: 12 LT 10 2 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. 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 ared-wud Highlandman, constantly claimed it; and, by all the old musical people here, is be lieved to be the author of it. 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 lang and dreary is the Night. Tune-Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. I. How lang and dreary is the night, This and the other scenes to which the Poet alludes, had appeared in the "Museum," and Thomson had enquired whether they were our Bard's.-CURRIE. +["Donocht-Head," which the Poet praises so highly, was written by a gentleman, now dead, of the name of Pickering, who lived at Newcastle. There are some who still believe it to be by Burns himself, I know not on what grounds, except that it is equally natural and original: "Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-Head, Full ninety winters hae I seen, A mountain in the North. For oh! her lanely nights are lang: And oh, her dreams are eerie; And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, That's absent frae her dearie. II. When I think on the lightsome days 111. How slow ye move, ye heavy hours! For oh! her lanely nights are lang; 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 (Ritson) has done in his London collection. These English songs gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue. 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. Tune-Duncan Gray. I. Let not woman e'er complain Of inconstancy in love; Let not woman e'er complain Fickle man is apt to rove: My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cry'd, Was short when he began his din. O, haith, its doubly dear to me! Nae hame have I, the minstrel said, I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw." "This affecting poem is apparently incomplete. The author need not be ashamed to own himself. It is worthy of Burns or of Macneil."-CURRIE.] [The earlier version of "How long and dreary is the night," will be found in another part of the volume, the measure is different, as well as many of the lines, and it is directed to be sung to a Gaelic air. Both songs are simple and affecting.] * [The Poet has himself, in part, ascribed the origin of this song to Chloris.-" He sat sae late and drank sae stout," at his friend's house, that the morning sun rose on him on his way home, and suggested these verses to his excited fancy. The complicated measure has communicated a laboured-like air to the stanzas: they are full, however, of truth and nature: they were favourites with the Poet, from the trouble which they cost him, perhaps; his manuscripts afford sundry variations.] † [VAR.- "Now to the streaming fountain, Or up the heathy mountain, She meets my ravish'd sight, When thro' my very heart Her beaming glories dart'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. 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 brought it o 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 to put it into the Musical Museum. Here follow the verses I intend for it: The auld Man. Tune-The Winter of Life. I. But lately seen in gladsome green, Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers In double pride were gay: But now our joys are fled, On winter blasts awa! Yet maiden May, in rich array, II. But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 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. ! will thank you for another information, and that as speedily as you please-whether this miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has net completely tired you of my correspondence! R. B. No. LXI. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, October 27th, 1794. I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a genuine poet can no more exist without his mistress than his meat. I wish I knew the adorable she, whose bright eyes and witching smiles have so often enraptured the Scottish bard, that I might drink her sweet health when the toast is going round: "Craigie-burn Wood" must certainly be adopted into my family, since she is the object of the song; but, in the name of decency, I must beg a new chorus verse from you. “О to be lying beyond thee, dearie," is, perhaps, a consummation to be wished, but will not do for singing in the company of ladies. The songs in your last will do you lasting credit, and suit the respective airs charmingly. I am perfectly of your opinion with respect to the additional airs: the idea of sending them into the world naked as they were born was ungenerous. They must all be clothed and made decent by our friend Clarke. I find I am anticipated by the friendly Cunningham in sending you Ritson's Scottish Collection. Permit me, therefore, to present you with his English Collection, which you will receive by the coach. I do not find his historical Essay on Scottish song interesting. Your anecdotes and miscellaneous remarks will, I am sure, be much more so. Allan has just sketched a charming design from "Maggie Lauder." She is dancing with such spirit us to electrify the piper, who seems almost dancing too, while he is playing with the most exquisite glee. I am much inclined to get a small copy, and to have it engraved in the style of Ritson's prints. P.S. Pray what do your anecdotes say concerning "Maggie Lauder?" Was she a real personage, and of what rank? You would surely "spier for her, if you ca'd at Anstruther town." G. T. [Of Maggie Lauder much has been written by annotators, but no light has been thrown upon either her birth-place or her station: she is likely a creation of the minstrel muse, and belongs to the imagination. The mind of the world is essentially prosaic; it loves truth, and rejoices to find that sometimes the characters which fiction presents are derived from originals of flesh and blood. Maggie Lauder has lately obtained a longer lease of life at the hands of a northern poet. She is the heroine in Tennant's Anster Fair, a poem of great originality as well as force the forerunner of what has been called the Beppo School of verse. - CUNNINGHAM.] ce-t No. LXII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 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 fair 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: Chloris. I. MY Chloris, mark how green the groves, II. The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, III. Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string IV. The princely revel may survey v. The shepherd, in the flow'ry glen, In shepherd's phrase will woo: The courtier tells a finer taleBut is his heart as true? VI. These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck That spotless breast o' thine: [In another copy of this song it begins thus ;Behold, my love, how green the groves.] 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 pleasure 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 "Daintie Davie," as follows : The charming Month of May. I. It was the charming month of May, When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, One morning, by the break of day, The youthful, charming Chloe; Lovely was she by the dawn, * [In some of the copies of this lyric the last verse runs thus; And should the howling wintry blast CURRIE.] II. The feather'd people you might see, They hail the charming Chloe; 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. Tune-Rothemurche's Rant. I. Now nature cleeds the flowery lea, And say thou'lt be my dearie, О? II. And when the welcome simmer-shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, We'll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie, O. III. When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way; Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love, my dearie, O. IV. And when the howling wintry blast my † [It is said that the wife of Nollekens, the sculptor, was of a disposition so jealous that she would not allow him to have living models to finish his fancy-figures by; and, as the sculptor could not imagine what he did not see, he was compelled to desist from the modelling of Venuses and Graces. In like manner, there are some poets write best from what they see; they look, and talk, and think, till their feelings and 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. No. LXIII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. 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. begins It "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, as follows.* Now for my English song to "Nancy's to the Greenwood," &c.: Farewell, thou Stream. I. I know thou doom'st me to despair, III. The music of thy voice I heard, The wheeling torrent viewing; 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 FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flows you, Mr. Clarke informed me of several years Around Eliza's dwelling! And yet in secret languish, Nor dare disclose my anguish. II. Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, fancy rise into the region of poesie, and then empty their There are others in whose imagina hearts into the verse. tions eternal beauty resides, and who have no occasion to kindle themselves up by the presence of living loveliness. Burns seems to have belonged to the former class; not but that beauty had a permanent abode in his fancy, but the excitement which the voice and looks of woman occasioned saved him the trouble of drawing upon his imagination. Those acquainted with the Poet's life and habits of study will perceive much of both in the sweet song of "Lassie wi the lint-white locks." Dumfries is a small town; a few steps carried Burns to green lanes, daisied brae-sides, and quiet stream-banks. Men returning from labour were sure to meet him "all under the light of the moon," sauntering forth as 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 if he had no aim; his hands behind his back, his hat turned up a little behind by the shortness of his neck, and noting all, yet seeming to note nothing. Yet those who got near without being seen might hear him humming some old Scottish air, and fitting verses to it-the scene and the season supply. ing the imagery, and the Jeanies, the Nancies, the Phelies, and the Jessies of his admiration furnishing bright eyes, white hands, and waving tresses, as the turn of the song required.CUNNINGHAM.] * See the "Lover's Morning Salute to his Mistress," p. 490. Our Bard remarks upon it, "I could easily throw this into an English mould; but, to my taste, in the simple and the tender of the pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scottish has an inimitable effect."-CURRIE. |