measure " Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; *' Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, ** Cheerless night that knows no morrow. " O'er the past too fondly wandering, " On the hopeless future pondering; *' Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, *' Fell despair my fancy seizes. Life, 279 " Life, thou soul of every blessing, " Load to misery most distressing, " O how gladly I'd resign thee, "And to dark oblivion join thee!'* MUSING 280 MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. Tune — " Druimion dubh." Musing on the roaring ocean, Which divides my love and me ; Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, For his weal where'er he be. Hope and fear's alternate billow Yielding late to nature's law, Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow Talk of him that's far awa. Ye whom sorrow never wounded, Ye who never shed a tear, Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, Gaudy day to you is dear. Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; Spirits kind, again attend me. Talk of him that's far awa ! BLYTHE 281 BLITHE WAS SHE. JBlithe, hlithe and merry was she, Slit he was she but and ben : JBlithe by the banks of Em, And blithe in Glenturit glen. By Oughtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw; But Phemie was a bonnier lass Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. JBlithe, Sfc. Her looks were like a flow'r in May, Her smile was like a simmer morn ; She tripped by the banks of Ern, As light's a bird upon a thorn. JBlithe, Sfc. Her 282 Her bonnie face it was as meek As ony lamb upon a lee ; The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet, As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. JBlithe, Sfc. The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, And o er the Lowlands J hae been ; But Phemie was the blithest lass That ever trod the dewy green. Blithe, Sfc. 283 A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, Adown a corn-inclosed bawk, Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, All on a dewy morning. Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, In a' its crimson glory spread, And drooping rich the dewy head. It scents the early morning. Within the bush, her covert nest A little linnet fondly prest, The dew sat chilly on her breast Sae early in the morning. She soon shall see her tender brood. The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd. Awake the early morning. So 284 So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, On trembling string or vocal air, Shall sweetly pay the tender care That tents thy early morning. So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. And bless the parent's evening ray That watch'd thy early morning.* WHERE * This song was written during the winter of 1787. Mise J. C, daughter of a friend of the bard, is the heroine. 285 WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. Tune — " N. Gow's Lamentation for Aber- CAIRNY." Where braving angry winter's storms, The lofty Ochels rise, Far in their shade my Peggy's charms. First blest my wondering eyes. As one who by some savage stream, A lonely gem surveys, Astonish'd doubly marks its beam, With art's most polish'd blaze. Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, And blest the day and hour, Where Peggy's charms I first survey 'd. When first I felt their pow'r ! lie 286 The tyrant death, with grim control, May seize my fleeting breath ; But tearing Peggy from my soul Must be a stronger death. TIBBIE, 287 TIBBIE, 1 HAE SEEN THE DAY. Tune — " Invercald's Reel.' O Tihhie, I hae seen the day^ Ye would nae been sae shy ; For laik o' gear ye lightly me^ Sut, trowthj I care na by. Yestreen I met you on the moor. Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; Ye geek at me because I'm poor, But fient a hair care I. O Tibbie, I hae, Sfc. I doubt na, lass, but ye may think. Because ye hae the name o' clink, That ye can please me at a wink. Whene'er ye like to try. O Tibbie, I hae, ^c. But 288 But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean, That looks sae proud and high. O Tibbie, I hae, ^c. Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye'll cast your head anither airt, And answer him fu' dry. O Tibbie, I hae, ^c. But if he hae the name o' gear, Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear. Be better than the kye. O Tibbie, I hae, Sfc. But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice ; The deil a ane wad spier your price. Were ye as poor as [. O Tibbie, I hae, ^c. There lives a lass in yonder park, I would na gie her in her sark, For thee, wi' a thy thousan mark ; Ye need na look sae high. O Tibbie, I hae, Sfc. CLARINDA. 289 CLARINDA. Clarinda, mistress of my soul, The measur'd time is run ! The wretch beneath the dreary pole, So marks his latest sun. To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie : Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy ! We part — but by these precious drops That fill thy lovely eyes ! No other light shall guide my steps, 'Till thy bright beams arise. She, the fair sun of all her sex. Has blest my glorious day : And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray ? VOL. IV. V 200 THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. Tune — " Seventh of November.'' The day returns, my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet, Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. Than a' the pride that loads the tide, And crosses o'er the sultry line ; Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine. While day and night can bring delight, Or nature aught of pleasure give ! While joys above, my mind can move, For thee, and thee alone, I live! When that grim foe of life below Comes in between to make us part ; The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss— it breaks my heart. - 291 THE LAZY MIST. The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; flow languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap- pear, As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- sues ; How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd in vain; How little of life's scanty span may remain : What aspects, old Time, in his progress has worn ; What ties, cruel Fate in my bosom has torn. How foolish, or worse, 'till our summit is gain'd! And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd ! This life 's not worth having with all it can giv** For something beyond it poor man sure must live. V 2 292 O, WERE 1 ON PARNASSUS' HILL! Tune — " My love is lost to me.' O, WERE I on Parnassus' hill ! Or had of Helicon my fill ; That I might catch poetic skill, To sing how dear I love thee. But Nith maun be my muse's well, My muse maun be thy bonnie sel' ; On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell. And write how dear I love thee. Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay, For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, I coudna sing, I coudna say, How much, how dear, I love thee. I see thee dancing o'er the green, Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean. Thy tempting lips, thy roguish e'en — By heaven and earth I love thee ! By 293 By night, by day, a-field, at hame. The thoughts o* thee my breast inflame ; And ay I muse and sing thy name, I only live to love thee. Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, ^Till my last weary sand was run ; 'Till then — and then I love thee. 294 I LOVE MY JEAN. Tune — " Miss Admiral Gordon's Strath- spey." Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best : There wild-woods grow, and rivers row. And mony a hill between ; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair : I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air : There 's not a bonnie flower, that springs By fountain, shaw, or green. There 's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. THE 295 THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. The Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee,* Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green. But nature sicken'd on the e'e. Thro' faded groves Maria sang, Hersel in beauty's bloom the while, And ay the wild-wood echoes rang, Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle ! Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Again ye '11 flourish fresh and fair ;• Ye birdies dumb, in with 'ring bowers, Again ye 'II charm the vocal air. But * Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald Stewart, Esq. Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edin- burgh. Ballochmyle, formerly the seat of Sir John White- foord, now of Alexander, Esq. E. 296 But here, alas ! for me nae mair, Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle ! WILLIE * The Maria of this song was the eldest daughter of Sir John Whitefoord, now (1819) Mrs. Cranston; and the song was written on the occasion of that respectable family leaving Ballochmyle. G. B. 297 WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT. O, WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut. And Rob and Allan cam to see: Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night, Ye wad na find in Christendie. We are nafou, zve're nae thatfou^ JBiit just a drappie in our ee; The cock may craw, the clay may daWy And ay we 11 taste the barley bree. Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys, I trow, are we; And mony a night we 've merry been, And mony raae we hope to be! We are naJbUf Sfc. It 298 Jt is the moon, I ken her horn, That 's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; She shines sae bright to vvyle us hame. But by my sooth, she '11 wait a wee ! TVe are najou, ^c. Wha first shall rise to gang awa*, A cuckold, coward loun is he ! Wha last beside his chair shall fa', He is the king amang us three ! We are nafou, ^c * THE * Willie, who " brew'd a peck o' maut," was Mr. Wil- liam Nicol; and Rob and Allan, were our poet and his friend Allan]' Masterton. This meeting took place at'LAGGAN, a farm purchased by Mr. Nicol, in Nithsdale, on the recom- mendation of our bard. These three honest fellows — all men of uncommon talents, are now all under the turf. (1799.) E. And it may be added, that the feeling heart that dictated the above remark is itself (1809) numbered with the dead. 299 THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. I GAED a waefu' gate, yestreen, A gate, I fear, 1 11 dearly rue ; I gat my death frae twa sweet e'en, Twa lovely e'en o' bonnie blue. 'Twas not her golden ringlets bright; Her lips, like roses, wat \vi' dew, Her heaving bosom, lily-white — Jt was her e'en sae bonnie blue. She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd; She charm'd my soul I wist na how; And ay the stound, the deadly wound, Cam frae her e'en sae bonnie blue. But 300 But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; She '11 aiblins listen to my vow : Should she refuse, I '11 lay my dead To her twa e'en sae bonnie blue.* THE * The heroine of thia song was Miss J****^ of Lochmaban. This lady, now Mrs. R*****^ after residing some time in Liverpool, is settled with her husband in New- York, North America. E. 301 THE BANKS OF NITH. Tune, *' RoniE DONNA GORACH.' The Thames flows proudly to the sea, Where royal cities stately stand ; But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, Where Cummins ance had high command : When shall I see that honor'd land. That winding stream 1 love so dear ! Must wayward fortune's adverse hand For ever, ever keep me here. How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, Where spreading hawthorns gayly bloom ; How sweetly wind thy sloping dales. Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! Tho' 302 Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days ! JOHN 303 JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. JOHN Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent ; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is held, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your firosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither : Now 304 Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go ; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson ray jo* TAM * In the first volume of a collection, entitled, Poetry Ori- ginal and Selected, printed by Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, this song is given as follows : John Anderson, my Jo, Improved. By ROBERT BURNS. John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean, To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e'en. Ye'll blear out a' your e'en, John, and why should you do so? Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man; And you amang them a' John, sae trig frae tap to toe ; She prov'd to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first conceit. And ye need na think it strange, John, tho' I ca' ye trim and neat; Tho' some folk say ye're auld, John, I never think ye so, But I think ye're ay the same to me, John Anderson, my jo- John 305 TAM GLEN. My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, Some counsel unto me come len'. To anger them a' is a pity, But what will I do wi' Tam Glen? VOL. IV. X I 'm John Anderson, my jo, John, we 've seen our bairns' bairns. And yet, my deai- John Anderson, I 'in happy in your arms. And sae are ye in mine, John — I'm sure ye '11 ne'er say no, The' the days are gane that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie, To see sae many sprouts, John, spring up 'tween you and me, And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go. Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquent. Your locks were like the raven, your hounie brow was brent, Bntnoiv your head's turn'd bauld, John, your locks are like the snow. Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, viy jo. John SOS I'm thinking, \vi' sic a braw fellow, In poortith I might mak a fen' ; What care I in riches to wallow, If 1 mauna marry Tarn Glen ? There's John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year we've past, And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last: But let na' that affright us, John, our hearts were ne'er our foe, "While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, nay jo. John Anderso7i, my jo, John, tee clamb the hill theyither. And inony a canty day, John, iveve had icV ane anither ; Noic tee maun totter down, John, but hand in hand ivcll f/o ; And we'll sZeep thegitker at the foot, John Anderson, viy jo. The stanza with which this song, inserted by Messrs. Brash and Reid, begins, is the chorus of the old song under this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this improved song. In regard to the five other additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two stanzas that are unquestionably our bard's, yet every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand ; and the real author of them ought neither to have given them, nor suffered them to be given, to the world, as the production of Burns. If there were no other mark of their spurious origin, the latter half of the third line in the sfiventh stanza, our hearts were neer our foe, would be proof sufficient. Many are the instances in which our bard has adopted defective rhymes, but a single instance cannot be produced, in which, to preserve the rhyme, he has given a feeble thought in false gramiuar. These additional stanzas are 307 There '« Lowrie the laird o' Driimeller, " Guicl day to you, brute," he comes ben : He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tarn Glen ? My minnie does constantly deave me. And bids me beware o' young- men ; They flatter, she says, to deceive me. But wha can tliink sae o' Tam Glen? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten : But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him, O wha will 1 get but Tam Glen? Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing. My heart to my mou gied a sten ; For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written, Tam Glen. The last Halloween I was waukin My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; His likeness cam up the house staukin. And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! X 2 Come are not, however, without merit, and they may serve to pro- long the pleasure which eveiy person of taste must feel, from hstening to a most happy union of beautiful music, with moral sentiments that are singularly interesting. E. 308 Come counsel, clear Tittie, don't tarry ; I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly. Tarn Glen. MY 309 MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. O MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty, And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; But little thinks my luve T ken brawlie, My Tocher's the jewel has charms for him. It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; It 's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee, My laddie 's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, He can na hae luve to spare for me. Your proffer a' luve 's an airl-penny, My Tocher 's the bargain ye wad buy ; But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin, Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. Ye're 310 Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, And yell crack your credit wi' mae nor me. VHEN 311 THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THE LAWIN. Gane is the day and mirk 's the night, But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' light, For ale and brandy's stars and moon. And bluid-red wine's the rysin sun. Then guidivife count the lawin, the lawin, tht lawin. Then guidivife count the laivin, and hring a coggie mair. There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, And semple-folk maun fecht and fen' ; But here we're a' in ae accord, For ilka man that 's drunk 's a lord. 21ien guidivife county SfC. * My coggie is a haly pool, That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; And pleasure is a wanton trout. An' ye drink it a* ye'll find him out. Then guidivife county ^x. WHAT 312 WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO Wr AN AULD MAN? What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man? Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! Sad luck on the pennie, 6fc. He 's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang ; He 's doy'lt and he 's dozin, his bluid it is frozen, O, dreary 's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, I never can please him, do a' that I can ; He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fel- lows, O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! My 313 My aiild auntie Katie upon me takes pity, J'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. THE .314 THE BONNIE WEE THING. Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thmg, wert thou mine; I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look and languish Tn that bonnie face o' thine ; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine. Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, In ae constellation shine ; To adore thee is my duty. Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! Bonnie wee, ^c. • O, FOR 315 O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM! Tune — " The Moudiewort." An O, for ane and twenty. Tarn ! An hey^ sweet ane and twenty. Tarn! l^ll learn my kin a rattlin sang, Ati I saiv ane and twenty, Tarn. IHEY snool me sair, and hand me down, And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! But three short years will soon wheel roun', And then comes ane and twenty, Tam. An O, for ane, ^c. A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear. Was left me by my auntie, Tam ! At kith or kin I need na spier, An I saw ane and twenty, Tam. An Ojfor ane, (^c. They '11 3li6 They 'II hae me wed a wealthy coof, Tho' I mysel hae plenty, Tam ; But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, 1 'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! An O, for ane, 6fc. .^ BESS 317 BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. O LEEZE me on my spinning wheel, 0 leeze me on my rock and reel ; Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 1 '11 set me down, and sing and spin. While laigh descends the simmer sun, Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — O leeze me on my spinning wheel. On ilka hand the burnies trot, And meet below my theekit cot ; The scented birk and hawthorn white Across the pool their arms unite. Alike to screen the birdie's nest. And little fishes' caller rest : The sun blinks kindly in the biel'. Where, blithe, I turn my spinning wheel. On 318 On lofty aiks the cushats wail. And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; The lintwhites in the hazel braes. Delighted, rival ither's lays : The craik amang the claver hay, The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley. The swallow jinkin round my shiel. Amuse me at my spinning wheel. Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, O wha wad leave this humble state. For a' the pride of a' the great ? Amid their flaring, idle toys. Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys. Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinning wheel ? COUNTRY i1^ COUNTRY LASSIE. In simmer, when the hay was mawn, And corn wav'd green in ilka field, While claver blooms white o'er the lea, And roses blaw in ilka bield ; Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel, Says, I'll be wed, come o't what w ill ; Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild, O' guid advisement comes nae ill. Its ye hae wooers mony ahe, And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken; Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, A routhie butt, a routhie ben : There 's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen. It 's plenty beets the luver's fire. For 320 For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, I dinna care a single flie; He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, He has nae luve to spare for me : But blithe 's the blink o' Robie's e'e, And weel I wat he lo'es me dear: Ae blink o' him I wad nae gie For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. O thoughtless lassie, life 's a faught ; The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; But ay fu' han't is fechtin best, A hungry care 's an unco care : But some will spend, and some will spare, An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair. Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. O, gear will buy me rigs o' land, And gear will buy me sheep and kye; But the tender heart o' leesome luve, The gowd and siller canna buy: We may be poor — Robie and I, Light is the burden luve lays on ; Content and luve brings peace and joy. What mair hae queens upon a throne ? FAIR 321 FAIR ELIZA. A GAELIC AIR, Turn again, thou fair Eliza, Ae kind blink before we part, Rue on thy despairing lover ! Canst thou break his faithfu' heart? Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; If to love thy heart denies. For pity hide the cruel sentence Under friendship's kind disguise ! Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? The offence is loving thee : Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, Wha for thine wad gladly die ? While the life beats in my bosom, Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : Turn again, thou lovely maiden, Ae sweet smile on me bestow. VOL. IV. Y Not 322 Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o' sinny noon ; Not the little sporting fairy, All beneath the simmer moon ; Not the poet in the moment Fancy lightens on his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, That thy presence gies to me. THE 323 THE POSIE. O LUVE will venture in, where it danr na weel be seen, 0 luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been ; But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. The primrose J will pu', the firstling o' the year, And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, For she 's the pink o' womankmd, and blooms without a peer ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 1 '11 pu' the budding rose, when Phcebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou ; The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging- blue, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. - ^ Y 2 The 324 The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The hawthorn I will pu', wi'its locks o'siller grey, Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day, But the songster's nest, within the bush, I winna tak away ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The w oodbine 1 will pu' when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond-draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear ; The violet 's for modesty, which weel she fa's to wear, And a' to be a posie te my ain dear May. I '11 tie the posie round wi' the silken band o* luve, And I '11 place it in her breast, and 1 '11 swear by a' above, Thtit to my latest draught o' life, the band shall ne'er remuve, And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. I THE 325 THE BANKS O' DOON. Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o' care ? Thou 'It break my heart thou warbling' bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : Thou minds me o' departed joys. Departed, never to return ! Oft hae [ rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine ; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; And my fause luver stole my rose, But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. SIC 326 I SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. I VViLLiE Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they ca'd it Liiikumdoddie, Willie was a wabster guid, Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie ; He had a wife was dour and din, Tinkler Madgie was her mither ; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her. She has an e'e, she has but ane. The cat has twa the very colour ; Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; A whiskin beard about her niou, Her nose and chin they threaten ither; Sic a wifCy ^c. She's ^327 She's bow-hough'd, she's hem-shinn'd, Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ; She 's twisted right, she "s twisted left, To balance fair in ilka quarter : She has a hump upon her breast, The twin o' that upon her shouther ; Sic a wife, Sfc. Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, An' wi' her loof her face a washin ; Bui Willie's wife is nae sae trig, She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; Her walie nieves like midden-creels. Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water ; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her. GLOOMY 328 GLOOMY DECEMBER. i Ance niair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! Alice mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair. Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever ! Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom. Since my last hope and last comfort is gone ! Still as 1 hail thee, thou gloomy December, Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; For sad was the parting th ou makes me remember, Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair. WILT I 329 WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? Wilt thou be my dearie ? When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, O wilt thou let me cheer thee ? ]^y the treasure of my soul, And that's the love I bear thee ! I swear and vow, that only thou Shall ever be my dearie. Only thou, I swear and vow, Shall ever be my dearie. Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; Or, if thou wilt na be my ain, Say na thou'lt refuse me : If it winna, canna be, Thou, for thine, may choose me ; Let me, lassie, quickly die. Trusting that thou lo'es me. Lassie, let me quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es me. SHE'S 330 SHE'S FAIR AND PAUSE. She's fair and fause that causes my smart, I lo'ed her raeikle and lang ; She 's broken her vow, she 's broken my heart. And I may e'en gae hang. A coof cam in wi' rowth o' gear, And I hae tint my dearest dear, But woman is but warld's gear, Sae let the bonnie lass gang. Whae'er ye be that woman love, To this be never blind, Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, A woman has't by kind : O woman lovely, woman fair ! An angel form 's faun to thy share, 'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair, I mean an angel mind. AFTON 331 AJPTON WAtER. