You have been
misinformed
as to my final dismission from the Excise; I
am still in the service.
am still in the service.
Robert Burns-
[Burns in these careless words makes us acquainted with one of his
sweetest songs. ]
_20th March, 1793. _
MY DEAR SIR,
The song prefixed ["Mary Morison"[207]] is one of my 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 I feel it so in my
stinted powers) to be always original, entertaining, and witty.
What is become of the list, &c. , of your songs? I shall be out of all
temper with you, by and bye. I have always looked on myself as the
prince of indolent correspondence, and valued myself accordingly; and
I will not, cannot, bear rivalship from you, nor anybody else.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 207: Song CLXXXVIII. ]
* * * * *
CCXLIX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[For the "Wandering Willie" of this communication Thomson offered
several corrections. ]
_March, 1793. _
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Now tired with wandering, haud 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 parting;
It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e;
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.
Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers!
Oh how your wild horrors a lover alarms!
Awaken, ye breezes! blow gently, ye billows!
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nannie,
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!
I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine whether the above, or the
old "Thro' the lang muir I have followed my Willie," be the best.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCL.
TO MISS BENSON.
[Miss Benson, when this letter was written, was on a visit to
Arbigland, the beautiful seat of Captain Craik; she is now Mrs. Basil
Montagu. ]
_Dumfries, 21st March, 1793. _
MADAM,
Among many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old fellows
before the flood, is this in particular, that when they met with
anybody after their own heart, they had a charming long prospect of
many, many happy meetings with them in after-life.
Now in this short, stormy, winter day of our fleeting existence, when
you now and then, in the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individual
whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there are all the
probabilities against you, that you shall never meet with that valued
character more. On the other hand, brief as this miserable being is,
it is none of the least of the miseries belonging to it, that if there
is any miscreant whom you hate, or creature whom you despise, the
ill-run of the chances shall be so against you, that in the
overtakings, turnings, and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky
corner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, and will not allow your
indignation or contempt a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer
in the powers of darkness, I take these to be the doings of that old
author of mischief, the devil. It is well-known that he has some kind
of short-hand way of taking down our thoughts, and I make no doubt he
is perfectly acquainted with my sentiments respecting Miss Benson: how
much I admired her abilities and valued her worth, and how very
fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. For this last reason,
my dear Madam, I must entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of
meeting with you again.
Miss Hamilton tells me that she is sending a packet to you, and I beg
leave to send you the enclosed sonnet, though, to tell you the real
truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may have the opportunity
of declaring with how much respectful esteem I have the honour to be,
&c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLI.
TO PATRICK MILLER, ESQ. ,
OF DALSWINTON.
[The time to which Burns alludes was the period of his occupation of
Ellisland. ]
_Dumfries, April, 1793. _
SIR,
My poems having just come out in another edition, will you do me the
honour to accept of a copy? A mark of my gratitude to you, as a
gentleman to whose goodness I have been much indebted; of my respect
for you, as a patriot who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the
champion of the liberties of my country; and of my veneration for you,
as a man, whose benevolence of heart does honour to human nature.
There _was_ a time, Sir, when I was your dependent: this language
_then_ would have been like the vile incense of flattery--I could not
have used it. Now that connexion is at an end, do me the honour to
accept this _honest_ tribute of respect from, Sir,
Your much indebted humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[This review of our Scottish lyrics is well worth the attention of all
who write songs, read songs, or sing songs. ]
_7th April, 1793. _
Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine how much
this business of composing for your publication has added to my
enjoyments. What with my early attachment to ballads, your book, &c. ,
ballad-making is now as completely my hobby-horse as ever
fortification was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter it away till I
come to the limit of my race--God grant that I may take the right side
of the winning post! --and then cheerfully looking back on the honest
folks with whom I have been happy, I shall say or sing, "Sae merry as
we a' hae been! " and, raising my last looks to the whole human race,
the last words of the voice of "Coila"[208] shall be, "Good night, and
joy be wi' you a'! " So much for my last words: now for a few present
remarks, as they have occurred at random, on looking over your list.
