To make you some amends, as soon as I have extracted
the necessary information out of them, I will return you Ritson's
volumes.
the necessary information out of them, I will return you Ritson's
volumes.
Robert Burns
Making a poem is like begetting a son:
you cannot know whether you have a wise man or a fool, until you
produce him to the world to try him.
For that reason I send you the offspring of my brain, abortions and
all; and, as such, pray look over them, and forgive them, and burn
them. I am flattered at your adopting "Ca' the yowes to the knowes,"
as it was owing to me that ever it saw the light. About seven years
ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a clergyman,
a Mr. Clunie, who sang it charmingly; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke
took it down from his singing. When I gave it to Johnson, I added some
stanzas to the song, and mended others, but still it will not do for
you. In a solitary stroll which I took to-day, I tried my hand on a
few pastoral lines, following up the idea of the chorus, which I would
preserve. Here it is, with all its crudities and imperfections on its
head.
Ca' the yowes to the knowes, &c. [259]
I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs my first
scribbling fit.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 259: Song CCXXV. ]
* * * * *
CCCI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Dr. Maxwell, whose skill called forth the praises of the poet, had
the honour of being named by Burke in the House of Commons: he shared
in the French revolution, and narrowly escaped the guillotine, like
many other true friends of liberty. ]
_Sept. 1794. _
Do you know a blackguard Irish song called "Onagh's Waterfall? " The
air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent verses
to it. It is too much, at least for my humble rustic muse, to expect
that every effort of hers shall have merit; still I think that it is
better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air, than none at all.
On this principle I have all along proceeded in the Scots Musical
Museum; and as that publication is at its last volume, I intend the
following song, to the air above mentioned, for that work.
If it does not suit you as an editor, you may be pleased to have
verses to it that you can sing in the company of ladies.
Sae flaxen were her ringlets. [260]
Not to compare small things with great, my taste in music is like the
mighty Frederick of Prussia's taste in painting: we are told that he
frequently admired what the connoisseurs decried, and always without
any hypocrisy confessed his admiration. I am sensible that my taste in
music must be inelegant and vulgar, because people of undisputed and
cultivated taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Still,
because I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I should deny
myself that pleasure? Many of our strathspeys, ancient and modern,
give me most exquisite enjoyment, where you and other judges would
probably be showing disgust. For instance, I am just now making verses
for "Rothemurche's rant," an air which puts me in raptures; and, in
fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, I never can make verses to
it. Here I have Clarke on my side, who is a judge that I will pit
against any of you. "Rothemurche," he says, "is an air both original
and beautiful;" and, on his recommendation, I have taken the first
part of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last part for the
song. I am but two stanzas deep in the work, and possibly you may
think, and justly, that the poetry is as little worth your attention
as the music.
[Here follow two stanzas of the song, beginning "Lassie wi' the
lint-white locks. " Song CCXXXIII. ]
I have begun anew, "Let me in this ae night. " Do you think that we
ought to retain the old chorus? I think we must retain both the old
chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I 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 the
_denouement_ to be successful or otherwise? --should she "let him in"
or not?
Did you not once propose "The sow's tail to Geordie" as an air for
your work? I am quite delighted with it; but I acknowledge that is no
mark of its real excellence. I once set about verses for it, which I
meant to be in the alternate way of a lover and his mistress chanting
together. I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Thomson's Christian
name, and yours, I am afraid, is rather burlesque for sentiment, else
I had meant to have made you the hero and heroine of the little piece.
How do you like the following epigram which I wrote the other day on a
lovely young girl's recovery from a fever? Doctor Maxwell was the
physician who seemingly saved her from the grave; and to him I address
the following:
TO DR. MAXWELL,
ON MISS JESSIE STAIG'S RECOVERY.
Maxwell, if merit here you crave,
That merit I deny:
You save fair Jessy from the grave? --
An angel could not die!
God grant you patience with this stupid epistle!
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 260: Song CCXXVI. ]
* * * * *
CCCII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The poet relates the history of several of his best songs in this
letter: the true old strain of "Andro and his cutty gun" is the first
of its kind. ]
_19th 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 favourite "Craigieburn-wood," in your selection: it is as
great a favourite of his as of mine. The lady on whom it was made is
one of the finest women in Scotland; and in fact (_entre nous_) is in
a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to him--a mistress, or friend,
or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now,
don't put any of your squinting constructions on this, or have any
clishmaclaver about it among our acquaintances. ) I assure you that to
my lovely friend you are indebted for many of your best songs of mine.