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream. Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den. Thou green crested lapwing thy screaming for- bear, I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills ; There daily I wander as noon rises high. My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in ray eye. How 332 How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, "Where wild, in the woodlands, the primroses blow : There oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides. And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ;* How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. As gathering sweet ilow'rets, she stems thy clear wave. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes. Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream. Flow gently, sweet Aston, disturb not her dream. * Afton-Water is the stream on which stands Afton- lodge : to which Mrs. Stewart removed from Stair. — Afton- lodge was Mrs. Stewart's property from her father. The song was presented to her in return for her notice, the first he ever received from any person in her rank of life. E. THE 333 BONNIE BELL. The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, And surly Winter grimly flies ; Now crystal clear are the falling waters, And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morn- ing, The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; All creatures joy in the sun's returning. And J rejoice in my Bonnie Bell. The flow'ry Spring leads sunny Summer, And yellow Autumn presses near, Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, 'Till smiling Spring again appear. Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, Old Time and Nature their changes tell, But never ranging, still unchanging, I adore my Bonnie Bell. THE 334 THE GALLANT WEAVER. Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, There lives a lad, the lad for me. He is a gallant weaver. Oh, I had wooers anght or nine, They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; And I was fear'd my heart would tine. And I gied it to the weaver. My daddie sign'd my tocher-band. To gie the lad that has the land, But to my heart I'll add my hand, And gie it to the weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; While bees delight in op'ning flowers ; While corn grows green in simmer showers, I'll love my gallant weaver * LOUIS * In some Editions sailor is substituted for weaver. 333 LOUIS WHAT RECK I BY THEE? Louis what reck I by thee, Or Geordie on his ocean ? Dyvor, beggar louns to me, I reign in Jeanie's bosom. Let her crown my love her law, And in her breast enthrone me : Kings and Emp'rors, swith awa ! Reif randies I disown ye \ FOR 336 FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. . My heart is sair, I dare na tell. My heart is sair for somebody ; 1 could wake a winter night For the sake o' somebody. Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 1 I could range the world around. For the sake o' somebody. Ye Powers, that smile on virtuous love, O, sweetly smile on somebody ! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my somebody. Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hey ! for somebody ! I wad do — what wad I not ? For the sake o' somebody ! THE 337 THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! And ay the saiit tear blins her e'e : Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, A waefu' day it was to me ; For there [ lost my father dear, My father dear, and brethren three. Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growing green to see : And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman's e'e ! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be ; For mony a heart thou hast made sair, That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. VOL. IV. z A 338 A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. Twie — " FiNLAYSTON HousE." Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, And pierc'd my darling's heart: And with him all the joys are fled Life can to me impart. By cruel hands the sapling drops, In dust dishonor'd laid : So fell the pride of all my hopes. My age's future shade. The mother-linnet in the brake Bewails her ravish'd young ; So I, for my lost darling's sake, Lament the live-day long. Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, Now, fond I bare my breast, O, do thou kindly lay me low With him I love, at rest ! O MAY, 339 O MAY, THY MORN. O May, tliy morn was ne'er sae sweet, As the mirk night o' December ; For sparkling was the rosy wine, And private was the chamber : And dear was she J dare na name, But I will ay remember. And dear, <Sfc. And here 's to them, that, like oiirsel. Can push about the jorum ; And here's to them that wish us weel. May a' that 's guid watch o'er them I And here's to them, we dare na tell, The dearest o' the quorum. Atid here 's to, ^c. z 2 O WAT 340 O, WAT Y£ WHA S IN YON TOWN ? O, WAT ye wha 's in yon town, Ye see the e'enin sun upon? The fairest dame 's in yon town, That e'enin sun is shining on. Now haply down yon gay green shaw. She wanders by yon spreading tree : How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! How blest ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year, And doubly welcome be the spring, The season to my Lucy dear. i The 341 The sun blinks blithe on yon town, And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr; But my delight in yon town, And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. Without my love, not a' the charms O' Paradise could yield me joy ; But gie me Lucy in my arms, And welcome Lapland's dreary sky ! My cave wad be a lover's bower, Tho' raging winter rent the air; And she a lovely little flower, That I wad tent and shelter there. 0 sweet is she in yon town. Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon; A fairer than 's in yon town. His setting beam ne'er shone upon. If angry fate is sworn my foe, And suffering 1 am doom'd to bear; 1 careless quit auglit else below, But spare me, spare me Lucy dear ! For 342 For while life's dearest blood is warm, Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, And she — as fairest is her form ! She has the truest, kindest heart!* A RED * The heroine of this song, Mrs. O. (formerly Miss L. J.) died lately at Lisbon, This most accomplished and most lovely woman, was worthy of this beautiful strain of sensibility, which will convey some impression of her attractions to other generations. The song is written in the character of her hus- band, as the reader will have observed by our bard's letter to Mr, Syme, inclosing this song, in Vol. ii. (1799.) E. 343 A RED, RED ROSE. Oj MY luve's like a red, red rose, That 's newly sprung in June : O, my luve 's like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I : And I will luve thee still, my dear, 'Till a' the seas gang dry. 'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun : I will luve thee still, my dear. While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve ! And fare thee weel, a-while ! And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. JOHN 344 JOHN BARLEYCORN,* A BALLAD. I. There was three kings into the east. Three kings both great and high, An' they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. II. They took a plough and plough'd him down. Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath, John Barleycorn was dead. III. But * This is partly composed on the plan cf an old song known by the same name. I 345 III. But the cheerful spring came kindly on. And show'rs began to fall ; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all, IV. The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong, His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears. That no one should him wrong. V. The sober autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale ; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail. VI. His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age ; And then his enemies began To shew their deadly rage. VII. TheyVe 346 VII. They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, And cut bim by the knee ; Then ty'd bim fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie. VIII. They laid bim down upon his back, And cudgeird bim full sore ; They bung him up before the storm. And turu'd bim o'er and o'er. IX. They fdled up a darksome pit, With water to the brim, They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim. X. They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe ; And still, as signs of life appear'd. They toss'd him to and fro. XI. They I 347 XL They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones ; But a miller us'd him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones. XII. And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round ; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound. XIII. John Barleycorn was a hero bold. Of noble enterprise ; For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise. XIV. 'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 'Twill heighten all his joy ; 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye. XV. Then 348 XV. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand ; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! A FRAGMENT 349 FRAGMENT. Tune " GiLLICRANKIE." I. When Guilford good our pilot stood, And did our hellim thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea. Within America, man : Then up they gat the maskin-pat, And in the sea did jaw, man ; An' did nae less, in full congress, Than quite refuse our law, man. II. 360 II. Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, I wat he was na slaw, man ; Down JLowries hum he took a turn, And Carleton did ca', man : But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, Montgomery-like did fa', man, Wi' sword in hand, before his band, Amang his en'mies a', man. III. Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage. Was kept at Hoston ha\ man ; 'Till Willie Hoive took o'er the knowe For PJiiladelphia, man ; Wi' sword an' gan he thought a sin Guid christian blood to draw, man ; But at New-York, wi' knife an' fork, Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. IV. Hargoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 'Till Fraser brave did fa', man ; Then lost his way, ae misty day. In Saratoga shaw, man. Corniuallis 351 Cornwallis fought as lang 's he dought, An' did the buckskins claw, man ; But Clintons glaive frae rust to save, He hung it to the wa', man. V. Then Montague, an' Guilford too, Began to fear a fa', man ; And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure, The German chief to thraw^, man : For Paddy Burke, like onie Turk, Nae mercy had at a', man ; An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. VI. Then Rockingham took up the game ; Till death did on him ca', man ; When Shelhurne meek held up his cheek, Conform to gospel law, man : Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, They did his measures thraw, man, For North an' Fox united stocks. An' bore him to the wa', man. VII. 352 vri. Then clubs an' hearts were Charlies cartes, He swept the stakes awa\ man, 'Till the diamond's ace, of Itidian race, Led him a sairjaux pas, man : The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, On Chathanis hoy did ca', man : An' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, * Up, Willie, waur them a', man !' VIII. Behind the throne then Grenville 's gone, A secret word or twa, man ; While slee Dundas arous'd the class Be-north the Roman wa,' man : An' Chatham'^ wraith, in heavenly graith, (Inspired bardies saw, man) Wi' kindling eyes cried, ' Willie, rise! * Would I hae fear'd them a', man !' IX. But word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co. Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man, 'Till Suihron raise, and coost their claise Behind him in a raw, man, An' 353 An' Caledon threw by the drone, An' did her whittle draw, man : An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood To make it guid in law, man. VOL. IV. 2 A SONG. 364 SONG. Tioie — " Corn rigs are bonnie." Jt was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonnie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 1 held awa to Annie : The time flew by \vi' tentless heed, 'Till 'tween the late and early ; Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed. To see me thro' the barley. II. The sky was blue, the wind was still, The moon was shining clearly ; I set her down, wi' right good will, Amang the rigs o' barley : I Iken't^ I I ken't her heart was a' iny ain ; I lov'd her most sincerely ; I kiss'd her owre and owre again, Amang the rigs o' barley. HI. I lock'd her in my fond embrace ! Her heart was beating rarely: My blessings on that happy place, Amang the rigs o' barley ! But by the moon and stars so bright, That shone that hour so clearly ! She ay shall bless that happy night, Amang the rigs o' barley. IV. I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear ; I hae been merry drinkin ; I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear ; I hae been happy thinkin : But a' the pleasures e'er T saw, Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, That happy night was worth them a', Amang the rigs o' barley. 2 A 2 CHORUS. 366 CHORUS. Corn rigs, an* harley rigs^ An' corn rigs are bonnie : Til ne' er forget that happy night, Amang the rigs wV Annie. SONG, 357 SONG, COMPOSED IN AUGUST. Tune — " I HAD A HORSE, 1 HAD NAE MAIR.' I. Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, Amang the blooming heather : Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, Delights the weary farmer ; And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night. To muse upon my charmer. JJ. The 358 IT. The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; The plover loves the mountains ; The woodcock haunts the lonely dells; The soEft'ing hern the fountains : Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves The path of man to shun it ; The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, The spreading thorn the linnet. III. Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, The savage and the tender ; Some social join, and leagues combine ; Some solitary wander : Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man's dominion ; The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry. The fluttring, gory pinion ! IV. But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning 's clear. Thick flies the skimming swallow ; The sky is blue, the fields in view, All fading-green and yellow : Come, 359 Come, let us stray our gladsome way. And view the charms of nature ; The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, And every happy creature. V. We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 'Till the silent moon shine clearly ; I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest. Swear how I love thee dearly : Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, Not autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thou to me. My fair, my lovely charmer ! b SOx\G. 360 SONG. Tune—'' My Nannie, O." I. Behind yon hills, where Liigar* flows, 'Mang' Kioors an' mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has clos'd. And I'll awa to Nannie, O. II. The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ; The night 's baith mirk and rainy, O ; But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, An' owre the hills to Nannie, O. III. Mv Originally, Stinchar. 361 III. My Nannie 's charming, sweet, an' young Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O ; May ill befa' the flattering tongue, That wad beguile my Nannie, O. IV. Her face is fair, her heart is true, As spotless as she's bonnie, O : The opening gowan, wet wi' dew, Nae purer is than Nannie, O. V. A country lad is my degree, An' few there be that ken me, O ; But what care I how few they be ? I 'm welcome ay to Nannie, O. VI. My riches a's my penny-fee. An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. VJI. Our 362 VII. Our auld Guidraan delights to view His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; But I 'm as blithe that bauds his pleugh^ An' has nae care but Naunie, O. VIII. Come weel, come woe, I care na by, I '11 tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O ; Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an' love my Nannie, 0» GREEN 363 GREEN GROW THE RASHES. A FRAGMENT. CHORUS. Green grow the rashes, O ! Green grow the rashes, O ! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend. Are spent amang the lasses, O There 's nought but care on ev'ry han', In every hour that passes, O : What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. Green grow, SfC. II. The 364 II. The warly race may riches chase. An' riches still may fly them, O ; An' tho' at last they catch them fast. Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. Green grow y SfC. III. But gie me a canny hour at e'en, My arms about my dearie, O ; An' warly cares, an' warly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! Green grow y Sfc. IV. For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, Ye 're nought but senseless asses, O : The wisest man the warl* saw, He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. Green grow, 6fc. V. Auld 365 V. Auld JVature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O : Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man, An' then she made the lasses, O. Green grow t ^c. TP ^W ^*r T(P SONG. 366 SONG. I. Again rejoicing nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in naorning dews. n. In vain to me the cowslips blaw, In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; In vain to me, in glen or shaw, The mavis and the lint white sing. III. The merry ploughboy cheers his team, Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, But life to me *s a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks. IV. The 367 IV. The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims, And every thing is blest but I. V. The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorlands whistles shill, Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 1 meet him on the dewy hill. VI. And when the lark, 'tween light and dark. Blithe waukens by the daisy's side, And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. VII. Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, And raging bend the naked tree : Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul, When nature all is sad like me ! SONG. 368 SONG. Tune — *' RosLiN Castle/ I. The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, Loud roars tlie wild inconstant blast, Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain ; The hunter now has left the moor. The scatter'd coveys meet secure, While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 11. The 369 II. The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn, By early Winter's ravage torn ; Across her placid, azure sky. She sees the scowling tempest fly : Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, I think upon the stormy wave. Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. III. 'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear. The wretched have no more to fear ! But round my heart the ties are bound. That heart transpierc'd with many a wound ; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. IV. Farewell, old Coilas hills and dales. Her heathy moors and winding vales ; The scenes where wretched fancy roves. Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! VOL. IV. 2 B Farewell, 370 Farewell, my friends ! Farewell, my foes ! My peace with these, my love with those — The bursting tears my heart declare, Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr. SONG 371 SONG. Tune — " GiLDEROY." I. From thee, Eliza, ] must go. And from my native shore ; The cruel fates between us throw A boundless ocean's roar : But boundless oceans, roaring wide, Between my love and me, They never, never can divide My heart and soul from thee ! 2 B 2 II. Farewell, 372 II. Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, The maid that I adore ! A boding voice is in mine ear, We part to meet no more ! But the latest throb that leaves my heart, While death stands victor by. That throb, Eliza, is thy part, And thine that latest sigh ! THE 373 THE FAREWELL, TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, TARBOLTON. Tune — " Good-night and Joy be wi' you a' !" L Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! Ye favour'd, ye enlighteiid few. Companions of my social joy ! Tho' 374 Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', With melting heart, and brimful eye, ril mind you still, tho' far awa'. II. Oft have I met your social band, And spent the cheerful, festive night ; Oft, honor'd with supreme command, Presided o'er the so7is of light : And by that hieroglyphic bright, Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write Those happy scenes when far awa'. III. May freedom, harmony, and love, Unite you in the grand design, Beneath th' omniscient eye above, The glorious architect divine ! That you may keep tli' unerring line. Still rising by the phwimefs laiv. Till order bright completely shine. Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. IV. 375 IV And you farewell ! whose merits claiin, Justly, that highest badge to wear! Heav'ii bless your honor'd, noble name, To Masonry and Scotia dear ! A last request permit me here, When yearly ye assemble a*. One round, I ask it with a tear, To him, the Bard that 'sfar awaJ SONG. 376 SONG. Tune — " Prepare, my dear Brethren, to THE Tavern let 's fly. I. No churchman am 1 for to rail and to write. No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, No sly man of business contriving a snare. For a big-belly'd bottle 's the whole of my care. IT. The peer 1 don't envy, I give him his bow ; I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; But a club of good fellows, like those that are here. And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. Here 377 III. Here passes the squire on his brother — his hoi'se ; There centum per centum, the cit with his purse ; But see you the croivn how it waves in the air, There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. IV. The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; For sweet consolation to church I did tly ; I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That abig-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. V. I once was persuaded a venture to make ; A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. VJ. *' Life's cares they are comforts"* — a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye call him ? that wore the black gown ; And faith, 1 agree with th' old prig to a hair ; For a big-belly'd bottle 's a heav'n of care. A Stanza * Young's ]N ight Thoughts. 378 A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow, And honors masonic prepare for to throw ; May every true brother of the compass and square Have a big-belly*d bottle when harass'd with care. SONG. 179 SONG. Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, And waste my soul with care ; But, ah ! how bootless to admire, When fated to despair! Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair, To hope may be forgiv'n ; For sure 'twere impious to despair, So much in sight of Heav'n. THE 380 THE WHISTLE, A BALLAD. As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious, I shall here give it. In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman, of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle, which, at the commencement of the orgies, he laid on the table ; and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of vic- tory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, with- out a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stock- holm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany ; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name ; who, after three days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table. And blew on the Whistle his Requiem shrill. Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, after- wards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenriddel, who had 381 had married a sister of Sir Walter's. — On Friday, the 16tU of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton ; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert ; which last gen- tleman carried off the hard-won honors of the field. 1 SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, I Bing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king. And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— "This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er, " And drink them to hell, Sir ! or ne'er see me more!" Old S«c Ossian's Caric-thura. 382 Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ; The son of great Loda was conqueror still. And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 'Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd ; Which now in his house has for ages remain'd ; 'Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, The jovial contest again have renew'd. Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw ; Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law; And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old ^vines. Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; Or else he would muster the heads of the clan. And once more, in claret, try which was the man. "By 383 * ' By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddel replies, " Before I surrender so glorious a prize, " I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,* " And bumper his horn with him twenty times Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pre- tend. But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his friend. Said, Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field. And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. To the board of Glenriddel our heroes re- pair, So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; But for wine, and for welcome not more known to fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame. A bard was selected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day ; A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. The * See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. 384 The dinner being over, the claret they ply, And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy ; In the bands of old friendship, and kindred so set, And the bands grew the tighter, the more they were wet. Gay pleasure ran riot, as bumpers ran o'er ; Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core. And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 'Till Cynthia hinted he 'd see them next morn. Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night. When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red. And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! He left the foul business to folks less divine. The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- tend? Though fate said — a hero should perish in light ; So uprose bright Phcebus — and down fell the knight Next 385 Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink : " Craigdarroch, thou 'It soar when creation shall sink! " But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, " Come — one bottle more — and have at the sub- lime ! '* Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, " Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : " So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; " The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!" VOL. IV. 2 c CALEDONIA. 386 CALEDONIA. Time — " Caledonian Hunt's Delight.' There was once a day, but old Time then was young, That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern deities sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia 's divine?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain. To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it sood. ©' A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war ; The pride of her kindred, the heroine grew : Hergrandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, — " Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter shall rue !" With 387 With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn ; But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. Long quiet she reigned ; 'till thitherward steers A flight of hold eagles from Adria's strand :"* Repeated, successive, for many long years, They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land : Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, They' d conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ; She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, The daring invaders they fled or they died. The fell Harpy-Raven took wing from the north. The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ; "j" The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore : J 2 c 2 O'er * The Roruaiis. f The Saxons. I The Danes. 