The first lines of "The last time I came o'er the moor," and several
other lines in it, are beautiful; but, in my opinion--pardon me,
revered shade of Ramsay! --the song is unworthy of the divine air. I
shall try to make or mend.
"For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove,"[209] is a charming song; but "Logan
burn and Logan braes" is sweetly susceptible of rural imagery; I'll
try that likewise, and, if I succeed, the other song may class among
the English ones. I remember the two last lines of a verse in some of
the old songs of "Logan Water" (for I know a good many different ones)
which I think pretty:--
"Now my dear lad maun faces his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. "[210]
"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 thrash a few loose sentiments out of it, I will submit
it to your consideration. "The lass o' Patie's mill" is one of
Ramsay's best songs; but there is one loose sentiment in it, which my
much-valued friend Mr. Erskine will take into his critical
consideration. In Sir John Sinclair's statistical volumes, are two
claims--one, I think from Aberdeenshire, and the other from
Ayrshire--for the honour of this song. The following anecdote, which I
had from the present Sir William Cunningham of Robertland, who had it
of the late John, Earl of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, believe:
Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon-castle with the then Earl, father
to Earl John; and one forenoon, riding or walking, out together, his
lordship and Allan passed a sweet romantic spot on Irvine water, still
called "Patie's mill," where a bonnie lass was "tedding hay,
bare-headed on the green. " My lord observed to Allan, that it would be
a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and, lingering behind,
he composed the first sketch of it, which he produced at dinner.
"One day I heard Mary say,"[211] is a fine song; but, for consistency's
sake, alter the name "Adonis. " Were there ever such banns published,
as a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary! I agree with you
that my song, "There's nought but care on every hand," is much
superior to "Poortith cauld. " The original song, "The mill, mill,
O! "[212] though excellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible;
still I like the title, and think a Scottish song would suit the notes
best; and let your chosen song, which is very pretty, follow as an
English set. "The Banks of the Dee" is, you know, literally
"Langolee," to slow time. The song is well enough, but has some false
imagery in it: for instance,
"And sweetly the nightingale sang from the tree. "
In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never
from a tree; and in the second place, there never was a nightingale
seen or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other
river in Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is always comparatively
flat. [213] 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. [214] "John Anderson, my jo"--the song to this tune in Johnson's
Museum, is my composition, and I think it not my worst:[215] if it suit
you, take it, and welcome. Your collection of sentimental and pathetic
songs, is, in my opinion, very complete; but not so your comic ones.
Where are "Tullochgorum," "Lumps o' puddin," "Tibbie Fowler," and
several others, which, in my humble judgment, are well worthy of
preservation? There is also one sentimental song of mine in the
Museum, which never was known out of the immediate neighbourhood,
until I got it taken down from a country girl's singing. It is called
"Craigieburn wood," and, in the opinion of Mr. Clarke, is one of the
sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about it; and I
would take his taste in Scottish music against the taste of most
connoisseurs.
You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, though
they are certainly Irish. "Shepherds, I have lost my love! " is to me a
heavenly air--what would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it?
I have made one to it a good while ago, which I think * * *, but in
its original state it is not quite a lady's song. I enclose an
altered, not amended copy for you,[216] if you choose to set the tune to
it, and let the Irish verses follow.
Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his "Lone-vale"[217] is divine.
Yours, &c.