Do you think that the sober, gin-horse routine of existence could
inspire a man with life, and love, and 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 in song--to be in
some degree equal to your diviner airs--do you imagine I fast and pray
for the celestial emanation? _Tout au contraire! _ I have a glorious
recipe; the very one that for his own use was invented by the divinity
of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I
put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in proportion to
the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my
verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the
witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon!
To descend to business: if you like my idea of "When she cam ben she
bobbit," the following stanzas of mine, altered a little from what
they were formerly, when set to another air, may perhaps do instead of
worse stanzas:--
O saw ye my dear, my Phely. [261]
Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. "The Posie" (in the Museum) is my
composition; the air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice. It is
well known in the west country, but the old words are trash. By the
bye, take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you do not think it
is the original from which "Roslin Castle" is composed. The second
part in particular, for the first two or three bars, is exactly the
old air. "Strathallan's Lament" is mine; the music is by our right
trusty and deservedly well-beloved Allan Masterton. "Donocht-Head" is
not mine; I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the
Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the
Newcastle post-mark on it "Whistle o'er the lave o't" is mine: the
music said to be by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin-player in
Dumfries, about the beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who
was an honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, constantly claimed
it; and by all the old musical people here is believed to be the
author of it.
"Andrew and his cutty gun. " The song to which this is set in the
Museum is mine, and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose,
commonly and deservedly called the Flower of Strathmore.
"How long and dreary is the night! " I met with some such words in a
collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged; and to
please you, and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a stride or
two across my room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the
other page.
How long and dreary is the night, &c. [262]
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. [263]
These English songs gravel me to death. I have not that command of the
language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at "Duncan
Gray," to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid.
For instance:--
Let not woman e'er complain, &c. [264]
Since the above, I have been out in the country, taking a dinner with
a friend, where I met with a lady whom I mentioned in the second page
in this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usual, I got into song; and
returning home I composed the following:
Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature
&c. [265]
If you honour my verses by setting the air to them, I will vamp up the
old song, and make it English enough to be understood.
I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East Indian air, which you would
swear was a Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, as the
gentleman who brought it over is a particular acquaintance of mine. Do
preserve me the copy I send you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke
has set a bass to it, and I intend putting it into the Musical Museum.
Here follow the verses I intend for it.
But lately seen in gladsome green, &c. [266]
I would be obliged to you if you would procure me a sight of Ritson's
collection of English songs, which you mention in your letter. I will
thank you for another information, and that as speedily as you please:
whether this miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not completely
tired you of my correspondence?
VARIATION.
Now to the streaming fountain,
Or up the heathy mountain,
The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray;
In twining hazel bowers,
His lay the linnet pours;
The lav'rock to the sky
Ascends wi' sangs o' joy,
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.
When frae my Chloris parted,
Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted,
The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my sky.
But when she charms my sight,
In pride of beauty's light;
When through my very heart
Her beaming glories dart;
'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy!
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 261: Song CCXXVII. ]
[Footnote 262: Song CCXXVIII. ]
[Footnote 263: Mr. Ritson, whose collection of Scottish songs was
published this year. ]
[Footnote 264: Song CCXXIX. ]
[Footnote 265: Song CCXXX. ]
[Footnote 266: Song CCXVI. ]
* * * * *
CCCIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The presents made to the poet were far from numerous: the book for
which he expresses his thanks, was the work of the waspish Ritson. ]
_November, 1794. _
Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your present; it is a book of the
utmost importance to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, &c. , for
your work. I intend drawing them up in 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 lodging is on the cold
ground. " On my visit the other day to my friend Chloris (that is the
poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration), she suggested an
idea, which I, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following
song.
My Chloris, mark how green the groves. [267]
How do you like the simplicity and tenderness of this pastoral? I
think it pretty well.
I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of
"_ma 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 powers equal to all the intellectual modulations 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 generosity disdains the
purchase.
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 "Dainty Davie," as follows:--
It was the charming month of May. [268]
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 "Rothemurche's rant," and you have Clarke to
consult as to the set of the air for singing.
