FOOTNOTES:

“Now my dear lad maun faces his faes,Far, far frae me and Logan braes.”[210]

“My Patie is a lover gay,” is unequal. “His mind is never muddy,” is a muddy expression indeed.

“Then I’ll resign and marry Pate,And syne my cockernony—“

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay or your book. 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’ Patie’s mill” is one of Ramsay’s best songs; but there is one loose sentiment in it, which my much-valued 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 from Ayrshire—for the honour of this song. The following anecdote, which I had from the present Sir William Cunningham of Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, believe:

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon-castle 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, bare-headed 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,”[211]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 “Poortith cauld.” The original song, “The mill, mill, O!”[212]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 set. “The Banks of the Dee” is, you know, literally “Langolee,” to slow time. The song is well enough, but has some false imagery in it: for instance,

“And sweetly the nightingale sang from the tree.”

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 Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is always comparatively flat.[213]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.[214]“John Anderson, my jo”—the song to this tune in Johnson’s Museum, is my composition, and I think it not my worst:[215]if it suit you, take it, and welcome. Your collection of sentimental and pathetic songs, is, in my opinion, very complete; but not so your comic ones. Where are “Tullochgorum,” “Lumps o’ 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 immediate neighbourhood, until I got it taken down from a country girl’s singing. It is called “Craigieburn wood,” and, in the opinion of Mr. Clarke, is one of the sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about it; and I would take his taste in Scottish music against the taste of most connoisseurs.

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,[216]if you choose to set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow.

Mr. Erskine’s songs are all pretty, but his “Lone-vale”[217]is divine.

Yours, &c.

R. B.

Let me know just how you like these random hints.

FOOTNOTES:[208]Burns here calls himself the “Voice of Coila,” in imitation of Ossian, who denominates himself the “Voice of Cona.”—Currie.[209]By Thomson, not the musician, but the poet.[210]This song is not old; its author, the late John Mayne, long outlived Burns[211]By Crawfurd.[212]By Ramsay.[213]The author, John Tait, a writer to the Signet and some time Judge of the police-court in Edinburgh, assented to this, and altered the line to,“And sweetly the wood-pigeon cooed from the tree.”[214]Song CXXXIX.[215]Song LXXX.[216]Song CLXXVII.[217]“How sweet this lone vale, and how soothing to feeling,Yon nightingale’s notes which in melody meet.”The song has found its way into several collections.

[208]Burns here calls himself the “Voice of Coila,” in imitation of Ossian, who denominates himself the “Voice of Cona.”—Currie.

[209]By Thomson, not the musician, but the poet.

[210]This song is not old; its author, the late John Mayne, long outlived Burns

[211]By Crawfurd.

[212]By Ramsay.

[213]The author, John Tait, a writer to the Signet and some time Judge of the police-court in Edinburgh, assented to this, and altered the line to,“And sweetly the wood-pigeon cooed from the tree.”

[213]The author, John Tait, a writer to the Signet and some time Judge of the police-court in Edinburgh, assented to this, and altered the line to,

“And sweetly the wood-pigeon cooed from the tree.”

[214]Song CXXXIX.

[215]Song LXXX.

[216]Song CLXXVII.

[217]“How sweet this lone vale, and how soothing to feeling,Yon nightingale’s notes which in melody meet.”The song has found its way into several collections.

[217]

“How sweet this lone vale, and how soothing to feeling,Yon nightingale’s notes which in melody meet.”

The song has found its way into several collections.

[The letter to which this is in part an answer, Currie says, contains many observations on Scottish songs, and on the manner of adapting the words to the music, which at Mr. Thomson’s desire are suppressed.]

April, 1793.

I have yours, my dear Sir, this moment. I shall answer it and your former letter, in my desultory way of saying whatever comes uppermost.

The business of many of our tunes wanting, at the beginning, what fiddlers call a starting-note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers.

“There’s braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,That wander through the blooming heather,”

you may alter to

“Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,Ye wander,” &c.

My song, “Here awa, there awa,” as amended by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve of, and return you.

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only thing in which it is, in my opinion, reprehensible. You know I ought to know something of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and point, you are a complete judge; but there is a quality more necessary than either in a song, and which is the very essence of a ballad—I mean simplicity: now, if I mistake not, this last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to the foregoing.