R. B.
Let me know just how you like these random hints.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 208: Burns here calls himself the "Voice of Coila," in
imitation of Ossian, who denominates himself the "Voice of
Cona. "--CURRIE. ]
[Footnote 209: By Thomson, not the musician, but the poet. ]
[Footnote 210: This song is not old; its author, the late John Mayne,
long outlived Burns]
[Footnote 211: By Crawfurd. ]
[Footnote 212: By Ramsay. ]
[Footnote 213: The author, John Tait, a writer to the Signet and some
time Judge of the police-court in Edinburgh, assented to this, and
altered the line to,
"And sweetly the wood-pigeon cooed from the tree. "]
[Footnote 214: Song CXXXIX. ]
[Footnote 215: Song LXXX. ]
[Footnote 216: Song CLXXVII. ]
[Footnote 217:
"How sweet this lone vale, and how soothing to feeling,
Yon nightingale's notes which in melody meet. "
The song has found its way into several collections. ]
* * * * *
CCLIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The letter to which this is in part an answer, Currie says, contains
many observations on Scottish songs, and on the manner of adapting the
words to the music, which at Mr. Thomson's desire are suppressed. ]
_April, 1793. _
I have yours, my dear Sir, this moment. I shall answer it and your
former letter, in 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 through 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 return you.
Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only thing in which it
is, in my opinion, reprehensible. You know I ought to know something
of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and point, you are a complete
judge; but there is a quality more necessary than either in a song,
and which is the very essence of a ballad--I mean simplicity: now, if
I mistake not, this last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to
the foregoing.
Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been always equally happy in his
pieces; still I cannot approve of taking such liberties with an author
as Mr. Walker proposes doing with "The last time I came o'er the
moor. " Let a poet, if he choose, 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 improper stanzas, where that
can be done without spoiling the whole. One stanza in "The lass o'
Patie's mill" must be left out: the song will be nothing worse for it.
I am not sure if we can take the same liberty with "Corn rigs are
bonnie. " Perhaps it might want the last stanza, and be the better for
it. "Cauld kail in Aberdeen," you must leave with me yet awhile. I
have vowed to have a song to that air, on the lady whom I attempted to
celebrate in the verses, "Poortith cauld and restless love. " At any
rate, my other song, "Green grow the rashes," will never suit. That
song is current in Scotland under the old title, and to the merry old
tune of 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! "[218]
"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 MS. Scots airs by me, which I have
picked up, mostly from the singing of country lasses. They please me
vastly; but your learned _lugs_ would perhaps be displeased with the
very feature for which I like them. I call them simple; you would
pronounce them silly. Do you know a fine air called "Jackie Hume's
Lament? " I have a song of considerable merit to that air. I'll enclose
you both the song and tune, as I had them ready to send to Johnson's
Museum. [219] I send you likewise, to me, a beautiful little air, which I
had taken down from _viva voce. _[220]
Adieu.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 218: Songs CXCII. and CXCIII. ]
[Footnote 219: Song CXCIV. ]
[Footnote 220: Song CXCVIII. ]
* * * * *
CCLIV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Thomson, it would appear by his answer to this letter, was at issue
with Burns on the subject-matter of simplicity: the former seems to
have desired a sort of diplomatic and varnished style: the latter felt
that elegance and simplicity were "sisters twin. "]
_April, 1793. _
MY DEAR SIR,
I had scarcely put my last letter into the post-office, when I took up
the subject of "The last time I came o'er the moor," and ere I slept
drew the outlines of the foregoing. [221] How I have succeeded, I leave
on this, as on every other occasion, to you to decide. I own my vanity
is flattered, when you give my songs a place in your elegant and superb
work; but to be of service to the work is my first wish. As I have often
told you, I do not in a single instance wish you, out of compliment to
me, to insert anything of mine. One hint let me give you--whatever 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, depends a
great part of their effect.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 221: Song CCXXXIV. ]
* * * * *
CCLV.
TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, ESQ. ,
OF M A R.
[This remarkable letter has been of late the subject of some
controversy: Mr. Findlater, who happened then to be in the Excise, is
vehement in defence of the "honourable board," and is certain that
Burns has misrepresented the conduct of his very generous masters. In
answer to this it has been urged that the word of the poet has in no
other thing been questioned: that in the last moments of his life, he
solemnly wrote this letter into his memorandum-book, and that the
reproof of Mr. Corbet, is given by him either as a quotation from a
paper or an exact recollection of the words used: the expressions,
"_not to think_" and be "_silent_ and _obedient_" are underlined. ]
_Dumfries, 13th April, 1793. _
SIR,
Degenerate as human nature is said to be, and in many instances,
worthless and unprincipled it is, still there are bright examples to
the contrary; examples that even in the eyes of superior beings, must
shed a lustre on the name of man.
