“When pleasure fascinates the mental sight,Affliction purifies the visual ray,Religion hails the drear, the untried night,And shuts, for ever shuts! life’s doubtful day.”
“When pleasure fascinates the mental sight,Affliction purifies the visual ray,Religion hails the drear, the untried night,And shuts, for ever shuts! life’s doubtful day.”
R. B.
[Cromek informed me, on the authority of Mrs. Burns, that the “handsome, elegant present” mentioned in this letter, was a common worsted shawl.]
February, 1796.
Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your handsome, elegant present to Mrs. Burns, and for my remaining volume of P. Pindar. Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine. I am much pleased with your idea of publishing a collection of our songs in octavo, with etchings. I am extremely willing to lend every assistance in my power. The Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding verses for.
I have already, you know, equipt three with words, and the other day I strung up a kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I admire much.
Awa’ wi’ your witchcraft o’ beauty’s alarms.[288]
Awa’ wi’ your witchcraft o’ beauty’s alarms.[288]
If this will do, you have now four of my Irish engagement. In my by-past songs I dislike one thing, the name Chloris—I meant it as the fictitious name of a certain lady: but, on second thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral ballad. Of this, and some things else, in my next: I have more amendments to propose. What you once mentioned of “flaxen locks” is just: they cannot enter into an elegant description of beauty. Of this also again—God bless you![289]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:[288]Song CCLXVI.[289]Our poet never explained what name he would have substituted for Chloris.—Mr. Thomson.
[288]Song CCLXVI.
[288]Song CCLXVI.
[289]Our poet never explained what name he would have substituted for Chloris.—Mr. Thomson.
[289]Our poet never explained what name he would have substituted for Chloris.—Mr. Thomson.
[It is seldom that painting speaks in the spirit of poetry Burns perceived some of the blemishes of Allan’s illustrations: but at that time little nature and less elegance entered into the embellishments of books.]
April, 1796.
Alas! my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some time ere I tune my lyre again! “By Babel streams I have sat and wept” almost ever since I wrote you last; I have only known existence by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness, and have counted time by the repercussions of pain! Rheumatism, cold, and fever have formed to me a terrible combination. I close my eyes in misery, and open them without hope. I look on the vernal day, and say with poor Fergusson,
“Say, wherefore has an all-indulgent heavenLight to the comfortless and wretched given?”
“Say, wherefore has an all-indulgent heavenLight to the comfortless and wretched given?”
This will be delivered to you by Mrs. Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which for these many years has been my howff, and whereour friend Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. Allan’s etchings. “Woo’d an’ married an’ a’,” is admirable! The grouping is beyond all praise. The expression of the figures, conformable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely faultless perfection. I next admire “Turnim-spike.” What I like least is “Jenny said to Jockey.” Besides the female being in her appearance * * * *, if you take her stooping into the account, she is at least two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn! I sincerely sympathize with him. Happy I am to think that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health and enjoyment in this world. As for me—but that is a sad subject.
R. B.
[The genius of the poet triumphed over pain and want,—his last songs are as tender and as true as any of his early compositions.]
My dear Sir,
I once mentioned to you an air which I have long admired—“Here’s a health to them that’s awa, hiney,” but I forget if you took any notice of it. I have just been trying to suit it with verses, and I beg leave to recommend the air to your attention once more. I have only begun it.
[Here follow the first three stanzas of the song, beginning,
Here’s a health to ane I loe dear;[290]
Here’s a health to ane I loe dear;[290]
the fourth was found among the poet’s MSS. after his death.]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:[290]Song CCLXVII.
[290]Song CCLXVII.
[290]Song CCLXVII.
[John Lewars, whom the poet introduces to Thomson, was a brother gauger, and a kind, warm-hearted gentleman; Jessie Lewars was his sister, and at this time but in her teens.]