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been always equally happy in his pieces; still I cannot approve of taking such liberties with an author as Mr. Walker proposes doing with “The last time I came o’er the moor.” Let a poet, if he choose, take up the idea of another, and work it into a piece of his own; but to mangle the works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue is now mute for ever, in the dark and narrow house—by Heaven, ’twould be sacrilege! I grant that Mr. W.’s version is an improvement; but I know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much; let him mend the song, as the Highlander mended his gun—he gave it a new stock, a new lock, and a new barrel.

I do not, by this, object to leaving out improper stanzas, where that can be done without spoiling the whole. One stanza in “The lass o’ Patie’s mill” must be left out: the song will be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we can take the same liberty with “Corn rigs are bonnie.” Perhaps it might want the last stanza, and be the better for it. “Cauld kail in Aberdeen,” you must leave with me yet awhile. I have vowed to have a song to that air, on the lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the verses, “Poortith cauld and restless love.” At any rate, my other song, “Green grow the rashes,” will never suit. That song is current in Scotland under the old title, and to the merry old tune of that name, which, of course, would mar the progress of your song to celebrity. Your book will be the standard of Scots songs for the future: let this idea ever keep your judgment on the alarm.

I send a song on a celebrated toast in this country, to suit “Bonnie Dundee.” I send you also a ballad to the “Mill, mill, O!”[218]

“The last time I came o’er the moor,” I would fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and let Ramsay’s be the English set. You shall hear from me soon. When you go to London on this business, can you come by Dumfries? I have still several MS. Scots airs by me, which I have picked up, mostly from the singing of country lasses. They please me vastly; but your learnedlugswould perhaps be displeased with the very feature for which I like them. I call them simple; you would pronounce them silly. Do you know a fine air called “Jackie Hume’s Lament?” I have a song of considerable merit to that air. I’ll enclose you both the song and tune, as I had them ready to send to Johnson’s Museum.[219]I send you likewise, to me, a beautiful little air, which I had taken down fromviva voce.[220]

Adieu.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:[218]SongsCXCII. andCXCIII.[219]Song CXCIV.[220]Song CXCVIII.

[218]SongsCXCII. andCXCIII.

[219]Song CXCIV.

[220]Song CXCVIII.

[Thomson, it would appear by his answer to this letter, was at issue with Burns on the subject-matter of simplicity: the former seems to have desired a sort of diplomatic and varnished style: the latter felt that elegance and simplicity were “sisters twin.”]

April, 1793.

My dear Sir,

I had scarcely put my last letter into the post-office, when I took up the subject of “The last time I came o’er the moor,” and ere I slept drew the outlines of the foregoing.[221]How I have succeeded, I leave on this, as on every other occasion, to you to decide. I own my vanity is flattered, when you give my songs a place in your elegant and superb work; but to be of service to the work is my first wish. As I haveoften told you, I do not in a single instance wish you, out of compliment to me, to insert anything of mine. One hint let me give you—whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota of the original Scottish airs, I mean in the song department, but let our national music preserve its native features. They are, I own, frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern rules; but on that very eccentricity, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:[221]Song CCXXXIV.

[221]Song CCXXXIV.

[This remarkable letter has been of late the subject of some controversy: Mr. Findlater, who happened then to be in the Excise, is vehement in defence of the “honourable board,” and is certain that Burns has misrepresented the conduct of his very generous masters. In answer to this it has been urged that the word of the poet has in no other thing been questioned: that in the last moments of his life, he solemnly wrote this letter into his memorandum-book, and that the reproof of Mr. Corbet, is given by him either as a quotation from a paper or an exact recollection of the words used: the expressions, “not to think” and be “silentandobedient” are underlined.]

Dumfries, 13th April, 1793.

Sir,

Degenerate as human nature is said to be, and in many instances, worthless and unprincipled it is, still there are bright examples to the contrary; examples that even in the eyes of superior beings, must shed a lustre on the name of man.

Such an example have I now before me, when you, Sir, came forward to patronize and befriend a distant, obscure stranger, merely because poverty had made him helpless, and his British hardihood of mind had provoked the arbitrary wantonness of power. My much esteemed friend, Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, has just read me a paragraph of a letter he had from you. Accept, Sir, of the silent throb of gratitude; for words would but mock the emotions of my soul.