388 O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, No arts could appease them, no arms could repel ; But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.* The Canieleon-savage disturb'd her repose, With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife; Provok'd beyond bearing, at last s,he arose, And robb'd him at once. of his hopes and his life:t The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood; But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance. He learned to fear in his own native wood. Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd^ and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : Rectangle- * IVo famous battles in which the Danes or Norwegians were defeated. E. i The Picts. 389 Rectangle-triangle, the figure we '11 choose, The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; Then ergo, she '11 match them, and match them always !* SONG. * This singular figure of poetry, taken from the mathe- matics, refers to the famous proposition of Pythagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a right-angled triangle, the square of the hypothenuse is always equal to the squares of the two other sides. E. 590 SONG. Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair,* Shall ever be my muse's care ; Their titles a' are empty show; Gie me my Highland Lassie, O. Within the glen sae bushy, O, Aboon the plain sae rushy, O, I set me down wi right good will. To sing my Highland Lassie ^ O. 0 were yon hills and valleys mine, Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! The world then the love should know 1 bear my Highland lassie, O. Within the glen, ^c. But * Gentle is used here in opposition to simple, in the Scot- tish and old English sense of the word. !Nae gentle dames — No high-blooded dames. E. 391 But fickle fortune frowns on me, And I maun cross the raging sea; But while my crimson currents flow, I '11 love my Highland Lassie, O. Within the glen, Sfc. Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 1 know her heart will never change, For her bosom burns with honour's glow, My faithful Highland Lassie, O. Within the glen, SfC. For her I '11 dare the billows' roar, For her I '11 trace a distant shore. That Indian wealth may lustre throw. Around my Highland Lassie, O. Within the glen, 6fc. She has my heart, she has my hand. By sacred truth and honor's band ! 'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, I 'm thine, my Highland Lassie, O. Farewell 392 Farewell the glen sae hus/iy, O ! Tareivell the "plain sae rush?/, O f To other lands I noiv must go, To sing my Highland Lassie, O !* ADDRESS * This is an early production, and seems to have been written on Highland Mary. E. 393 ADDRESS TO A LADY. Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; My plaidie to the angry airt, I 'd shelter thee, I 'd shelter thee : Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to rtiign ; The brightest jewel in my crown, Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. THE 3.04 THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. I Tune — *' Push about the Jorum." Aiprily 1795. Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? Then let the loons beware, Sir, There 's wooden walls upon our seas, And volunteers on shore, Sir. The Nith shall run to Corsincon,* And Criffel sink in Solway,t Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally ! Fall de rail, Sfc. O let us not like snarling tykes Jn wrangling be divided ; Till slap come in an unco loon And wi' a rung decide it. Be * A high hill at the source of the Nith. t A well-known mountain at the mouth of the same river. 395 Be Britain still to Britain true, Amang oursels united ; For never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted. Fall de rally Sfc. The kettle o' the kirk and state, Perhaps a claut may fail in 't ; But deil a foreign tinkler loun Shall ever ca' a nail in 't. Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, And wha wad dare to spoil it ; By heaven, the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it. Fall de rail, <J'c. The wretch that wad a tyrant own, And the wretch his true-born brother, Who would set the mob aboon the throne. May they be damned together ! Who will not sing, " God save the King," Shall hang as high's the steeple; But while we sing, " God save the King," We'll ne'er forget the people. Fall de rail, SfC. 396 SONG. Tune—'' MoRAG." O WHA is she that lo'es me, And has my heart a keeping ? O sweet is she that lo'es me, As clews o' simmer weeping. In tears the rose-buds steeping. CHORUS. O that '5 the lassie o my heart. My lassie ever dearer, O that '5 the queen o' woman kind, And ne'er a ane to peer her. If thou shalt meet a lassie, In grace and beauty charming, That e'en thy chosen lassie, Ere while thy breast sae warming, Had ne'er sic powers alarming. O that's, SfC. If 397 If thou hadst heard her talkmg, And thy attentions plighted, That ilka body talking, But her by thee is slighted ; And thou art all delighted. O that's, 6fc. If thou hast met this fair one; When frae her thou hast parted, If every other fair one But her, thou hast deserted. And thou art broken-hearted. O that's, Sfc. O that 's the lassie o' my heart, My lassie ever dearer, O that 's the queen o' ivoman kind. And ne'er a ane to peer her. SONG 398 SONG. Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, O'er the mountains he is gane ; And with him is a' my bliss, Nought but griefs with me remain. Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, Plashy sleets and beating rain ! Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, Drifting o'er the frozen plain. When the shades of evening creep O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, Sound and safely may he sleep, Sweetly blithe his waukening be! He will think on her he loves, Fondly he *11 repeat her name ; For where'er he distant roves. Jockey's heart is still at hame SONG. 399 SONG. My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, The frost of hermit age might warm ; My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, Might charm the first of human kind. I love my Peggy's angel air, Here face so truly, heavenly fair. Her native grace so void of art, But I adore my Peggy's heart. The lily's hue, the rose's dye. The kindling lustre of an eye ; Who but ovs^ns their magic sway, Who but knows they all decay ! The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The generous purpose, nobly dear. The gentle look, that rage disarms. These are all immortal charms. Written 400 Writteri in a Wrapper enclosing a Letter to Capt. Grose, to be left ivith Mr. Cardonnel^ Antiquarian. Tmie — " Sir John Malcolm." Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose? Igo, ^ ago. If he 's amang his friends or foes ? Iram, coram, dago. Is he South, or is he North ? Igo, (Sf^ ago. Or drowned in the river Forth ? Irani, coram, dago. Is he slain by Highland bodies ? Igo, ^ ago. And eaten like a weather-haggis ? Iram, coram, dago. Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? Igo, 6f- ago. Or haudin Sarah by the wame ? Iram, coram, dago. Where'er 401 Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! Igo, Sf ago. As for the deil, he daur na steer him. Irani, coram, dago. But please transmit th' inclosed letter, Igo, ^ ago. Which will oblige your humble debtor. Iram, coram, dago. So may ye hae auld stanes in store, Igo, ^ ago. The very stanes that Adam bore. Iram, coram, dago. So may ye get in glad possession, Igo, Sfago. The coins o* Satan's coronation ! Iram, coram, dago. VOL. IV. 2 D FAREWELL 402 THE FETE CHAMPETRE* Tune — *' GiLLICRANKIE." I. O WHA will to Saint Stephen's house, To do our errands there, man ? O wha will to Saint Stephen's house, O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man? Or * The occasion of this ballad was as follows. When Mr. Cunninghame of Enterkin, came to his estate, two Mansion- Houses on it, Enterkin and Anbank, were both in a ruinous state. Wishing to introduce himself with some eclat to the country, he got temporary erections made on the banks of Ayr, tastefully decorated with shrubs and flowers, for a supper and ball, to which most of the respectable families in the county were invited. It was a novelty in the county, and attracted much notice. A dissolution of parliament was soon expected, and this festivity was thought to be an in- troduction to a canvas for representing the county. Several other candidates were spoken of, particularly Sir John Whiteford, then residing at Cloncaird, commonly pronounced ^leucaird, and Mr. Boswell, the well known biographer of Dr. Johnson. The political views of this festive assemblage, which are alluded to in the ballad, if they ever existed, were however laid aside, as Mr. C. did not canvass the county. 403 Or will we send a man-o'-law ? Or will we send a sodger? Or him wha led o'er Scotland a' The meikle Ursa-Major?