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, &c. [269]
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, are regularly rounded. If you like it, well; if not, I will
insert it in the Museum.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 267: Song CCXXXI. ]
[Footnote 268: Song CCXXXII. ]
[Footnote 269: Song CCXXXIII. ]
* * * * *
CCCIV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Sir Walter Scott remarked, on the lyrics of Burns, "that at last the
writing a series of songs for large musical collections degenerated
into a slavish labour which no talents could support. "]
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
silliness of "Saw ye 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 pretensions to be a Scottish production. There is a
pretty English song by Sheridan, in the "Duenna," to this air, which
is out of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins,
"When sable night each drooping plant restoring. "
The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the very
native language of simplicity, tenderness, and love. I have again gone
over my song to the tune.
Now for my English song to "Nancy's to the greenwood," &c.
Farewell thou stream that winding flows. [270]
There is an air, "The Caledonian Hunt's Delight," to which I wrote a
song that, you will find in Johnson, "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie
Doon:" this air I 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 Scottish 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 question. Ritson, 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
show you how difficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have
heard it repeatedly asserted that this was an Irish air; nay, I 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 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.
I thank you for admitting "Craigieburn-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 propitious moment, I shall write a new
"Craigieburn-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 necessary information out of them, I will return you Ritson's
volumes.
The lady is not a little proud that she is to 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.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 270: Song CCXXXIV. ]
* * * * *
CCCV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Willy and Phely, in one of the lyrics which this letter contained,
carry on the pleasant bandying of praise till compliments grow scarce,
and the lovers are reduced to silence. ]
_19th 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 favourite 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.
O Philly, happy be the day. [271]
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 anything 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, "Craigieburn-wood," that a chorus
would, in some degree, 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 "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch," a chorus
goes, to my taste, well enough. As to the chorus going first, that is
the case with "Roy's Wife," as well as "Rothemurche. " In fact, in the
first part of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar and irregular, 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 regularity could counterbalance the want of.
Try, {Oh Roy's wife of Aldivalloch.
{O lassie wi' the lint-white locks.
and
compare with {Roy's wife of Aldivalloch.
{Lassie wi the lint-white locks.
Does not the lameness 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 Caledonian Hunt" is so charming, that it would make any subject
in a song go down; but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scottish
bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few we have are excellent.
For instance, "Todlin hame," is, for wit and humour, an unparalleled
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 I
like much--"Lumps o' pudding. "
Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair. [272]
If you do not relish this air, I will send it to Johnson.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 271: Song CCXXXV. ]
[Footnote 272: Song CCXXXVI. ]
* * * * *
CCCVI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The instrument which the poet got from the braes of Athol, seems of
an order as rude and incapable of fine sounds as the whistles which
school-boys make in spring from the smaller boughs of the plane-tree. ]
Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framed a couple of English
stanzas, by way of an English song to "Roy's Wife. " You will allow me,
that in this instance my English corresponds in sentiment with the
Scottish.
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? [273]
Well! I think this, to be done in 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.
Tell my friend Allan (for I 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 comprised of three parts; the stock, which is
the hinder thigh bone of a sheep, such 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 ventages on the upper
side, and one back-ventage, like 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 brother-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.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 273: Song CCXXXVII. ]
* * * * *
CCCVII.
TO PETER MILLER, JUN. , ESQ. ,
OF DALSWINTON.
[In a conversation with James Perry, editor of the Morning Chronicle,
Mr. Miller, who was then member for the Dumfries boroughs, kindly
represented the poverty of the poet and the increasing number of his
family: Perry at once offered fifty pounds a year for any
contributions he might choose to make to his newspaper: the reasons
for his refusal are stated in this letter. ]
_Dumfries, Nov. 1794. _
DEAR SIR,
Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most sincerely do I thank you
for it; but in my present situation, I find that I dare not accept it.
You well know my political sentiments; and were I an insular
individual, unconnected with a wife and a family of children, with the
most fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my services: I then
could and would have despised all consequences that might have ensued.
My prospect in the Excise is something; at least it is, encumbered as
I am with the welfare, the very existence, of near half-a-score of
helpless individuals, what I dare not sport with.
In the mean time, they are most welcome to my Ode; only, let them
insert it as a thing they have met with by accident and unknown to
me. --Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honour, after your character of him, I
cannot doubt; if he will give me an address and channel by which
anything will come safe from those spies with which he may be certain
that his correspondence is beset, I will now and then send him any
bagatelle that I may write. In the present hurry of Europe, nothing
but news and politics will be regarded; but against the days of peace,
which Heaven send soon, my little assistance may perhaps fill up an
idle column of a newspaper. I have long had it in my head to try my
hand in the way of little prose essays, which I propose sending into
the world though the medium of some newspaper; and should these be
worth his while, to these Mr. Perry shall be welcome; and all my
reward shall be, his treating me with his paper, which, by the bye, to
anybody who has the least relish for wit, is a high treat indeed.
