No More Learning

With the sincerest esteem,

I have the honour to be,

Madam, &c.

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXCII.


TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

[The religious feeling of Burns was sometimes blunted, but at times it
burst out, as in this letter, with eloquence and fervour, mingled with
fear. ]

_25th February, 1794. _

Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? Canst thou speak peace and
rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to
guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her?
Canst thou give to a frame tremblingly alive as the tortures of
suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the
blast? If thou canst not do the least of these, why wouldst thou
disturb me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me?

* * * * *

For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My
constitution and frame were, _ab origine_, blasted with a deep
incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a
number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of
these cursed times; losses which, though trifling, were yet what I
could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at times could
only be envied by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that
dooms it to perdition.

Are you deep in the language of consolation? I have exhausted in
reflection every topic of comfort. _A heart at ease_ would have been
charmed with my sentiments and reasonings; but as to myself I was like
Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel; he might melt and mould the
hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native
incorrigibility.

Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of
misfortune and misery. The one is composed of the different
modifications of a certain noble stubborn something in man, known by
the names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of
those feelings and sentiments, which, however the sceptic may deny
them, or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced,
original and component parts of the human soul; those _senses of the
mind_, if I may be allowed the expression, which connect us with, and
link us to, those awful, obscure realities--an all-powerful, and
equally beneficent God; and a world to come, beyond death and the
grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams
on the field: the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which
time can never cure.

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked on
the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the
trick of the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning MANY; or at
most as an uncertain obscurity, which mankind can never know anything
of, and with which they are fools if they give themselves much to do.
Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I
would for his want of a musical ear. I would regret that he was shut
out from what, to me and to others, were such superlative sources of
enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and for this reason, that I
will deeply imbue the mind of every child of mine with religion. If my
son should happen to be a man of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I
shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that
this sweet little fellow, who is just now running about my desk, will
be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart; and an imagination,
delighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him
wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy
the growing luxuriance of spring; himself the while in the blooming
youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to
nature's God. His soul, by swift delighting degrees, is rapt above
this sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts
out into the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson,

"These, as they change, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God. --The rolling year
Is full of thee. "

And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. These
are no ideal pleasures, they are real delights; and I ask what of the
delights among the sons of men are superior, not to say equal to them?
And they have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue
stamps them for her own; and lays hold on them to bring herself into
the presence of a witnessing, judging, and approving God.

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXCIII.


TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

[The original letter is in the possession of the Hon. Mrs. Halland, of
Poynings: it is undated, but from a memorandum on the back it appears
to have been written in May, 1794. ]

_May, 1794. _

MY LORD,

When you cast your eye on the name at the bottom of this letter, and
on the title-page of the book I do myself the honour to send your
lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my vanity tells me that it
must be a name not entirely unknown to you. The generous patronage of
your late illustrious brother found me in the lowest obscurity: he
introduced my rustic muse to the partiality of my country; and to him
I owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the anguish of my soul at
losing my truly noble protector and friend, I have endeavoured to
express in a poem to his memory, which I have now published. This
edition is just from the press; and in my gratitude to the dead, and
my respect for the living (fame belies you, my lord, if you possess
not the same dignity of man, which was your noble brother's
characteristic feature), I had destined a copy for the Earl of
Glencairn. I learnt just now that you are in town:--allow me to
present it you.

I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal contagion which pervades the
world of letters, that professions of respect from an author,
particularly from a poet, to a lord, are more than suspicious. I claim
my by-past conduct, and my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to
the too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honours of your lordship's
name, and unnoted as is the obscurity of mine; with the uprightness of
an honest man, I come before your lordship with an offering, however
humble, 'tis all I have to give, of my grateful respect; and to beg of
you, my lord,--'tis all I have to ask of you,--that you will do me the
honour to accept of it.

I have the honour to be,

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXCIV.


TO MR. THOMSON.

[The correspondence between the poet and the musician was interrupted
in spring, but in summer and autumn the song-strains were renewed. ]

_May, 1794. _

MY DEAR SIR,

I return you the plates, with which I am highly pleased; I would
humbly propose, instead of the younker knitting stockings, to put a
stock and horn into his hands. A friend of mine, who is positively the
ablest judge on the subject I have ever met with, and, though an
unknown, is yet a superior artist with the burin, is quite charmed
with Allan's manner. I got him a peep of the "Gentle Shepherd;" and he
pronounces Allan a most original artist of great excellence.

For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing my favourite poem for his
subject, to be one of the highest compliments I have ever received.

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up in France, as it will put
an entire stop to our work. Now, and for six or seven months, I shall
be quite in song, as you shall see by and bye. I got an air, pretty
enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls
"The Banks of Cree. " Cree is a beautiful romantic stream; and, as her
ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following
song to it.

Here is the glen and here the bower. [256]

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 256: Song CCXXIII. ]

* * * * *




CCXCV.


TO DAVID M'CULLOCH, ESQ.

[The endorsement on the back of the original letter shows in what far
lands it has travelled:--"Given by David M'Culloch, Penang, 1810. A.
Fraser. " "Received 15th December, 1823, in Calcutta, from Captain
Frazer's widow, by me, Thomas Rankine. " "Transmitted to Archibald
Hastie, Esq. , London, March 27th, 1824, from Bombay. "]

_Dumfries, 21st June, 1794. _

MY DEAR SIR,

My long-projected journey through your country is at last fixed: and
on Wednesday next, if you have nothing of more importance to do, take
a saunter down to Gatehouse about two or three o'clock, I shall be
happy to take a draught of M'Kune's best with you. Collector Syme will
be at Glens about that time, and will meet us about dish-of-tea hour.
Syme goes also to Kerroughtree, and let me remind you of your kind
promise to accompany me there; I will need all the friends I can
muster, for I am indeed ill at ease whenever I approach your
honourables and right honourables.