This will be delivered by Mr. Lewars, a young fellow of uncommon merit. As he will be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, if you choose, to write me by him: and if you have a spare half-hour to spend with him, I shall place your kindness to my account. I have no copies of the songs I have sent you, and I have taken a fancy to review them all, and possibly may mend some of them; so when you have complete leisure, I will thank you for either the originals or copies.[291]I had rather be the author of five well-written songs than of ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial influence of the approaching summer will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of returning health. I have now reason to believe that my complaint is a flying gout—a sad business!
Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remember me to him.
This should have been delivered to you a month ago. I am still very poorly, but should like much to hear from you.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:[291]“It is needless to say that this revisal Burns did not live to perform.”—Currie.
[291]“It is needless to say that this revisal Burns did not live to perform.”—Currie.
[291]“It is needless to say that this revisal Burns did not live to perform.”—Currie.
Who had desired him to go to the Birth-Day Assembly on that day to show his loyalty.
[This is the last letter which the poet wrote to this accomplished lady.]
Dumfries, 4th June, 1796.
I am in such miserable health as to be utterly incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. Rackt as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every face with a greeting like that of Balak to Balaam—“Come, curse me Jacob; and come, defy me Israel!” So say I—Come, curse me that east wind; and come, defy me the north! Would you have me in such circumstances copy you out a love-song?
I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I will not be at the ball.—Why should I? “man delights not me, nor woman either!” Can you supply me with the song, “Let us all be unhappy together?”—do if you can, and oblige,le pauvre miserable
R. B.
[Who will say, after reading the following distressing letter, lately come to light, that Burns did not die in great poverty.]
Dumfries, 26th June, 1796.
My dear Clarke,
Still, still the victim of affliction! Were you to see the emaciated figure who now holds the pen to you, you would not know your old friend. Whether I shall ever get about again, is only known to Him, the Great Unknown, whose creature I am. Alas, Clarke! I begin to fear the worst.
As to my individual self, I am tranquil, and would despise myself, if I were not; but Burns’s poor widow, and half-a-dozen of his dear little ones—helpless orphans!—thereI am weak as a woman’s tear. Enough of this! ’Tis half of my disease.
I duly received your last, enclosing the note. It came extremely in time, and I am much obliged by your punctuality. Again I must request you to do me the same kindness. Be so very good, as, by return of post, to enclose meanothernote. I trust you can do it without inconvenience, and it will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I shall leave a few friends behind me, whom I shall regret while consciousness remains. I know I shall live in their remembrance. Adieu, dear Clarke. That I shall ever see you again, is, I am afraid, highly improbable.
R. B.
[“In this humble and delicate manner did poor Burns ask for a copy of a work of which he was principally the founder, and to which he had contributedgratuitouslynot less than one hundred and eighty-fouroriginal, altered, and collectedsongs! The editor has seen one hundred and eighty transcribed by his own hand, for the ‘Museum.’”—Cromek. Will it be believed that this “humble request” of Burns was not complied with! The work was intended as a present to Jessie Lewars.]
Dumfries, 4th July, 1796.
How are you, my dear friend, and how comes on your fifth volume? You may probably think that for some time past I have neglected you and your work; but, alas! the hand of pain, and sorrow, and care, has these many months lain heavy on me! Personal and domestic affliction have almost entirely banished that alacrity and life with which I used to woo the rural muse of Scotia. In the meantime let us finish what we have so well begun.
You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and have a good right to live in this world—because you deserve it. Many a merry meeting this publication has given us, and possibly it may give us more, though, alas! I fear it. This protracting, slow, consuming illness which hangs over me, will, I doubt much, my ever dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well reached his middle career, and will turn over the poet to other and far more important concerns than studying the brilliancy of wit, or the pathos of sentiment! However,hopeis the cordial of the human heart, and I endeavour to cherish it as well as I can.
Let me hear from you as soon as convenient.—Your work is a great one; and now that it is finished, I see, if we were to begin again, two or three things that might be mended; yet I will venture to prophesy, that to future ages your publication will be the text-book and standard of Scottish song and music.
I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, because you have been so very good already; but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, a young lady who sings well, to whom she wishes to present the “Scots Musical Museum.” If you have a spare copy, will you be so obliging as to send it by the very firstfly, as I am anxious to have it soon.