Such an example have I now before me, when you, Sir, came forward to
patronize and befriend a distant, obscure stranger, merely because
poverty had made him helpless, and his British hardihood of mind had
provoked the arbitrary wantonness of power. My much esteemed friend,
Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, has just read me a paragraph of a letter he
had from you. Accept, Sir, of the silent throb of gratitude; for words
would but mock the emotions of my soul.
You have been misinformed as to my final dismission from the Excise; I
am still in the service. --Indeed, but for the exertions of a gentleman
who must be known to you, Mr. Graham of Fintray, a gentleman who has
ever been my warm and generous friend, I had, without so much us a
hearing, or the slightest previous intimation, been turned adrift,
with my helpless family, to all the horrors of want. Had I had any
other resource, probably I might have saved them the trouble of a
dismission; but the little money I gained by my publication, is almost
every guinea embarked, to save from ruin an only brother, who, though
one of the worthiest, is by no means one of the most fortunate of men.
In my defence to their accusations, I said, that whatever might be my
sentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I abjured the
idea! --That a CONSTITUTION, which, in its original principles,
experience had proved to be every way fitted for our happiness in
society, it would be insanity to sacrifice to an untried visionary
theory:--that, in consideration of my being situated in a department,
however humble, immediately in the hands of people in power, I had
forborne taking any active part, either personally, or as an author, in
the present business of Reform. But, that, where I must declare my
sentiments, I would say there existed a system of corruption between the
executive power and the representative part of the legislature, which
boded no good to our glorious CONSTITUTION; and which every patriotic
Briton must wish to see amended. --Some such sentiments as these, I
stated in a letter to my generous patron, Mr. Graham, which he laid
before the Board at large; where, it seems, my last remark gave great
offence; and one of our supervisors-general, a Mr. Corbet, was
instructed to inquire on the spot, and to document me--"that my business
was to act, _not to think;_ and that whatever might be men or measures,
it was for me to be _silent_ and _obedient. _"
Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend; so between Mr. Graham and
him, I have been partly forgiven; only I understand that all hopes of
my getting officially forward, are blasted.
Now, Sir, to the business in which I would more immediately interest
you. The partiality of my COUNTRYMEN has brought me forward
as a man of genius, and has given me a character to support. In the
Poet I have avowed manly and independent sentiments, which I trust
will be found in the man. Reasons of no less weight than the support
of a wife and family, have pointed out as the eligible, and, situated
as I was, the only eligible line of life for me, my present
occupation. Still my honest fame is my dearest concern; and a
thousand times have I trembled at the idea of those _degrading_
epithets that malice or misrepresentation may affix to my name. I have
often, in blasting anticipation, listened to some future hackney
scribbler, with the heavy malice of savage stupidity, exulting in his
hireling paragraphs--"Burns, notwithstanding the _fanfaronade_ of
independence to be found in his works, and after having been held
forth to public view and to public estimation as a man of some genius,
yet quite destitute of resources within himself to support his
borrowed dignity, he dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk out
the rest of his insignificant existence in the meanest of pursuits,
and among the vilest of mankind. "
In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to lodge my disavowal and
defiance of these slanderous falsehoods. BURNS was a poor man
from birth, and an exciseman by necessity: but I _will_ say it! the
sterling of his honest worth, no poverty could debase, and his
independent British mind, oppression might bend, but could not subdue.
Have not I, to me, a more precious stake in my country's welfare than
the richest dukedom in it? --I have a large family of children, and the
prospect of many more. I have three sons, who, I see already, have
brought into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit the bodies of
SLAVES. --Can I look tamely on, and see any machination to
wrest from them the birthright of my boys,--the little independent
BRITONS, in whose veins runs my own blood? --No! I will not!
should my heart's blood stream around my attempt to defend it!
Does any man tell me, that my full efforts can be of no service; and
that it does not belong to my humble station to meddle with the
concern of a nation?