Yours sincerely,

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXCVI.


TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[Castle Douglas is a thriving Galloway village: it was in other days
called "The Carlinwark," but accepted its present proud name from an
opulent family of mercantile Douglasses, well known in Scotland,
England, and America. ]

_Castle Douglas, 25th June, 1794. _

Here, in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by myself, to
amuse my brooding fancy as I may. --Solitary confinement, you know, is
Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners; so let me consider by
what fatality it happens that I have so long been so exceeding sinful
as to neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have on
earth. To tell you that I have been in poor health will not be excuse
enough, though it is true. I am afraid that I am about to suffer for
the follies of my youth. My medical friends threaten me with a flying
gout; but I trust they are mistaken.

I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first
sketch of a stanza I have been framing as I passed along the road. The
subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme
is to me. I design it as an irregular ode for General Washington's
birth-day. After having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms, I
come to Scotland thus:--

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
Thee, famed for martial deed, and sacred song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead!
Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies!
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
Ye babbling winds in silence sweep,
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep.

with additions of

That arm which nerved with thundering fate,
Braved usurpation's boldest daring!
One quenched in darkness like the sinking star,
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age.

You will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or two.

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXCVII.


TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON.

[The anxiety of Burns about the accuracy of his poetry, while in the
press, was great: he found full employment for months in correcting a
new edition of his poems. ]

_Dumfries, 1794. _

MY DEAR FRIEND,

You should have heard from me long ago; but over and above some
vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I
have all this winter been plagued with low spirits and blue devils, so
that _I have almost hung my harp on the willow-trees. _

I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems, and this,
with my ordinary business, finds me in full employment.

I send you by my friend Mr. Wallace forty-one songs for your fifth
volume; if we cannot finish it in any other way, what would you think
of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs? In the mean time, at your
leisure, give a copy of the Museum to my worthy friend, Sir. Peter
Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves,
exactly as he did the Laird of Glenriddel's, that I may insert every
anecdote I can learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks on
the songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to
publish at some after period, by way of making the Museum a book
famous to the end of time, and you renowned for ever.

I have got an Highland dirk, for which I have great veneration; as it
once was the dirk of _Lord Balmerino. _ It fell into bad hands, who
stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as the knife and fork. I
have some thoughts of sending it to your care, to get it mounted anew.

Thank you for the copies of my Volunteer Ballad. --Our friend Clarke
has done _indeed_ well! 'tis chaste and beautiful. I have not met with
anything that has pleased me so much. You know I am no connoisseur:
but that I am an amateur--will be allowed me.

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXCVIII.


TO MR. THOMSON.

[The blank in this letter could be filled up without writing treason:
but nothing has been omitted of an original nature. ]

_July, 1794. _

Is there no news yet of Pleyel? Or is your work to be at a dead stop,
until the allies set our modern Orpheus at liberty from the savage
thraldom of democrat discords? Alas the day! And woe is me! That
auspicious period, pregnant with the happiness of millions. * * * *

I have presented a copy of your songs to the daughter of a much-valued
and much-honoured friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintray. I wrote on
the blank side of the title-page the following address to the young
lady:

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, &c. [257]

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 257: Song CCXXIX. ]

* * * * *




CCXCIX.


TO MR. THOMSON.

[Thomson says to Burns, "You have anticipated my opinion of 'O'er the
seas and far away. '" Yet some of the verses are original and
touching. ]

_30th August, 1794. _

The last evening, as I was straying out, and thinking of "O'er the
hills and far away," I spun the following stanza for it; but whether
my spinning will deserve to be laid up in store, like the precious
thread of the silk-worm, or brushed to the devil, like the vile
manufacture of the spider, I leave, my dear Sir, to your usual candid
criticism. I was pleased with several lines in it at first, but I own
that now it appears rather a flimsy business.

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whether it be worth a
critique. We have many sailor songs, but as far as I at present
recollect, they are mostly the effusions of the jovial sailor, not the
wailings of his love-lorn mistress. I must here make one sweet
exception--"Sweet Annie frae the sea-beach came. " Now for the song:--

How can my poor heart be glad. [258]

I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of
Christian meekness.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 258: Song CCXXIV. ]

* * * * *




CCC.


TO MR. THOMSON.

[The stream on the banks of which this song is supposed to be sung, is
known by three names, Cairn, Dalgonar, and Cluden. It rises under the
name of Cairn, runs through a wild country, under the name of
Dalgonar, affording fine trout-fishing as well as fine scenes, and
under that of Cluden it all but washes the walls of Lincluden College,
and then unites with the Nith. ]

_Sept. 1794. _

I shall withdraw my "On the seas and far away" altogether: it is
unequal, and unworthy the work. Making a poem is like begetting a son:
you cannot know whether you have a wise man or a fool, until you
produce him to the world to try him.

For that reason I send you the offspring of my brain, abortions and
all; and, as such, pray look over them, and forgive them, and burn
them. I am flattered at your adopting "Ca' the yowes to the knowes,"
as it was owing to me that ever it saw the light. About seven years
ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a clergyman,
a Mr. Clunie, who sang it charmingly; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke
took it down from his singing. When I gave it to Johnson, I added some
stanzas to the song, and mended others, but still it will not do for
you. In a solitary stroll which I took 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.