The gentleman, Mr. Lewars, a particular friend of mine, will bring out any proofs (if they are ready) or any message you may have. I am extremely anxious for your work, as indeed I am for everything concerning you, and your welfare.
Farewell,
R. B.
P. S. You should have had this when Mr. Lewars called on you, but his saddle-bags miscarried.
[Few of the last requests of the poet were effectual: Clarke, it is believed, did not send the secondnotehe wrote for: Johnson did not send the copy of the Museumwhich he requested, and the Commissioners of Excise refused the continuance of his full salary.]
Brow, Sea-bathing quarters, 7th July, 1796.
My dear Cunningham,
I received yours here this moment, and am indeed highly flattered with the approbation of the literary circle you mention; a literary circle inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas! my friend, I fear the voice of the bard will soon be heard among you no more! For these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bedfast and sometimes not; but these last three months I have been tortured with an excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me—Pale, emaciated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair—my spirits fled! fled! but I can no more on the subject—only the medical folks tell me that my last only chance is bathing and country-quarters, and riding.—The deuce of the matter is this; when an exciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced to 35l.instead of 50l.—What way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse in country quarters—with a wife and five children at home, on 35l.? I mention this, because I had intended to beg your utmost interest, and that of all the friends you can muster, to move our commissioners of excise to grant me the full salary; I dare say you know them all personally. If they do not grant it me, I must lay my account with an exit trulyen poëte—if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger.
I have sent you one of the songs; the other my memory does not serve me with, and I have no copy here; but I shall be at home soon, when I will send it you.—Apropos to being at home, Mrs. Burns threatens, in a week or two, to add one more to my paternal charge, which, if of the right gender, I intend shall be introduced to the world by the respectable designation ofAlexander Cunningham Burns.My last wasJames Glencairn, so you can have no objection to the company of nobility. Farewell.
R. B.
[This letter contained heavy news for Gilbert Burns: the loss of a brother whom he dearly loved and admired, was not all, though the worst.]
10th July, 1796.
Dear Brother,
It will be no very pleasing news to you to be told that I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. An inveterate rheumatism has reduced me to such a state of debility, and my appetite is so totally gone, that I can scarcely stand on my legs. I have been a week at sea-bathing, and I will continue there, or in a friend’s house in the country, all the summer. God keep my wife and children: if I am taken from their head, they will be poor indeed. I have contracted one or two serious debts, partly from my illness these many months, partly from too much thoughtlessness as to expense, when I came to town, that will cut in too much on the little I leave them in your hands. Remember me to my mother.
Yours,
R. B.
[The original letter is now in a safe sanctuary, the hands of the poet’s son, Major James Glencairn Burns.]
July 10th[1796.]
For Heaven’s sake, and as you value the we[l]fare of your daughter and my wife, do, my dearest Sir, write to Fife, to Mrs. Armour to come if possible. My wife thinks she can yet reckon upon a fortnight. The medical people order me,as I value my existence, to fly to sea-bathing and country-quarters, so it is ten thousand chances to one that I shall not be within a dozen miles of her when her hour comes. What a situation for her, poor girl, without a single friend by her on such a serious moment.
I have now been a week at salt-water, and though I think I have got some good by it, yet I have some secret fears that this business will be dangerous if not fatal.
Your most affectionate son,
R. B.
[Sea-bathing, I have heard skilful men say, was injudicious: but it was felt that Burns was on his way to thegrave, and as he desired to try the influence of sea-water, as well as sea-air, his wishes were not opposed.]
Brow, Thursday.
My dearest Love,
I delayed writing until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would be injustice to deny that it has eased my pains, and I think has strengthened me; but my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow: porridge and milk are the only things I can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are all well. My very best and kindest compliments to her, and to all the children. I will see you on Sunday.
Your affectionate husband,
R. B.
[“The poet had the pleasure of receiving a satisfactory explanation of this lady’s silence,” says Currie, “and an assurance of the continuance of her friendship to his widow and children.”]