With the most grateful esteem I am ever,
Dear Sir,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCVIII.
TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, JUN. ,
DUMFRIES.
[Political animosities troubled society during the days of Burns, as
much at least as they disturb it now--this letter is an instance of
it. ]
_Sunday Morning. _
DEAR SIR,
I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am sober this morning. From the
expressions Capt. ---- made use of to me, had I had no-body's welfare
to care for but my own, we should certainly have come, according to
the manners of the world, to the necessity of murdering one another
about the business. The words were such as, generally, I believe, end
in a brace of pistols; but I am still pleased to think that I did not
ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and a family of children in a
drunken squabble. Farther, you know that the report of certain
political opinions being mine, has already once before brought me to
the brink of destruction. I dread lest last night's business may be
misrepresented in the same way. --You, I beg, will take care to prevent
it. I tax your wish for Mr. Burns' welfare with the task of waiting as
soon as possible, on every gentleman who was present, and state this
to him, and, as you please, show him this letter. What, after all, was
the obnoxious toast? "May our success in the present war be equal to
the justice of our cause. "--A toast that the most outrageous frenzy of
loyalty cannot object to. I request and beg that this morning you will
wait on the parties present at the foolish dispute. I shall only add,
that I am truly sorry that a man who stood so high in my estimation as
Mr. ----, should use me in the manner in which I conceive he has done.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCIX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Burns allowed for the songs which Wolcot wrote for Thomson a degree
of lyric merit which the world has refused to sanction. ]
_December, 1794. _
It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart to do anything 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'll 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:--
Now in her green mantle, &c. [274]
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 certainly be
at--"She gaz'd. " The interesting dubiety 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,
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 274: Song CCXXXVIII. ]
* * * * *
CCCX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[In this brief and off-hand way Burns bestows on Thompson one of the
finest songs ever dedicated to the cause of human freedom. ]
_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
subject, and consequently is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to
be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme.
Is there for honest poverty. [275]
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 "Craigieburn-wood? "--
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn. [276]
Farewell! God bless you!
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 275: Song CCLXIV. ]
[Footnote 276: Song CCXLV. ]
* * * * *
CCCXI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Of this letter, Dr. Currie writes "the poet must have been tipsy
indeed to abuse sweet Ecclefechan at this rate;" it is one of the
prettiest of our Annandale villages, and the birth-place of that
distinguished biographer. ]
_Ecclefechan_, 7_th February_, 1795.
MY DEAR THOMSON,
You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which 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. I have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have impeded
my progress: I 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, 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. I had not time then to tell you
all I wanted to say; and, Heaven knows, at present have not capacity.
Do you know an air--I am sure you must know it--"We'll gang nae mair
to yon town? " I think, in slowish time, it would make an excellent
song. I am highly delighted with it; and if you should think it worthy
of your attention, 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.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The song of Caledonia, in honour of Mrs. Burns, was accompanied by
two others in honour of the poet's mistress: the muse was high in
song, and used few words in the letter which enclosed them. ]
_May, 1795. _
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay! [277]
Let me know, your very first leisure, how you like this song.
Long, long the night. [278]
How do you like the foregoing? The Irish air, "Humours of Glen," is a
great favourite of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the "Poor
Soldier," there are not any decent verses for it, I have written for
it as follows:--
Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon. [279]
Let me hear from you.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 277: Song CCXLIX. ]
[Footnote 278: Song CCL. ]
[Footnote 279: Song CCLI. ]
* * * * *
CCCXIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The poet calls for praise in this letter, a species of coin which is
always ready. ]
How cruel are the parents. [280]
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. [281]
Well, this is not amiss. You see how I answer your orders--your tailor
could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit for poetizing,
provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don't cure me. If you
can, in a post or two, administer a little of the intoxicating potion
of your applause, it will raise your humble servant's phrensy 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.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 280: Song CCLIII. ]
[Footnote 281: Song CCLIV. ]
* * * * *
CCCXIV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Thomson at this time sent the drawing to Burns in which David Allan
sought to embody the "Cotter's Saturday Night:" it displays at once
the talent and want of taste of the ingenious artist. ]
_May, 1795.
you cannot know whether you have a wise man or a fool, until you
produce him to the world to try him.