* II. Come, will ye court a noble lord, Or buy a score o' lairds, man ? For worth and honor pawn their word, Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man ? Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, Anither gies them clatter ; Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste, He gies a Fete Champetre. III. When Love and Beauty heard the news. The gay green-woods amang, man ; Where gathering flowers and busking bowers, They heard the blackbird's sang, man ; 2 D 2 A vow * This alludes to an anecdote told of Lord Auchinleck, the father of Mr. Boswell. It was said, that after Dr. Johnson retired, on the first evening of his arrival at Auchin- leck-House, Mr. Boswell, with his characteristic enthu- siasm, asked his father, " Well, what docs your Lordship think of the Doctor? — Is he not a great luminary, quite a constellation ?" — The venerable Judge humorously replied , " If he is a constellation, Jamie, 1 think he must be the Ursa-Major." 404 A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss Sir PoUticks to fetter, As their's, alone, the patent-bliss, To hold a Fete Champetre. V IV. Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing, O'er hill and dale she flev\', man ; Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring, Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man : She sumraon'd every social sprite. That sports by wood or water, On th' bony banks of Ayr to meet, And keep this Fete Champetre. V. Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew, Were bound to stakes like kye, man ; And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu', Clamb up the starry sky, man : Reflected beams dwell in the streams, Or down the current shatter ; The western breeze steals thro' the trees, To view this Fete Champetre. VI. How many a robe sae gayly floats ! What sparkling jewels glance, man ! To Harmony's enchanting notes. As moves the mazy dance, man. The 405 The echoing wood, the winding flood, Like Paradise did glitter. When Angels met, at Adam's yett, To hold their Fete Champetre. Vll. When Politics came there, to mix And make his ether-stane, man ! He circled round the magic ground, But entrance found he nane, man : He blushed for shame, he quat his name, Foreswore it, every letter, Wi' humble prayer to join and share This festive Fete Champetre. FAREWELL 406 FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE* Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, Scenes that former thoughts renew, Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. Now a sad and last adieu ! Bonny DooN, sae sweet at gloamin, Fare thee weel before I gang ! Bonny Doon, whare, early roaming, First I weav'd the rustic sang ! Bowers, adieu, whare Love, decoying, First inthrall'd this heart o' mine, There the saftest sweets enjoying, — Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tyne ! Friends, This song is not Burns's. It was composed by Richard, printer, in Edinburgh ; and appears among his poems published since his death, two or three years ago. G. B. 407 Friends, so near my bosom ever. Ye hae render'd moments dear : But alas ! when forc'd to sever. Then the stroke, O how severe! Friends ! that parting tear reserve it, Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me ! Could I think I did deserve it, How much happier would I be ! Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, Scenes that former thoughts renew, Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, Now a sad and last adieu I ON 408 ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train;* Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallow'd, well,f Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred Fane.J Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. The * The King's Park, at^HoIyrood-house. t St. Anthony's Well. St. Anthony's Chapel. 409 The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast. And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe. The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd. That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar. And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world. " My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; " Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save. Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride ! A weeping country joins a widow's tear. The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; The drooping arts surround their patron's bier. And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh.— I saw 410 I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow ; But ah how hope is born but to expire I Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. — My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name ! No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame And I will join a mother's tender cares, Thro' future times to make his virtues last; That distant years may boast of other Blairs" — - She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. 411 ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR,* Between the Duke of Ar gyle and the Earl of Mar. O CAM ye here the fight to shun, Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, And did the battle see, man?" I saw the battle, sair and tough. And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh, My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough, To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, , Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. The red-coat lads wi' black cockades To meet them were na slaw, man ; They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd. And mony a bouk did fa', man : The * This poem, I am pretty well convinced, is not my Bro- ther's, but more ancient than his birth. G. B. 412 The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glanced twenty miles : They hack'd and hash'd, while broad swords clash'd. And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd, and smash'd, 'Till fey men died awa, man. But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man ; When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs And covenant true blues, man ; In lines extended lang and large, When bayonets opposed the targe, And thousands hasten'd to the charge, Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath Drew blades o' death, 'till, out o' breath. They fled like frighted doos, man. " O how deil Tarn can that be true ? The chase gaed, frae the north, man ; I saw myself, they did pursue The horsemen back to Forth, man ; And at Dunblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a* their might, And straught to Stii'ling winged their flight ; But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; And mony a huntit, poor red-coat, For fear amaist did swarf, man !" My 413 My sister Kate cam up the gate Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; She swore she saw some rebels run Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : Their left-hand general had nae skill, The Angus lads had nae good will That day their neebors' blood to spill ; For fear, by foes, that they should lose Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, And so it goes you see, man. They 've lost some gallant gentlemen, Amang the Highland clans, man ; I fear my Lord Panmure is slain. Or fallen in whiggish hands, man : Now wad ye sing this double fight, Some fell for wrang, and some for right; But mony bade the world guid-night ; Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, By red claymores, and muskets' knell, Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, And whigs to hell did flee, man. 415 GLOSSARY. A. A.BEIGH, at a shy distance. Airl-penny, earnest-money. Asklent, asquint, aslant. Athort, athwart. Auld lang syne, olden time, days of other years. B. JBaUDRANS, a cat. Buivk, a piece of unploughed land anioug corn. Beld, bald. Ben, into the spence, or parlour. But and btn, the country kitchen and parlour. Bield, bhelter. Bien, wealthy, plentiful. Birk, birch. Birkie, a clever fellow, a forward conceited fellow. Birken-shaw, Birchen-wood-shaw, a »mall wood. Bleerl and blin, bleered and blind. Bleerit, bleared, sore with rheum. Bluntie, snivelling. Bock, vomiting, gushing out. Bogles, spirits, hobgobHns. Breckan, fern. Brent, smooth. Bughtin-time, the time of collect- ing the sheep in the pens to be milked. Bught, a pen. Burn, or burnie, a water, a ri- vulet. Buskie, bushy. Busks, dresses. Buss, shelter. Byre, a cow-house, a shippen. CALLAN, 416 GLOSSARY. C. C ALLAN, a boy. Valler, fresb, sound, refreshing. Canie, gentle, mild, dexterous, Cantie, cheerful, merry. Cesses, taxes. Chiel, a young fellow. Claut, to clean, to scrape. Clovers, idle stories. deeds, clothes. Cluds, clouds. Cockernony, a lock of hair tied up on a girl's head, a cap. Ccft, bought. Cog, a wooden dish. Coggie, dimin. of cog. Collieshangie, quarrels. Coqf, a blockhead, a ninny. Const, did cast. Couthie, kind, loving. Craik, name of a bird. Crouse, cheerfully, courageous. Crowdie, a dish made of oatmeal. Cushats, doves, or wood-pigeous. Cutty, short. D. Daft, merry, giddy, foolish. Daroc, David. Dights, cleans. Dool, sorrow; to sing dool, to lament, to mourn. Doos, doves. Doup, backside. Doup-skelper, one that strikes the tail. Dour and din, sullen, sallow. Douser, prndenter. Dowff, pithless, wanting force. Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue. Doylt, stupid. Vrone, part of a bagpipe. Droukit, wet. Drauniing, drawling. Drumlie, muddy. Duds, rags, clothes. Dunted, boxt. jE^EiiJE, dreading spirits, fright- ed. Eild, old age. F. f Fa\