Brow, Saturday, 12th July, 1796.
Madam,
I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, that I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which I am. An illness which has long hung about me, in all probability will speedily send me beyond thatbourn whence no traveller returns.Your friendship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, were at once highly entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did I use to break up the seal! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart.
Farewell!!!
R. B.
[Thomson instantly complied with the dying poet’s request, and transmitted the exact sum which he requested, viz. five pounds, by return of post: he was afraid of offending the pride of Burns, otherwise he would, he says, have sent a larger sum. He has not, however, told us how much he sent to the all but desolate widow and children, when death had released him from all dread of the poet’s indignation.]
Brow, on the Solway-firth, 12th July, 1796.
After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God’s sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously; for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds’ worth of the neatest song-genius you have seen. I tried my hand on “Rothemurche” this morning. The measure is so difficult that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the lines; they are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me!
Fairest maid on Devon’s banks.[292]
Fairest maid on Devon’s banks.[292]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:[292]Song CCLXVIII.
[292]Song CCLXVIII.
[292]Song CCLXVIII.
[The good, the warm-hearted James Burness sent his cousin ten pounds on the 29th of July—he sent five pounds afterwards to the family, and offered to take one of the boys, and educate him in his own profession of a writer. All this was unknown to the world till lately.]
Brow, 12th July.
My dear Cousin,
When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced process against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate me, and that by return of post, with ten pounds? O James! did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for me! Alas! I am not used to beg! The worst of it is, my health was coming about finely; you know, and my physician assured me, that melancholy and low spirits are half my disease; guess then my horrors since this business began. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, quite well in a manner. How shall I use thelanguage to you, O do not disappoint me! but strong necessity’s curst command.
I have been thinking over and over my brother’s affairs, and I fear I must cut him up; but on this I will correspond at another time, particularly as I shall [require] your advice.
Forgive me for once more mentioning by return of post;—save me from the horrors of a jail!
My compliments to my friend James, and to all the rest. I do not know what I have written. The subject is so horrible I dare not look it over again.
Farewell.
R. B.
[James Gracie was, for some time, a banker in Dumfries: his eldest son, a fine, high-spirited youth, fell by a rifle-ball in America, when leading the troops to the attack on Washington.]
Brow, Wednesday Morning, 16th July, 1796.
My dear Sir,
It would [be] doing high injustice to this place not to acknowledge that my rheumatisms have derived great benefits from it already; but alas! my loss of appetite still continues. I shall not need your kind offerthis week, and I return to town the beginning of next week, it not being a tide-week. I am detaining a man in a burning hurry.
So God bless you.
R. B.
[The following Strictures on Scottish Song exist in the handwriting of Burns, in the interleaved copy of Johnson’s Musical Museum, which the poet presented to Captain Riddel, of Friars Carse; on the death of Mrs. Riddel, these precious volumes passed into the hands of her niece, Eliza Bayley, of Manchester, who kindly permitted Mr. Cromek to transcribe and publish them in the Reliques.]
This Highland Queen, music and poetry, was composed by Mr. M’Vicar, purser of the Solebay man-of-war.—This I had from Dr. Blacklock.
This song shows that the Scottish muses did not all leave us when we lost Ramsay and Oswald, as I have good reason to believe that the verses and music are both posterior to the days of these two gentlemen. It is a beautiful song, and in the genuine Scots taste. We have few pastoral compositions, I mean the pastoral of nature, that are equal to this.
It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Renfrew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkudbright, and Dumfries-shires, there is scarcely an old song or tune which, from the title, &c., can be guessed to belong to, or be the production of these countries. This, I conjecture, is one of these very few; as the ballad, which is a long one, is called, both by tradition and in printed collections, “The Lass of Lochroyan,” which I take to be Lochroyan, in Galloway.
This song is one of the many attempts that English composers have made to imitate the Scottish manner, and which I shall, in these strictures, beg leave to distinguish by the appellation of Anglo-Scottish productions. The music is pretty good, but the verses are just above contempt.
