NO. CCLVI. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. January 26th, 1793. I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans. Dr. Beattie's essay will, of itself, be a treasure. On my part I mean to draw up an appendix to the Doctor's essay, containing my stock of anecdotes, &c., of our Scots songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken down in the course of my acquaintance with him, from his own mouth. I am such an enthusiast, that in the course of my several peregrinations through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every song took its rise, "Lochaber," and the "Braes of Ballenden," excepted. So far as the locality, either from the title of the air, or the tenor of the song, could be ascertained, I have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scots muse. I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable collection of Jacobite songs; but would it give no offence? In the meantime, do not you think that some of them, particularly "The sow's tail to Geordie," as an air, with other words, might be well worth a place in your collection of lively songs? If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it would be proper to have one set of Scots words to every air, and that the set of words to which the notes ought to be set. There is a naïveté, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and, I will add, to every genuine Caledonian taste) with the simple pathos, or rustic sprightliness of our native music, than any English verses whatever. how I shall write you? "In friendship," You would laugh were you to see me where I am just now!-would to heaven you were here to laugh with me! though I am afraid that crying would be our first employment. Here am I set, a solitary hermit, in the solitary room of a solitary inn, with a solitary bottle of wine by meThe very name of Peter Pindar is an as grave and as stupid as an owl, but, like acquisition to your work. (142) His that owl, still faithful to my old song. In Gregory" is beautiful. I have tried to give you confirmation of which, my dear Mrs. Mack, a set of stanzas in Scotch, on the same here is your good health! may the handsubject, which are at your service. Not waled benisons o' Heaven bless your bonnie that I intend to enter the lists with Peter- face; and the wretch wha skellies at your that would be presumption indeed. My welfare, may the auld tinkler deil get him to song, though much inferior in poetic merit, clout his rotten heart! has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity in it. (143) [Here follows "Lord Gregory."] NO. CCLVII. TO CLARINDA. (144) 1793 BEFORE you ask me why I have not written you, first let me be informed of you Amen. You must know, my dearest Madam, that these now many years, wherever I am, in whatever company, when a married lady is called on as a toast, I constantly give you; but as your name has never passed my lips, even to my most intimate friend, I give you by the name of Mrs. Mack. This is so well known among my acquaintances, that when my married lady is called for, the toastmaster will say " O, we need not ask him who it is-here's Mrs. Mack!" I have also, among my convivial friends, set on foot a round of toasts, which I call a round of Arcadian Shepherdesses; that is, a round of favourite ladies, under female names celebrated in ancient songs; and then, you are my Clarinda. So, my lovely Clarinda, I devote this glass of wine to a most ardent wish for your happiness! In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, Point out a cens'ring world, and hid me fear; Above that world on wings of love I rise, I know its worst, and can that worst despise. 'Wrong'd, injur'd, shunn'd, unpitied, unredrest, The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest," Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall, Clarinda, rich reward! o'erpays them all!(145) I have been rhyming a little of late, but do not know if they are worth postage.Tell me. NO. CCLVIII. SYLVANDER. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. March 3rd, 1793. SINCE I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, I have not had time to write you farther. When I say that I had not time, that, as usual, means, that the three demons, indolence, business and ennui, have so completely shared my hours among them, as not to leave me a five minutes' fragment to take up a pen in. Thank Heaven, I feel my spirits buoying upwards with the renovating year. Now, I shall in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly; and, I must own, with too much appearance of truth. A-propos, do you know the much-admired old Highland air called "The Sutor's Dochter?" It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I have written what I reckon one of my best songs to it. I will send it to you as it was sung, with great applause, in some fashionable circles, by Major Robertson, of Lude, who was here with his corps. There was one commission that I must trouble you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a present from a departed friend, which vexes me much. I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, which I fancy would make a very decent one, and I want to cut my armorial bearing on it: will you be so obliging as inquire what will be the expense of such a business? I do not know that my name is matriculated, as the heralds call it, at all, but I have invented arms for myself; so, you know, I shall be chief of the name; and, by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled to supporters. These, however, I do not intend having on my seal. I am a bit of a herald, and shall give you, secundum artem, my arms. On a field, azure, a holy bush, seeded, proper, in base; a shepherd's pipe and crook, saltier-wise, also proper, in chief. On a wreath of the colours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig of bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottoes; round the top of the crest, Wood notes wild; at the bottom of the shield, in the (146) By the shepherd's pipe and crook, I usual place, Better a wee bush than nae bield. do not mean the nonsense of painters of Arcadia, but a stock and horn, and a club, such as you see at the head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of the "Gentle Shepherd." By the bye, do you know Allan? (147) He must be a man of very great genius. Why is he not the more known? Has he no patrons ?