I can tell him, that it is on such individuals as I, that a nation has
to rest, both for the hand of support, and the eye of intelligence.
The uninformed mob may swell a nation's bulk; and the titled, tinsel,
courtly throng, may be its feathered ornament; but the number of those
who are elevated enough in life to reason and to reflect; yet low
enough to keep clear of the venal contagion of a court! --these are a
nation's strength.
I know not how to apologize for the impertinent length of this epistle;
but one small request I must ask of you further--when you have honoured
this letter with a perusal, please to commit it to the flames. BURNS, in
whose behalf you have so generously interested yourself, I have here in
his native colours drawn _as he is_, but should any of the people in
whose hands is the very bread he eats, get the least knowledge of the
picture, _it would ruin the poor_ BARD _for ever_!
My poems having just come out in another edition, I beg leave to
present you with a copy, as a small mark of that high esteem and
ardent gratitude, with which I have the honour to be,
Sir,
Your deeply indebted,
And ever devoted humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLVI.
TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ.
["Up tails a', by the light o' the moon," was the name of a Scottish
air, to which the devil danced with the witches of Fife, on Magus
Moor, as reported by a warlock, in that credible work, "Satan's
Invisible World discovered. "]
_April 26, 1793. _
I am d--mnably out of humour, my dear Ainslie, and that is the reason,
why I take up the pen to _you_: 'tis the nearest way (_probatum est_)
to recover my spirits again.
I received your last, and was much entertained with it; but I will not
at this time, nor at any other time, answer it. --Answer a letter? I
never could answer a letter in my life! --I have written many a letter
in return for letters I have received; but then--they were original
matter--spurt-away! zig here, zag there; as if the devil that, my
Grannie (an old woman indeed) often told me, rode on will-o'-wisp, or,
in her more classic phrase, SPUNKIE, were looking over my
elbow. --Happy thought that idea has engendered in my head!
SPUNKIE--thou shalt henceforth be my symbol signature, and
tutelary genius! Like thee, hap-step-and-lowp, here-awa-there-awa,
higglety-pigglety, pell-mell, hither-and-yon, ram-stam,
happy-go-lucky, up-tails-a'-by-the-light-o'-the-moon,--has been, is,
and shall be, my progress through the mosses and moors of this vile,
bleak, barren wilderness of a life of ours.
Come then, my guardian spirit, like thee may I skip away, amusing
myself by and at my own light: and if any opaque-souled lubber of
mankind complain that my elfine, lambent, glim merous wanderings have
misled his stupid steps over precipices, or into bogs, let the
thickheaded blunderbuss recollect, that he is not Spunkie:--that
"SPUNKIE'S wanderings could not copied be:
Amid these perils none durst walk but he. "--
* * * * *
I have no doubt but scholar-craft may be caught, as a Scotchman catches
the itch,--by friction. How else can you account for it, that born
blockheads, by mere dint of _handling_ books, grow so wise that even
they themselves are equally convinced of and surprised at their own
parts? I once carried this philosophy to that degree that in a knot of
country folks who had a library amongst them, and who, to the honour
of their good sense, made me factotum in the business; one of our
members, a little, wise-looking, squat, upright, jabbering body of a
tailor, I advised him, instead of turning over the leaves, _to bind
the book on his back. _--Johnnie took the hint; and as our meetings
were every fourth Saturday, and Pricklouse having a good Scots mile to
walk in coming, and, of course, another in returning, Bodkin was sure
to lay his hand on some heavy quarto, or ponderous folio, with, and
under which, wrapt up in his gray plaid, he grew wise, as he grew
weary, all the way home. He carried this so far, that an old musty
Hebrew concordance, which we had in a present from a neighbouring
priest, by mere dint of applying it, as doctors do a blistering
plaster, between his shoulders, Stitch, in a dozen pilgrimages,
acquired as much rational theology as the said priest had done by
forty years perusal of the pages.
Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think of this theory.
Yours,
SPUNKIE.
* * * * *
CCLVII.