For that reason I send you the offspring of my brain, abortions and
all; and, as such, pray look over them, and forgive them, and burn
them. I am flattered at your adopting "Ca' the yowes to the knowes,"
as it was owing to me that ever it saw the light. About seven years
ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a clergyman,
a Mr. Clunie, who sang it charmingly; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke
took it down from his singing. When I gave it to Johnson, I added some
stanzas to the song, and mended others, but still it will not do for
you. In a solitary stroll which I took to-day, I tried my hand on a
few pastoral lines, following up the idea of the chorus, which I would
preserve. Here it is, with all its crudities and imperfections on its
head.
Ca' the yowes to the knowes, &c. [259]
I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs my first
scribbling fit.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 259: Song CCXXV. ]
* * * * *
CCCI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Dr. Maxwell, whose skill called forth the praises of the poet, had
the honour of being named by Burke in the House of Commons: he shared
in the French revolution, and narrowly escaped the guillotine, like
many other true friends of liberty. ]
_Sept. 1794. _
Do you know a blackguard Irish song called "Onagh's Waterfall? " The
air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent verses
to it. It is too much, at least for my humble rustic muse, to expect
that every effort of hers shall have merit; still I think that it is
better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air, than none at all.
On this principle I have all along proceeded in the Scots Musical
Museum; and as that publication is at its last volume, I intend the
following song, to the air above mentioned, for that work.
If it does not suit you as an editor, you may be pleased to have
verses to it that you can sing in the company of ladies.
Sae flaxen were her ringlets. [260]
Not to compare small things with great, my taste in music is like the
mighty Frederick of Prussia's taste in painting: we are told that he
frequently admired what the connoisseurs decried, and always without
any hypocrisy confessed his admiration. I am sensible that my taste in
music must be inelegant and vulgar, because people of undisputed and
cultivated taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Still,
because I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I should deny
myself that pleasure? Many of our strathspeys, ancient and modern,
give me most exquisite enjoyment, where you and other judges would
probably be showing disgust. For instance, I am just now making verses
for "Rothemurche's rant," an air which puts me in raptures; and, in
fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, I never can make verses to
it. Here I have Clarke on my side, who is a judge that I will pit
against any of you. "Rothemurche," he says, "is an air both original
and beautiful;" and, on his recommendation, I have taken the first
part of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last part for the
song. I am but two stanzas deep in the work, and possibly you may
think, and justly, that the poetry is as little worth your attention
as the music.
[Here follow two stanzas of the song, beginning "Lassie wi' the
lint-white locks. " Song CCXXXIII. ]
I have begun anew, "Let me in this ae night. " Do you think that we
ought to retain the old chorus? I think we must retain both the old
chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I 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 the
_denouement_ to be successful or otherwise? --should she "let him in"
or not?
Did you not once propose "The sow's tail to Geordie" as an air for
your work? I am quite delighted with it; but I acknowledge that is no
mark of its real excellence. I once set about verses for it, which I
meant to be in the alternate way of a lover and his mistress chanting
together. I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Thomson's Christian
name, and yours, I am afraid, is rather burlesque for sentiment, else
I had meant to have made you the hero and heroine of the little piece.
How do you like the following epigram which I wrote the other day on a
lovely young girl's recovery from a fever? Doctor Maxwell was the
physician who seemingly saved her from the grave; and to him I address
the following:
TO DR. MAXWELL,
ON MISS JESSIE STAIG'S RECOVERY.
Maxwell, if merit here you crave,
That merit I deny:
You save fair Jessy from the grave? --
An angel could not die!
God grant you patience with this stupid epistle!
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 260: Song CCXXVI. ]
* * * * *
CCCII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The poet relates the history of several of his best songs in this
letter: the true old strain of "Andro and his cutty gun" is the first
of its kind. ]
_19th 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 favourite "Craigieburn-wood," in your selection: it is as
great a favourite of his as of mine. The lady on whom it was made is
one of the finest women in Scotland; and in fact (_entre nous_) is in
a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to him--a mistress, or friend,
or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now,
don't put any of your squinting constructions on this, or have any
clishmaclaver about it among our acquaintances. ) I assure you that to
my lovely friend you are indebted for many of your best songs of mine.