This song, as far as I know, for the first time appears here in print.—When I was a boy, it was a very popular song in Ayrshire. I remember to have heard those fanatics, the Buchanites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, which they dignify with the name of hymns, to this air.
These beautiful verses were the production of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr. Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anecdote, kept for some years as amanuensis. I do not know who is the author of the second song to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing history of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald; but in Oswald’s own collection of Scots tunes, where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself composed, he does not make the least claim to the tune.
This song, for genuine humour in the verses, and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled. I take it to be very old.
A tradition is mentioned in the “Bee,” that the second Bishop Chisholm, of Dunblane, used to say, that if he were going to be hanged, nothing would soothe his mind so much by the way as to hear “Clout the Caldron” played.
I have met with another tradition, that the old song to this tune,
“Hae ye onie pots or pans,Or onie broken chanlers,”
“Hae ye onie pots or pans,Or onie broken chanlers,”
was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in the cavalier times; and alluded to an amour he had, while under hiding, in the disguise of an itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the name of
“The blacksmith and his apron,”
“The blacksmith and his apron,”
which from the rhythm, seems to have been a line of some old song to the tune.
This charming song is much older, and indeed superior to Ramsay’s verses, “The Toast,” as he calls them. There is another set of the words, much older still, and which I take to be the original one, but though it has a very great deal of merit, it is not quite ladies’ reading.
The original words, for they can scarcely be called verses, seem to be as follows; a song familiar from the cradle to every Scottish ear.
“Saw ye my Maggie,Saw ye my Maggie,Saw ye my MaggieLinkin o’er the lea?High kilted was she,High kilted was she,High kilted was she,Her coat aboon her knee.What mark has your Maggie,What mark has your Maggie,What mark has your Maggie,That ane may ken her be?”
“Saw ye my Maggie,Saw ye my Maggie,Saw ye my MaggieLinkin o’er the lea?
High kilted was she,High kilted was she,High kilted was she,Her coat aboon her knee.
What mark has your Maggie,What mark has your Maggie,What mark has your Maggie,That ane may ken her be?”
Though it by no means follows that the silliest verses to an air must, for that reason, be the original song; yet I take this ballad, of which I have quoted part, to be old verses. The two songs in Ramsay, one of them evidently his own, are never to be met with in the fire-side circle of our peasantry; while that which I take to be the old song, is in every shepherd’s mouth. Ramsay, I suppose, had thought the old verses unworthy of a place in his collection.
This song is one of the many effusions of Scots Jacobitism.—The title “Flowers of Edinburgh,” has no manner of connexion with the present verses, so I suspect there has been an older set of words, of which the title is all that remains.
By the bye, it is singular enough that the Scottish muses were all Jacobites.—I have paid more attention to every description of Scots songs than perhaps anybody living has done, and I do not recollect one single stanza, or even the title of the most trifling Scots air, which has the least panegyrical reference to the families of Nassau or Brunswick; while there are hundreds satirizing them.—This may be thought no panegyric on the Scots Poets, but I mean it as such. For myself, I would always take it as a compliment to have it said, that my heart ran before my head,—and surely the gallant thoughunfortunate house of Stewart, the kings of our fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme * * * * * *
Jamie Gay is another and a tolerable Anglo-Scottish piece.
Another Anglo-Scottish production.
It is self-evident that the first four lines of this song are part of a song more ancient than Ramsay’s beautiful verses which are annexed to them. As music is the language of nature; and poetry, particularly songs, are always less or more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) by some of the modifications of time and place, this is the reason why so many of our Scots airs have outlived their original, and perhaps many subsequent sets of verses; except a single name or phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply to distinguish the tunes by.
To this day among people who know nothing of Ramsay’s verses, the following is the song, and all the song that ever I heard:
“Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie,Gie her a kiss and let her gae;But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie,Fye, gae rub her o’er wi’ strae.Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her,Fye, gae rub her o’er wi’ strae:An’ gin ye meet dirty hizzie,Fye, gae rub her o’er wi’ strae.”
“Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie,Gie her a kiss and let her gae;But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie,Fye, gae rub her o’er wi’ strae.
Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her,Fye, gae rub her o’er wi’ strae:An’ gin ye meet dirty hizzie,Fye, gae rub her o’er wi’ strae.”
The old song, in three eight-line stanzas, is well known, and has merit as to wit and humour; but it is rather unfit for insertion.—It begins,
“The Bonnie lass o’ Liviston,Her name ye ken, her name ye ken,And she has written in her contractTo lie her lane, to lie her lane.”&c. &c.
“The Bonnie lass o’ Liviston,Her name ye ken, her name ye ken,And she has written in her contractTo lie her lane, to lie her lane.”&c. &c.
Ramsay found the first line of this song, which had been preserved as the title of the charming air, and then composed the rest of the verses to suit that line. This has always a finer effect than composing English words, or words with an idea foreign to the spirit of the old title. Where old titles of songs convey any idea at all, it will generally be found to be quite in the spirit of the air.
Though this has certainly every evidence of being a Scottish air, yet there is a well-known tune and song in the north of Ireland, called “The Weaver and his Shuttle O,” which, though sung much quicker, is every note the very tune.
Another, but very pretty Anglo-Scottish piece.
In Sinclair’s Statistical Account of Scotland, this song is localized (a verb I must use for want of another to express my idea) somewhere in the north of Scotland, and likewise is claimed by Ayrshire.—The following anecdote I had from the present Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it from the last John, Earl of Loudon. The then Earl of Loudon, and father to Earl John before mentioned, had Ramsay at Loudon, and one day walking together by the banks of Irvine water, near New-Mills, at a place called Patie’s Mill, they were struck with the appearance of a beautiful country girl. His lordship observed that she would be a fine theme for a song.—Allan lagged behind in returning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produced this identical song.
There is a stanza of this excellent song for local humour, omitted in this set.—Where I have placed the asterisms.
“They tak the horse then by te head,And tere tey mak her stan’, man;Me tell tem, me hae seen te day,Tey no had sic comman’, man.”
“They tak the horse then by te head,And tere tey mak her stan’, man;Me tell tem, me hae seen te day,Tey no had sic comman’, man.”
As this was a favourite theme with our later Scottish muses, there are several airs and songsof that name. That which I take to be the oldest, is to be found in the “Musical Museum,” beginning, “I hae been at Crookieden.” One reason for my thinking so is, that Oswald has it in his collection, by the name of “The Auld Highland Laddie.” It is also known by the name of “Jinglan Johnie,” which is a well-known song of four or five stanzas, and seems to be an earlier song than Jacobite times. As a proof of this, it is little known to the peasantry by the name of “Highland Laddie;” while everybody knows “Jinglan Johnie.” The song begins
“Jinglan John, the meickle man,He met wi’ a lass was blythe and bonie.”
“Jinglan John, the meickle man,He met wi’ a lass was blythe and bonie.”
Another “Highland Laddie” is also in the “Museum,” vol. v., which I take to be Ramsay’s original, as he has borrowed the chorus—“O my bonie Highland lad,” &c. It consists of three stanzas, besides the chorus; and has humour in its composition—it is an excellent, but somewhat licentious song.—It begins
“As I cam o’er Cairney mount,And down among the blooming heather.”
“As I cam o’er Cairney mount,And down among the blooming heather.”
This air, and the common “Highland Laddie,” seem only to be different sets.
Another “Highland Laddie,” also in the “Museum,” vol. v., is the tune of several Jacobite fragments. One of these old songs to it, only exists, as far as I know, in these four lines—
“Where hae ye been a’ day,Bonie laddie, Highland laddie?Down the back o’ Bell’s brae,Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie.”
“Where hae ye been a’ day,Bonie laddie, Highland laddie?Down the back o’ Bell’s brae,Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie.”
Another of this name is Dr. Arne’s beautiful air, called the new “Highland Laddie.”
To sing such a beautiful air to such execrable verses, is downright prostitution of common sense! The Scots verses indeed are tolerable.
This is an Anglo-Scottish production, but by no means a bad one.