TO MISS KENNEDY.
[Miss Kennedy was one of that numerous band of ladies who patronized
the poet in Edinburgh; she was related to the Hamiltons of Mossgiel. ]
MADAM,
Permit me to present you with the enclosed song as a small though
grateful tribute for the honour of your acquaintance. I have, in these
verses, attempted some faint sketches of your portrait in the
unembellished simple manner of descriptive TRUTH. --Flattery,
I leave to your LOVERS, whose exaggerating fancies may make
them imagine you still nearer perfection than you really are.
Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most forcibly the powers of BEAUTY;
as, if they are really poets of nature's making, their feelings must be
finer, and their taste more delicate than most of the world. In the
cheerful bloom of SPRING, or the pensive mildness of AUTUMN; the
grandeur of SUMMER, or the hoary majesty of WINTER, the poet feels a
charm unknown to the rest of his species. Even the sight of a fine
flower, or the company of a fine woman (by far the finest part of God's
works below), have sensations for the poetic heart that the HERD of man
are strangers to. --On this last account, Madam, I am, as in many other
things, indebted to Mr. Hamilton's kindness in introducing me to you.
Your lovers may view you with a wish, I look on you with pleasure; their
hearts, in your presence, may glow with desire, mine rises with
admiration.
That the arrows of misfortune, however they should, as incident to
humanity, glance a slight wound, may never reach your _heart_--that
the snares of villany may never beset you in the road of life--that
INNOCENCE may hand you by the path of honour to the dwelling
of PEACE, is the sincere wish of him who has the honour to
be, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLVIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The name of the friend who fell a sacrifice to those changeable
times, has not been mentioned: it is believed he was of the west
country. ]
_June, 1793. _
When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend of mine in whom I am much
interested, has fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you will
easily allow that it might unhinge me for doing any good among
ballads. My own loss as to pecuniary matters is trifling; but the
total ruin of a much-loved friend is a loss indeed. Pardon my seeming
inattention to your last commands.
I cannot alter the disputed lines in the "Mill Mill, O! "[222] What you
think a defect, I esteem as a positive beauty; so you see how doctors
differ. I shall now, with as much alacrity as I can muster, go on with
your commands.
You know Frazer, the hautboy-player in Edinburgh--he is here,
instructing a band of music for a fencible corps quartered in this
county. Among many of his airs that please me, there is one, well
known as a reel, by the name of "The Quaker's Wife;" and which, I
remember, a grand-aunt of mine used to sing, by the name of "Liggeram
Cosh, my bonnie wee lass. " Mr. Frazer plays it slow, and with an
expression that quite charms me. I became such an enthusiast about it,
that I made a song for it, which I here subjoin, and enclose Frazer's
set of the tune. If they hit your fancy, they are at your service; if
not, return me the tune, and I will put it in Johnson's Museum. I
think the song is not in my worst manner.
Blythe hae I been on yon hill. [223]
I should wish to hear how this pleases you.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 222: "The lines were the third and fourth:
'Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning. '
As our poet had maintained a long silence, and the first number of Mr.
Thomson's musical work was in the press, this gentleman ventured, by
Mr. Erskine's advice, to substitute for them, in that publication.
'And eyes again with pleasure beam'd
That had been blear'd with mourning. '
Though better suited to the music, these lines are inferior to the
original. "--CURRIE. ]
[Footnote 223: Song CXV. ]
* * * * *
CCLIX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Against the mighty oppressors of the earth the poet was ever ready to
set the sharpest shafts of his wrath: the times in which he wrote were
sadly out of sorts. ]
_June 25th, 1793. _
Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom ready to burst with
indignation, on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdoms,
desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness of
ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions? In a mood of this
kind to-day I recollected the air of "Logan Water," and it occurred to
me that its querulous melody probably had its origin from the
plaintive indignation of some swelling, suffering heart, fired at the
tyrannic strides of some public destroyer, and overwhelmed with
private distress, the consequence of a country's ruin. If I have done
anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song,
composed in three-quarters of an hour's meditation in my elbow-chair,
ought to have some merit:--
O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide. [224]
Do you know the following beautiful little fragment, in Wotherspoon's
collection of Scots songs? [225]
Air--"_Hughie Graham. _"
"Oh gin my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa';
And I mysel' a drap o' dew,
Into her bonnie breast to fa'!