Do you think that the sober, gin-horse routine of existence could
inspire a man with life, and love, and 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 in song--to be in
some degree equal to your diviner airs--do you imagine I fast and pray
for the celestial emanation? _Tout au contraire! _ I have a glorious
recipe; the very one that for his own use was invented by the divinity
of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I
put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in proportion to
the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my
verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the
witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon!
To descend to business: if you like my idea of "When she cam ben she
bobbit," the following stanzas of mine, altered a little from what
they were formerly, when set to another air, may perhaps do instead of
worse stanzas:--
O saw ye my dear, my Phely. [261]
Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. "The Posie" (in the Museum) is my
composition; the air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice. It is
well known in the west country, but the old words are trash. By the
bye, take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you do not think it
is the original from which "Roslin Castle" is composed. The second
part in particular, for the first two or three bars, is exactly the
old air. "Strathallan's Lament" is mine; the music is by our right
trusty and deservedly well-beloved Allan Masterton. "Donocht-Head" is
not mine; I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the
Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the
Newcastle post-mark on it "Whistle o'er the lave o't" is mine: the
music said to be by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin-player in
Dumfries, about the beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who
was an honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, constantly claimed
it; and by all the old musical people here is believed to be the
author of it.
"Andrew and his cutty gun. " The song to which this is set in the
Museum is mine, and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose,
commonly and deservedly called the Flower of Strathmore.
"How long and dreary is the night! " I met with some such words in a
collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged; and to
please you, and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a stride or
two across my room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the
other page.
How long and dreary is the night, &c. [262]
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. [263]
These English songs gravel me to death. I have not that command of the
language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at "Duncan
Gray," to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid.
For instance:--
Let not woman e'er complain, &c. [264]
Since the above, I have been out in the country, taking a dinner with
a friend, where I met with a lady whom I mentioned in the second page
in this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usual, I got into song; and
returning home I composed the following:
Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature
&c. [265]
If you honour my verses by setting the air to them, I will vamp up the
old song, and make it English enough to be understood.
I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East Indian air, which you would
swear was a Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, as the
gentleman who brought it over is a particular acquaintance of mine. Do
preserve me the copy I send you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke
has set a bass to it, and I intend putting it into the Musical Museum.
Here follow the verses I intend for it.
But lately seen in gladsome green, &c. [266]
I would be obliged to you if you would procure me a sight of Ritson's
collection of English songs, which you mention in your letter. I will
thank you for another information, and that as speedily as you please:
whether this miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not completely
tired you of my correspondence?
VARIATION.
Now to the streaming fountain,
Or up the heathy mountain,
The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray;
In twining hazel bowers,
His lay the linnet pours;
The lav'rock to the sky
Ascends wi' sangs o' joy,
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.
When frae my Chloris parted,
Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted,
The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my sky.
But when she charms my sight,
In pride of beauty's light;
When through my very heart
Her beaming glories dart;
'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy!
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 261: Song CCXXVII. ]
[Footnote 262: Song CCXXVIII. ]
[Footnote 263: Mr. Ritson, whose collection of Scottish songs was
published this year. ]
[Footnote 264: Song CCXXIX. ]
[Footnote 265: Song CCXXX. ]
[Footnote 266: Song CCXVI. ]
* * * * *
CCCIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The presents made to the poet were far from numerous: the book for
which he expresses his thanks, was the work of the waspish Ritson. ]
_November, 1794. _
Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your present; it is a book of the
utmost importance to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, &c. , for
your work. I intend drawing them up in 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 lodging is on the cold
ground. " On my visit the other day to my friend Chloris (that is the
poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration), she suggested an
idea, which I, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following
song.
My Chloris, mark how green the groves. [267]
How do you like the simplicity and tenderness of this pastoral? I
think it pretty well.
I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of
"_ma 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 powers equal to all the intellectual modulations 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 generosity disdains the
purchase.
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 "Dainty Davie," as follows:--
It was the charming month of May. [268]
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 "Rothemurche's rant," and you have Clarke to
consult as to the set of the air for singing.