-or do Poverty's cold wind and crushing rain beat keen and heavy on him? I once, and but once, got a glance of that noble edition of the noblest pastoral in the world; and dear as it was, I mean dear as to my pocket, I would have bought it but I was told that it was printed and engraved for subscribers only. He is the only artist who has hit genuine pastoral costume. What, my dear Cunningham, is there in riches, that they narrow and harden the heart so? I think, that were I as rich as the sun, I should be as generous as the day; but as I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler one than any other man's, I must conclude that wealth imparts a birdlime quality to the possessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, would have revolted. What has led me to this is the idea of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses, and such riches as a nabob or government contractor possesses, and why they do not form a mutual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish unprotected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that merit will richly repay it. R. B. NO. CCLIX. BURNS TO MR THOMSON. March 20th, 1793. MY DEAR SIR-The song prefixed [“Mary Morison"] is one of my juvenile works I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits or demerits. It is impossible (at least, I feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always original, entertaining, and witty. What is become of the list, &c., of your songs ? I shall be out of all temper with you by and bye. I have always looked on myself as the prince of indolent correspondents, and valued myself accordingly; and I will not, can not, bear rivalship from you, nor any body else. R. B. ing a packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the enclosed sonnet: though to tell you the real truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may have the opportunity of declaring with how much respectful esteem I have the honour to be, &c. R. B. NO. CCLXI. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. March, 1793. NO. CCLX. TO MISS BENSON, SINCE MRS. BASIL MONTAGU. Dumfries, March 21st, 1793. MADAM--Among many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, is this, in particular-that when they met with anybody after their own heart, they had a charming long prospect of many, many happy meetings with them in after-life. Now, in this short, stormy, winter-day of our fleeting existence, when you, now and then, in the chapter of accidents, meet an individual whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there are all the probabilities against you, that you shall never meet with that valued character more. On the other hand, brief as this miserable being is, it is none of the least of the miseries belonging to it, that if there is any miscreant whom you hate, or creature whom you despise, the ill-run of the chances shall be so against you, that in the overtakings, turnings, and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky corner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, and will not allow your indignation or contempt a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer in the powers of darkness, I take these to be the doings of that old author of mischief, the devil. It is well known that he has some kind of short-hand way of taking down our thoughts; and I make no doubt, that he is perfectly acquainted with my sentiments respecting Miss Benson: how much I admired her abilities and valued her worth, and how very fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. For this last reason, my dear Madam, I must entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of meeting with you again. Miss Hamilton tells me that she is send of the songs: these will be a literary curi- last words: now for a few present remarks osity. as they have occurred at random, on looking over your list. I now send you my list of the songs, which, I believe, will be found nearly complete. I have put down the first lines of all the English songs which I propose giving, in addition to the Scotch verses. If any others occur to you, better adapted to the character of the airs, pray mention them, when you favour me with your strictures upon everything else relating to the work. Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the songs, with his symphonies and accompaniments added to them. I wish you were here, that I might serve up some of them to you with your own verses, by way of dessert after dinner. There is so much delightful fancy in the symphonies, and such a delicate simplicity in the accompaniments-they are indeed beyond all praise. I am very much pleased with the several last productions of your muse: your" Lord Gregory," in my estimation, is more interesting than Peter's, beautiful as his is. Your "Here awa, Willie," must undergo some alterations to suit the air. Mr. Erskine and I have been conning it over : he will suggest what is necessary to make them a fit match. (150) The gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine taste you are no stranger to, is so well pleased, both with the musical and poetical part of our work, that he has volunteered his assistance, and has already written four songs for it, which, by his own desire, I send for your perusal. (151) NO. CCLXIII. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. April 7th, 1793. THANK you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine how much this business of composing for your publication has added to my enjoyments. What with my early attachment to ballads, your book, &c., balladmaking is now as completely my hobbyhorse as ever fortification was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my race-God grant that I may take the right side of the winning post!and then cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have been happy, I shall say or sing, “Sae merry as we a' hae been! and, raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of "Coila” (152) shall be, "Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!" So much for my The first lines of "The last time I came o'er the moor," and several other lines in it, are beautiful; but, in my opinion-pardon me, revered shade of Ramsay!-the song is unworthy of the divine air. I shall try to make or mend. "For ever, fortune, wilt thou prove," is a charming song; but "Logan burn and Logan braes" is sweetly susceptible of rural imagery: I'll try that likewise, and, if I succeed, the other song may class among the English ones. member the two last lines of a verse in some of the old songs of "Logan Water" (for I know a good many different ones) which I think pretty: "Now my dear lad maun face his faes, I re 'My Patie is a lover gay," is unequal. "His mind is never muddy," is a muddy expression indeed. My song, "Rigs of Barley," to the same tune, does not altogether please me; but if I can mend it, and thrash a few loose sentiments out of it, I will submit it to your consideration. "The lass o' Paties mill" is one of Ramsay's best songs; but there is one loose sentiment in it, which my muchvalued friend Mr. Erskine will take into his critical consideration. In Sir John Sinclair's statistical volumes, are two claims-one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and the other TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, ESQ. 397 from Ayrshire-for the honour of this song. immediate neighhourhood, until I got it The following anecdote, which I had from taken down from a country girl's singing, the present Sir William Cunningham of It is called "Cragieburn wood," and, in the Robertland, who had it of the late John opinion of Mr. Clarke, is one of the sweetest Earl of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, Scottish Songs. He is quite an enthusiast believe :about it; and I would take his taste in Scottish music against the taste of most connoisseurs. Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudoncastle with the then Earl, father to Earl John; and one forenoon, riding, or walking, out together, his lordship and Allan passed a sweet romantic spot on Irvine water, still | called Patie's mill," where a bonnie lass was "tedding hay, bareheaded on the green." My lord observed to Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and, lingering behind, he composed the first sketch of it, which he produced at dinner. "One day I heard Mary say," is a fine song; but, for consistency's sake, alter the name "Adonis." Were there ever such banns published, as a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary! I agree with you that my song, "There's nought but care on every hand," is much superior to "Puirto“ tith cauld." The original song, "The mill, mill, O!" though excellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible; still, I like the title, and think a Scottish song would suit the notes best; and let your chosen song, which is very pretty, follow as an English "The banks of the Dee," is, you know, literally "Langolee," to slow time. set. The You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, though they are certainly Irish. "Shepherds. I have lost my love! is to me a heavenly air-what would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it? I have made one to it, a good while ago, which I think * *, but in its original state, it is not quite a lady's song. I enclose an altered, not amended copy for you, if you choose to set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow. (155) Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his "Lone vale" is divine. Yours, &c. Let me know just how you like these random hints. NO. CCLXIV. TO PATRICK MILLER, Esq OF DALSWINTON. Dumfries, April, 1793. SIR-My poems having just come out in song is well enough, but has some false another edition, will you do me the honour imagery in it; for instance: And sweetly the nightingale sang from the tree. to accept of a copy? A mark of ny gratitude to you, as a gentleman to whose goodness I have been much indebted; of my respect for you, as a patriot who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the champion of the liberties of my country; and of my veneration. for you as a man, whose benevolence of heart does honour to human nature. In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from a tree; and in the second place, there never was a nightingale seen or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in Scot- There was a time, Sir, when I was your land. Exotic rural imagery is always com-dependent: this language then would have paratively flat. If I could hit on another stanza, equal to "The small birds rejoice," &c., I do myself honestly avow, that I think it a superior song. (154) "John Anderson, my jo"-the song to this tune in Johnson's Museum, is my composition, and I think it not my worst: if it suit you, take it and welcome. Your collection of sentimental and pathetic song, is, in my opinion, very complete; but not so your comic ones. Where are "Tullochgorum,' Lumps o' TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE Esq., puddin," "Tibbie Fowler," and several others, which, in my humble judgment, are well worthy of preservation? There is also one sentimental song of mine in the Museum, which never was known out of the been like the vile incense of flattery-I could not have used it. Now that that connexion (156) is at an end, do me the honour to accept of this honest tribute of respect from, Sir, your much indebted humble servant, NO. CCLXV. OF MAR. (157) R. B. Dumfries, April 13th, 1793. SIR-Degenerate as human nature is said to be-and, in many instances, worthless and |