name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration) | of which the measure is something similar to she suggested an idea, which I, in my return from the visit, wrought into the following song. My Chloris, mark how green the groves, The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string The princely revel may survey Our rustic dance wi' scorn; But are their hearts as light as ours Beneath the milk-white thorn? The shepherd, in the flowery glen, In shepherd's phrase will woo: The courtier tells a finer tale, But is his heart as true? These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 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 power 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 to 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 what I want; and, with a little alteration, so as to suit the rhyme 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 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. one. SONG, ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH ONE. Ir was the charming month of May, When all the flowers were fresh and gay, One morning by the break of day, The youthful, charming Chloe; From peaceful slumber she arose, CHORUS. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe. The feather'd people you might see They hail the charming Chloe; "Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 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 "Rothiemurchie's Rant;" and you have Clarke to consult, as to the set of the air for singing. LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE And when the welcome summer-shower 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. Lassie wi', &c. And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie O.* Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, Wilt thou be my dearie O. 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. 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 sim. plicity, tenderness and love. I have again gone over my song to the tune as follows.t Now for my English song to "Nancy's to the Greenwood," &c.t • In some of the MSS. this stanza runs thus: And should the howling wintry blast See the song in its first and best dress in p. 223. 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." Here our poet gives a new edition of the song in p. 201. of this volume, and proposes it for another tune. The alterations are unimportant. The name Maria, he changes to Eliza. Instead of the tenth and eleventh lines, as in p. 201, he introduces, "Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 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 nights. 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 that 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 Craigie-burn 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 catch myself in a more than ordinarily propitious moment I shall write a new Craigie-burn 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 tion, and I am not a little proud that I have make so distinguished a figure in your collec Instead of the fourteenth line, which seems not perfectly grammatical as it is printed, he has, more properly, "Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me." This edition ought to have been preferred had it been observed in time. 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. No. LXIII. MR THOMSON to MR BURNS. 15th November 1794. No. LXIV. MR BURNS to MR THOMSON. 19th November 1794. 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. 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 MY GOOD SIR, am scarcely ever off his back. For instance, SINCE receiving your last, I have had another this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in interview with Mr Clarke, and a long consul-my walk before breakfast, I finished my duet tation. He thinks the Caledonian Hunt is more bacchanalian than amorous in its nature, and recommends it to you to match the air accordingly. Pray did it ever occur to you how peculiarly well the Scottish airs are adapted for verses, in the form of a dialogue? The first part of the air is generally low, and suited for a man's voice, and the second part, in many instances, cannot be sung, at concert pitch, but by a female voice. A song thus performed makes an agreeable variety, but few of ours are written in this form: I wish you would think of it in some of those that remain. The only one of the kind you have sent me is admirable, and will be an universal favourite. Your verses for Rothiemurchie are so sweetly pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, for Deil tak the wars, so passionately tender, that I have sung myself into raptures with them. Your song for My lodging is on the cold ground, is likewise a diamond of the first water; I am quite dazzled and delighted by it. Some of your Chlorises I suppose have flaxen hair, from your partiality for this colour; else we differ about it; for I should scarcely conceive a woman to be a beauty, on reading that she bad lint-white locks! Farewell thou stream that winding flows, I think excellent, but it is much too serious to come after Nancy; at least it would seem an incongruity to provide the same air with merry Scottish and melancholy English verses! The more that the two sets of verses resemble each other in their general character, the better. Those you have manufactured for Dainty Davie, will answer charmingly. I am happy to find you have begun your anecdotes. I care not how long they be, for it is impossible that any thing from your pen can be tedious. Let me beseech you to use no ceremony in telling me when you wish to present any of your friends with the songs: the next carrier will bring you three copies, and you are as welcome to twenty as to a pinch of snuff, Tune-"The sow's tail." HE. O Philly, happy be that day SHE. O Willie, aye I bless the grove HE. As songsters of the early year And charming is my Philly. SHE. As on the brier the budding rose The love I bear my Willie. HE. The milder sun and bluer sky, SHE. The little swallow's wanton wing, HE. The bee, that thro' the sunny hour SHE. The woodbine in the dewy weet When evening shades in silence meet, HE. Let fortune's wheel at random rin, SHE. What's a' the joys that gowd can gie? And that's my ain dear Willie. 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 any thing 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, "Craigie-burn 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 "Rothiemurchie;" 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 "Rothiemurchie." In fact, in the first part of both tunes, the rhyme 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. "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 hu mour, an unparalleled composition; and " Andro 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, Iwhyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch, A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a': When at the blythe end of our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past? Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way; Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jad gae : Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain; My warst word is-" Welcome and welcome again!" If you do not relish the air, I will send it to Johnson. 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? Tune-" Roy's wife." CHORUS. Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? Is this thy plighted fond regard, Is this thy faithful swain's reward— An aching, broken heart, my Katy? Canst thou, &c. Farewell! and ne'er such sorrows tear Canst thou, &c.* 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 composed 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 oaken reed exactly cut and notched like that which you see every shepherd-boy have, when the corn stems are green and full To this address, in the character of a forsaken lover, a reply was found on the part of the lady, among the MSS. of our bard, evidently in a female hand writing; which is doubtless that referred to in p. 211 of this volume. The temptation to give it to the public is irresistible; and if, in so doing, offence should be given to the fair authoress, the beauty of her verses must plead our excuse. Tune-" Roy's wife." CHORUS. Stay, my Willie-yet believe me, Stay, my Willie-yet believe me, Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me. Tell me that thou yet art true, And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven, And when this heart proves fause to thee, Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. Stay, my Willie, &c. But to think I was betray'd, That falsehood e'er our love should sunder To take the flow'ret to my breast, And find the guilefu' serpent under! Could I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive, It may amuse the reader to be told, that on this occasion the gentleman and the lady have exchanged the dialects of their respective countries. The Scottish bard makes his address in pure English; the reply on the part of the lady, in the Scottish dialect, is, if we mistake not, by a young and beautiful Englishwoman. 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 ventiges on the upper side, and one back-ventige, 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 use of it. If Mr Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of mine; as I look on myself to be a "Pride in kind of brother-brush with him. 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 custom in the world. No. LXV. MR THOMSON to MR BURNS. Your 28th November, 1794. I ACKNOWLEDGE, my dear sir, you are not only the most punctual, but the most delectable correspondent I ever met with. To attempt flattering you never entered my head; the truth is, I look back with surprise at my impudence, in so frequently nibbling at lines and couplets of your incomparable lyrics, for which, perhaps, if you had served me right, you would have sent me to the devil. On the contrary, however, you have all along condescended to invite my criticism with so much courtesy, that it ceases to be wonderful, if I have sometimes given myself the airs of a reviewer. last budget demands unqualified praise: all the songs are charming, but the duet is a chef d'œuvre. Lumps of pudding shall certainly make one of my family dishes: you have cooked it so capitally, that it will please all palates. Do give us a few more of this cast, when you find yourself in good spirits: these convivial songs are more wanted than those of the amorous kind, of which we have great choice. Besides, one does not often meet with a singer capable of giving the proper effect to the latter, while the former are easily sung, and acceptable to every body. I participate in your regret that the authors of some of our best songs are unknown; it is provoking to every admirer of genius. The I mean to have a picture painted from your beautiful ballad, The soldier's return, to be engraved for one of my frontispieces. most interesting point of time appears to me, when she first recognizes her ain dear Willy, "She gaz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The three lines immediately following, are no doubt more impressive on the reader's feelings; but were the painter to fix on these, then you'll observe the animation and anxiety of her coun |