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, &c. [269]
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, are regularly rounded. If you like it, well; if not, I will
insert it in the Museum.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 267: Song CCXXXI. ]
[Footnote 268: Song CCXXXII. ]
[Footnote 269: Song CCXXXIII. ]
* * * * *
CCCIV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Sir Walter Scott remarked, on the lyrics of Burns, "that at last the
writing a series of songs for large musical collections degenerated
into a slavish labour which no talents could support. "]
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
silliness of "Saw ye 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 pretensions to be a Scottish production. There is a
pretty English song by Sheridan, in the "Duenna," to this air, which
is out of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins,
"When sable night each drooping plant restoring. "
The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the very
native language of simplicity, tenderness, and love. I have again gone
over my song to the tune.
Now for my English song to "Nancy's to the greenwood," &c.
Farewell thou stream that winding flows. [270]
There is an air, "The Caledonian Hunt's Delight," to which I wrote a
song that, you will find in Johnson, "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie
Doon:" this air I 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 Scottish 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 question. Ritson, 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
show you how difficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have
heard it repeatedly asserted that this was an Irish air; nay, I 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 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.
I thank you for admitting "Craigieburn-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 propitious moment, I shall write a new
"Craigieburn-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 necessary information out of them, I will return you Ritson's
volumes.
The lady is not a little proud that she is to 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.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 270: Song CCXXXIV. ]
* * * * *
CCCV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Willy and Phely, in one of the lyrics which this letter contained,
carry on the pleasant bandying of praise till compliments grow scarce,
and the lovers are reduced to silence. ]
_19th 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 favourite 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.
O Philly, happy be the day. [271]
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 anything 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, "Craigieburn-wood," that a chorus
would, in some degree, 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 "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch," a chorus
goes, to my taste, well enough. As to the chorus going first, that is
the case with "Roy's Wife," as well as "Rothemurche. " In fact, in the
first part of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar and irregular, 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 regularity could counterbalance the want of.
Try, {Oh Roy's wife of Aldivalloch.
{O lassie wi' the lint-white locks.
and
compare with {Roy's wife of Aldivalloch.
{Lassie wi the lint-white locks.
Does not the lameness 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 Caledonian Hunt" is so charming, that it would make any subject
in a song go down; but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scottish
bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few we have are excellent.
For instance, "Todlin hame," is, for wit and humour, an unparalleled
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 I
like much--"Lumps o' pudding. "
Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair. [272]
If you do not relish this air, I will send it to Johnson.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 271: Song CCXXXV. ]
[Footnote 272: Song CCXXXVI. ]
* * * * *
CCCVI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The instrument which the poet got from the braes of Athol, seems of
an order as rude and incapable of fine sounds as the whistles which
school-boys make in spring from the smaller boughs of the plane-tree. ]
Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framed a couple of English
stanzas, by way of an English song to "Roy's Wife. " You will allow me,
that in this instance my English corresponds in sentiment with the
Scottish.
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? [273]
Well! I think this, to be done in 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.
Tell my friend Allan (for I 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 comprised of three parts; the stock, which is
the hinder thigh bone of a sheep, such 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 ventages on the upper
side, and one back-ventage, like 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 brother-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.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 273: Song CCXXXVII. ]
* * * * *
CCCVII.
TO PETER MILLER, JUN. , ESQ. ,
OF DALSWINTON.
[In a conversation with James Perry, editor of the Morning Chronicle,
Mr. Miller, who was then member for the Dumfries boroughs, kindly
represented the poverty of the poet and the increasing number of his
family: Perry at once offered fifty pounds a year for any
contributions he might choose to make to his newspaper: the reasons
for his refusal are stated in this letter. ]
_Dumfries, Nov. 1794. _
DEAR SIR,
Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most sincerely do I thank you
for it; but in my present situation, I find that I dare not accept it.
You well know my political sentiments; and were I an insular
individual, unconnected with a wife and a family of children, with the
most fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my services: I then
could and would have despised all consequences that might have ensued.
My prospect in the Excise is something; at least it is, encumbered as
I am with the welfare, the very existence, of near half-a-score of
helpless individuals, what I dare not sport with.
In the mean time, they are most welcome to my Ode; only, let them
insert it as a thing they have met with by accident and unknown to
me. --Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honour, after your character of him, I
cannot doubt; if he will give me an address and channel by which
anything will come safe from those spies with which he may be certain
that his correspondence is beset, I will now and then send him any
bagatelle that I may write. In the present hurry of Europe, nothing
but news and politics will be regarded; but against the days of peace,
which Heaven send soon, my little assistance may perhaps fill up an
idle column of a newspaper. I have long had it in my head to try my
hand in the way of little prose essays, which I propose sending into
the world though the medium of some newspaper; and should these be
worth his while, to these Mr. Perry shall be welcome; and all my
reward shall be, his treating me with his paper, which, by the bye, to
anybody who has the least relish for wit, is a high treat indeed.