You have been misinformed as to my final dismission from the Excise; I am still in the service.—Indeed, but for the exertions of a gentleman who must be known to you, Mr. Graham of Fintray, a gentleman who has ever been my warm and generous friend, I had, without so much us a hearing, or the slightest previous intimation, been turned adrift, with my helpless family, to all the horrors of want. Had I had any other resource, probably I might have saved them the trouble of a dismission; but the little money I gained by my publication, is almost every guinea embarked, to save from ruin an only brother, who, though one of the worthiest, is by no means one of the most fortunate of men.

In my defence to their accusations, I said, that whatever might be my sentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I abjured the idea!—That aconstitution, which, in its original principles, experience had proved to be every way fitted for our happiness in society, it would be insanity to sacrifice to an untried visionary theory:—that, in consideration of my being situated in a department, however humble, immediately in the hands of people in power, I had forborne taking any active part, either personally, or as an author, in the present business of Reform. But, that, where I must declare my sentiments, I would say there existed a system of corruption between the executive power and the representative part of the legislature, which boded no good to our gloriousconstitution; and which every patriotic Briton must wish to see amended.—Some such sentiments as these, I stated in a letter to my generous patron, Mr. Graham, which he laid before the Board at large; where, it seems, my last remark gave great offence; and one of our supervisors-general, a Mr. Corbet, was instructed to inquire on the spot, and to document me—“that my business was to act,not to think;and that whatever might be men or measures, it was for me to besilentandobedient.”

Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend; so between Mr. Graham and him, I have been partly forgiven; only I understand that all hopes of my getting officially forward, are blasted.

Now, Sir, to the business in which I would more immediately interest you. The partiality of mycountrymenhas brought me forward as a man of genius, and has given me a character to support. In the Poet I have avowed manly and independent sentiments, which I trust will be found in the man. Reasons of no less weight than the support of a wife and family, have pointed out as the eligible, and, situated as I was, the only eligible line of life for me, my present occupation. Still my honest fame is mydearest concern; and a thousand times have I trembled at the idea of thosedegradingepithets that malice or misrepresentation may affix to my name. I have often, in blasting anticipation, listened to some future hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of savage stupidity, exulting in his hireling paragraphs—“Burns, notwithstanding thefanfaronadeof independence to be found in his works, and after having been held forth to public view and to public estimation as a man of some genius, yet quite destitute of resources within himself to support his borrowed dignity, he dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk out the rest of his insignificant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of mankind.”

In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to lodge my disavowal and defiance of these slanderous falsehoods.Burnswas a poor man from birth, and an exciseman by necessity: but Iwillsay it! the sterling of his honest worth, no poverty could debase, and his independent British mind, oppression might bend, but could not subdue. Have not I, to me, a more precious stake in my country’s welfare than the richest dukedom in it?—I have a large family of children, and the prospect of many more. I have three sons, who, I see already, have brought into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit the bodies ofslaves.—Can I look tamely on, and see any machination to wrest from them the birthright of my boys,—the little independentBritons, in whose veins runs my own blood?—No! I will not! should my heart’s blood stream around my attempt to defend it!

Does any man tell me, that my full efforts can be of no service; and that it does not belong to my humble station to meddle with the concern of a nation?

I can tell him, that it is on such individuals as I, that a nation has to rest, both for the hand of support, and the eye of intelligence. The uninformed mob may swell a nation’s bulk; and the titled, tinsel, courtly throng, may be its feathered ornament; but the number of those who are elevated enough in life to reason and to reflect; yet low enough to keep clear of the venal contagion of a court!—these are a nation’s strength.

I know not how to apologize for the impertinent length of this epistle; but one small request I must ask of you further—when you have honoured this letter with a perusal, please to commit it to the flames.Burns, in whose behalf you have so generously interested yourself, I have here in his native colours drawnas he is, but should any of the people in whose hands is the very bread he eats, get the least knowledge of the picture,it would ruin the poorbardfor ever!