"Oh there, beyond expression blest,
I'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. I have often tried to eke a
stanza to it, but in vain. After balancing myself for a musing five
minutes, on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the following.
The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, I frankly confess: but
if worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place; as every
poet who knows anything of his trade, will husband his best thoughts
for a concluding stroke.
Oh 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. [226]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 224: Song CXCVI. ]
[Footnote 225: Better known as Herd's. Wotherspoon was one of the
publishers. ]
[Footnote 226: See Song CXCVII. ]
* * * * *
CCLX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Thomson, in his reply to the preceding letter, laments that anything
should untune the feelings of the poet, and begs his acceptance of
five pounds, as a small mark of his gratitude for his beautiful
songs. ]
_July 2d, 1793. _
MY DEAR SIR,
I have just finished the following ballad, 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. If 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. [227]
I have some thoughts of inserting in your index, 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'Murdo, daughter to Mr. M'Murdo,
of Drumlanrig, one of your subscribers. I have not painted her in the
rank which she holds in life, but in the dress and character of a
cottager.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 227: Song CXCVIII. ]
* * * * *
CCLXI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Burns in this letter speaks of the pecuniary present which Thomson
sent him, in a lofty and angry mood: he who published poems by
subscription might surely have accepted, without any impropriety,
payment for his songs. ]
_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, I swear by that HONOUR which crowns the upright statue of
ROBERT BURNS'S INTEGRITY--on the least motion of it, I will indignantly
spurn the by-past transaction, and from that moment commence entire
stranger to you! BURNS'S character for generosity of sentiment and
independence of mind, will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants which
the cold unfeeling ore can supply; at least, I will take care that such
a character he shall deserve.
Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never did my eyes behold in
any musical work such elegance and correctness. Your preface, too, is
admirably written, only your partiality to me has 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 copy what I write to you, so I
may be often tautological, or perhaps 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 three
stanzas beginning,
"I've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling,"
are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalize the author of them,
who is an old lady of my acquaintance, and at this moment living in
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn, I forget of what place, but from
Roxburghshire. [228] What a charming apostrophe is
"O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting,
Why thus perplex us, poor sons of a day? "
The old ballad, "I wish I were where Helen lies," is silly to
contemptibility. My alteration of it, in Johnson's, is not much
better. Mr. Pinkerton, in his, what he calls, ancient ballads (many of
them notorious, though beautiful enough, forgeries), has the best set.
It is full of his own interpolations--but no matter.
In my next I will suggest to your consideration a few songs which may
have escaped your hurried notice. In the meantime allow me to
congratulate you 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 a bard of nature, I have some pretensions to second sight; and I
am warranted by the spirit to foretell and affirm, that your
great-grand-child will hold up your volumes, and say, with honest
pride, "This so much admired selection was the work of my ancestor! "
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 228: Miss Rutherford, of Fernilee in Selkirkshire, by marriage
Mrs. Patrick Cockburn, of Ormiston. She died in 1794, at an advanced
age. ]
* * * * *
CCLXII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Stephen Clarke, whose name is at this strange note, was a musician
and composer; he was a clever man, and had a high opinion of his own
powers. ]
_August_, 1793.
MY DEAR THOMSON,
I hold the pen for our friend Clarke, who at present is studying the
music of the spheres at my elbow. The Georgium Sidus he thinks is
rather out of tune; so, until he rectify 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.
* * * * *
CCLXIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
["Phillis the Fair" endured much at the hands of both Burns and
Clarke. The young lady had reason to complain, when the poet
volunteered to sing the imaginary love of that fantastic fiddler. ]
_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 I
can, I will. The other passage you object to does not appear in the
same light to me.
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 anything better to it.