With the most grateful esteem I am ever,
Dear Sir,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCVIII.
TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, JUN. ,
DUMFRIES.
[Political animosities troubled society during the days of Burns, as
much at least as they disturb it now--this letter is an instance of
it. ]
_Sunday Morning. _
DEAR SIR,
I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am sober this morning. From the
expressions Capt. ---- made use of to me, had I had no-body's welfare
to care for but my own, we should certainly have come, according to
the manners of the world, to the necessity of murdering one another
about the business. The words were such as, generally, I believe, end
in a brace of pistols; but I am still pleased to think that I did not
ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and a family of children in a
drunken squabble. Farther, you know that the report of certain
political opinions being mine, has already once before brought me to
the brink of destruction. I dread lest last night's business may be
misrepresented in the same way. --You, I beg, will take care to prevent
it. I tax your wish for Mr. Burns' welfare with the task of waiting as
soon as possible, on every gentleman who was present, and state this
to him, and, as you please, show him this letter. What, after all, was
the obnoxious toast? "May our success in the present war be equal to
the justice of our cause. "--A toast that the most outrageous frenzy of
loyalty cannot object to. I request and beg that this morning you will
wait on the parties present at the foolish dispute. I shall only add,
that I am truly sorry that a man who stood so high in my estimation as
Mr. ----, should use me in the manner in which I conceive he has done.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCIX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Burns allowed for the songs which Wolcot wrote for Thomson a degree
of lyric merit which the world has refused to sanction. ]
_December, 1794. _
It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart to do anything 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'll 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:--
Now in her green mantle, &c. [274]
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 certainly be
at--"She gaz'd. " The interesting dubiety 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,
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 274: Song CCXXXVIII. ]
* * * * *
CCCX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[In this brief and off-hand way Burns bestows on Thompson one of the
finest songs ever dedicated to the cause of human freedom. ]
_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
subject, and consequently is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to
be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme.
Is there for honest poverty. [275]
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 "Craigieburn-wood? "--
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn. [276]
Farewell! God bless you!
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 275: Song CCLXIV. ]
[Footnote 276: Song CCXLV. ]
* * * * *
CCCXI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Of this letter, Dr. Currie writes "the poet must have been tipsy
indeed to abuse sweet Ecclefechan at this rate;" it is one of the
prettiest of our Annandale villages, and the birth-place of that
distinguished biographer. ]
_Ecclefechan_, 7_th February_, 1795.
MY DEAR THOMSON,
You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which 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. I have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have impeded
my progress: I 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, 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. I had not time then to tell you
all I wanted to say; and, Heaven knows, at present have not capacity.
Do you know an air--I am sure you must know it--"We'll gang nae mair
to yon town? " I think, in slowish time, it would make an excellent
song. I am highly delighted with it; and if you should think it worthy
of your attention, 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.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The song of Caledonia, in honour of Mrs. Burns, was accompanied by
two others in honour of the poet's mistress: the muse was high in
song, and used few words in the letter which enclosed them. ]
_May, 1795. _
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay! [277]
Let me know, your very first leisure, how you like this song.
Long, long the night. [278]
How do you like the foregoing? The Irish air, "Humours of Glen," is a
great favourite of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the "Poor
Soldier," there are not any decent verses for it, I have written for
it as follows:--
Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon. [279]
Let me hear from you.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 277: Song CCXLIX. ]
[Footnote 278: Song CCL. ]
[Footnote 279: Song CCLI. ]
* * * * *
CCCXIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The poet calls for praise in this letter, a species of coin which is
always ready. ]
How cruel are the parents. [280]
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. [281]
Well, this is not amiss. You see how I answer your orders--your tailor
could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit for poetizing,
provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don't cure me. If you
can, in a post or two, administer a little of the intoxicating potion
of your applause, it will raise your humble servant's phrensy 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.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 280: Song CCLIII. ]
[Footnote 281: Song CCLIV. ]
* * * * *
CCCXIV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Thomson at this time sent the drawing to Burns in which David Allan
sought to embody the "Cotter's Saturday Night:" it displays at once
the talent and want of taste of the ingenious artist. ]
_May, 1795.