My poems having just come out in another edition, I beg leave to present you with a copy, as a small mark of that high esteem and ardent gratitude, with which I have the honour to be,

Sir,

Your deeply indebted,

And ever devoted humble servant,

R. B.

[“Up tails a’, by the light o’ the moon,” was the name of a Scottish air, to which the devil danced with the witches of Fife, on Magus Moor, as reported by a warlock, in that credible work, “Satan’s Invisible World discovered.”]

April 26, 1793.

I am d—mnably out of humour, my dear Ainslie, and that is the reason, why I take up the pen toyou: ’tis the nearest way (probatum est) to recover my spirits again.

I received your last, and was much entertained with it; but I will not at this time, nor at any other time, answer it.—Answer a letter? I never could answer a letter in my life!—I have written many a letter in return for letters I have received; but then—they were original matter—spurt-away! zig here, zag there; as if the devil that, my Grannie (an old woman indeed) often told me, rode on will-o’-wisp, or, in her more classic phrase,Spunkie, were looking over my elbow.—Happy thought that idea has engendered in my head!Spunkie—thou shalt henceforth be my symbol signature, and tutelary genius! Like thee, hap-step-and-lowp, here-awa-there-awa, higglety-pigglety, pell-mell, hither-and-yon, ram-stam, happy-go-lucky, up-tails-a’-by-the-light-o’-the-moon,—has been, is, and shall be, my progress through the mosses and moors of this vile, bleak, barren wilderness of a life of ours.

Come then, my guardian spirit, like thee may I skip away, amusing myself by and at my own light: and if any opaque-souled lubber of mankind complain that my elfine, lambent, glimmerous wanderings have misled his stupid steps over precipices, or into bogs, let the thickheaded blunderbuss recollect, that he is not Spunkie:—that

“Spunkie’swanderings could not copied be:Amid these perils none durst walk but he.”—

I have no doubt but scholar-craft may be caught, as a Scotchman catches the itch,—by friction. How else can you account for it, that born blockheads, by mere dint ofhandlingbooks, grow so wise that even they themselves are equally convinced of and surprised at their own parts? I once carried this philosophy to that degree that in a knot of country folks who had a library amongst them, and who, to the honour of their good sense, made me factotum in the business; one of our members, a little, wise-looking, squat, upright, jabbering body of a tailor, I advised him, instead of turning over the leaves,to bind the book on his back.—Johnnie took the hint; and as our meetings were every fourth Saturday, and Pricklouse having a good Scots mile to walk in coming, and, of course, another in returning, Bodkin was sure to lay his hand on some heavy quarto, or ponderous folio, with, and under which, wrapt up in his gray plaid, he grew wise, as he grew weary, all the way home. He carried this so far, that an old musty Hebrew concordance, which we had in a present from a neighbouring priest, by mere dint of applying it, as doctors do a blistering plaster, between his shoulders, Stitch, in a dozen pilgrimages, acquired as much rational theology as the said priest had done by forty years perusal of the pages.

Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think of this theory.

Yours,

Spunkie.

[Miss Kennedy was one of that numerous band of ladies who patronized the poet in Edinburgh; she was related to the Hamiltons of Mossgiel.]

Madam,

Permit me to present you with the enclosed song as a small though grateful tribute for the honour of your acquaintance. I have, in these verses, attempted some faint sketches of your portrait in the unembellished simple manner of descriptivetruth.—Flattery, I leave to yourlovers, whose exaggerating fancies may make them imagine you still nearer perfection than you really are.

Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most forcibly the powers ofbeauty; as, if they are really poets of nature’s making, their feelings must be finer, and their taste more delicate than most of the world. In the cheerful bloom ofspring, or the pensive mildness ofautumn; the grandeur ofsummer, or the hoary majesty ofwinter, the poet feels a charm unknown to the rest of his species. Even the sight of a fine flower, or the company of a fine woman (by far the finest part of God’s works below), have sensations for the poetic heart that theherdof man are strangers to.—On this last account, Madam, I am, as in many other things, indebted to Mr. Hamilton’s kindness in introducing me to you. Your lovers may view you with a wish, I look on you with pleasure; their hearts, in your presence, may glow with desire, mine rises with admiration.

That the arrows of misfortune, however they should, as incident to humanity, glance a slight wound, may never reach yourheart—that the snares of villany may never beset you in the road of life—thatinnocencemay hand you by the path of honour to the dwelling ofpeace, is the sincere wish of him who has the honour to be, &c.