It is too barefaced to take Dr. Percy’s charming song, and by means of transposing a few English words into Scots, to offer to pass it for a Scots song.—I was not acquainted with the editor until the first volume was nearly finished, else, had I known in time, I would have prevented such an impudent absurdity.
The following is a set of this song, which was the earliest song I remember to have got by heart. When a child, an old woman sung it to me, and I picked it up, every word, at first hearing.
“O Willy, weel I mind, I lent you my handTo sing you a song which you did me command;But my memory’s so bad I had almost forgotThat you called it the gear and the blaithrie o’t.—I’ll not sing about confusion, delusion or pride,I’ll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride;For virtue is an ornament that time will never rot,And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o’t.—Tho’ my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on,We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne;I wad rather hae my lassie, tho’ she cam in her smock,Than a princess wi’ the gear and the blaithrie o’t.—Tho’ we hae nae horses or menzies at command,We will toil on our foot, and we’ll work wi’ our hand;And when wearied without rest, we’ll find it sweet in any spot,And we’ll value not the gear and the blaithrie o’t.—If we hae ony babies, we’ll count them as lent;Hae we less, hae we mair, we will ay be content;For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins bu groat,Than the miser wi’ his gear and the blaithrie o’t—I’ll not meddle wi’ th’ affairs of the kirk or the queen;They’re nae matters for a sang, let them sink, let them swim;On your kirk I’ll ne’er encroach, but I’ll hold it stil remote,Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o’t.”
“O Willy, weel I mind, I lent you my handTo sing you a song which you did me command;But my memory’s so bad I had almost forgotThat you called it the gear and the blaithrie o’t.—
I’ll not sing about confusion, delusion or pride,I’ll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride;For virtue is an ornament that time will never rot,And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o’t.—
Tho’ my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on,We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne;I wad rather hae my lassie, tho’ she cam in her smock,Than a princess wi’ the gear and the blaithrie o’t.—
Tho’ we hae nae horses or menzies at command,We will toil on our foot, and we’ll work wi’ our hand;And when wearied without rest, we’ll find it sweet in any spot,And we’ll value not the gear and the blaithrie o’t.—
If we hae ony babies, we’ll count them as lent;Hae we less, hae we mair, we will ay be content;For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins bu groat,Than the miser wi’ his gear and the blaithrie o’t—
I’ll not meddle wi’ th’ affairs of the kirk or the queen;They’re nae matters for a sang, let them sink, let them swim;On your kirk I’ll ne’er encroach, but I’ll hold it stil remote,Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o’t.”
“Kate of Aberdeen” is, I believe, the work of poor Cunningham the player; of whom the following anecdote, though told before, deserves a recital. A fat dignitary of the church coming past Cunningham oneSunday, as the poor poet was busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream near Durham, his native country, his reverence reprimanded Cunningham very severely for such an occupation on such a day. The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which was his peculiar characteristic, replied, that he hoped God and his reverence would forgive his seeming profanity of that sacred day, “as he had no dinner to eat, but what lay at the bottom of that pool!” This, Mr. Woods, the player, who knew Cunningham well, and esteemed him much, assured me was true.
In Ramsay’s Tea-table Miscellany, he tells us that about thirty of the songs in that publication were the works of some young gentlemen of his acquaintance; which songs are marked with the letters D. C. &c.—Old Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender of the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that the songs marked C, in theTea-table, were the composition of a Mr. Crawfurd, of the house of Achnames, who was afterwards unfortunately drowned coming from France.—As Tytler was most intimately acquainted with Allan Ramsay, I think the anecdote may be depended on. Of consequence, the beautiful song of Tweed Side is Mr. Crawfurd’s, and indeed does great honour to his poetical talents. He was a Robert Crawfurd; the Mary he celebrates was a Mary Stewart, of the Castle-Milk family, afterwards married to a Mr. John Ritchie.
I have seen a song, calling itself the original Tweed Side, and said to have been composed by a Lord Yester. It consisted of two stanzas, of which I still recollect the first—