R. B.

[The name of the friend who fell a sacrifice to those changeable times, has not been mentioned: it is believed he was of the west country.]

June, 1793.

When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend of mine in whom I am much interested, has fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you will easily allow that it might unhinge me for doing any good among ballads. My own loss as to pecuniary matters is trifling; but the total ruin of a much-loved friend is a loss indeed. Pardon my seeming inattention to your last commands.

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the “MillMill, O!”[222]What you think a defect, I esteem as a positive beauty; so you see how doctors differ. I shall now, with as much alacrity as I can muster, go on with your commands.

You know Frazer, the hautboy-player in Edinburgh—he is here, instructing a band of music for a fencible corps quartered in this county. Among many of his airs that please me, there is one, well known as a reel, by the name of “The Quaker’s Wife;” and which, I remember, a grand-aunt of mine used to sing, by the name of “Liggeram Cosh, my bonnie wee lass.” Mr. Frazer plays it slow, and with an expression that quite charms me. I became such an enthusiast about it, that I made a song for it, which I here subjoin, and enclose Frazer’s set of the tune. If they hit your fancy, they are at your service; if not, return me the tune, and I will put it in Johnson’s Museum. I think the song is not in my worst manner.

Blythe hae I been on yon hill.[223]

I should wish to hear how this pleases you.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:[222]“The lines were the third and fourth:‘Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless,And mony a widow mourning.’As our poet had maintained a long silence, and the first number of Mr. Thomson’s musical work was in the press, this gentleman ventured, by Mr. Erskine’s advice, to substitute for them, in that publication.‘And eyes again with pleasure beam’dThat had been blear’d with mourning.’Though better suited to the music, these lines are inferior to the original.”—Currie.[223]Song CXV.

[222]“The lines were the third and fourth:‘Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless,And mony a widow mourning.’As our poet had maintained a long silence, and the first number of Mr. Thomson’s musical work was in the press, this gentleman ventured, by Mr. Erskine’s advice, to substitute for them, in that publication.‘And eyes again with pleasure beam’dThat had been blear’d with mourning.’Though better suited to the music, these lines are inferior to the original.”—Currie.

[222]“The lines were the third and fourth:

‘Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless,And mony a widow mourning.’

As our poet had maintained a long silence, and the first number of Mr. Thomson’s musical work was in the press, this gentleman ventured, by Mr. Erskine’s advice, to substitute for them, in that publication.

‘And eyes again with pleasure beam’dThat had been blear’d with mourning.’

Though better suited to the music, these lines are inferior to the original.”—Currie.

[223]Song CXV.

[Against the mighty oppressors of the earth the poet was ever ready to set the sharpest shafts of his wrath: the times in which he wrote were sadly out of sorts.]

June 25th, 1793.

Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation, on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdoms, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions? In a mood of this kind to-day I recollected the air of “Logan Water,” and it occurred to me that its querulous melody probably had its origin from the plaintive indignation of some swelling, suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of some public destroyer, and overwhelmed with private distress, the consequence of a country’s ruin. If I have done anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in three-quarters of an hour’s meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some merit:—

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide.[224]

Do you know the following beautiful little fragment, in Wotherspoon’s collection of Scots songs?[225]

Air—“Hughie Graham.”

“Oh gin my love were yon red rose,That grows upon the castle wa’;And I mysel’ a drap o’ dew,Into her bonnie breast to fa’!“Oh there, beyond expression blest,I’d feast on beauty a’ the night,Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest,Till fley’d awa by Phœbus light!”

“Oh gin my love were yon red rose,That grows upon the castle wa’;And I mysel’ a drap o’ dew,Into her bonnie breast to fa’!

“Oh there, beyond expression blest,I’d feast on beauty a’ the night,Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest,Till fley’d awa by Phœbus light!”

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful; and quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you altogether unless you gave it a place. I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. After balancing myself for a musing five minutes, on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the following.

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, I frankly confess: but if worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place; as every poet who knows anything of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a concluding stroke.

Oh were my love yon lilac fair,Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring;And I a bird to shelter there,When wearied on my little wing!How I wad mourn, when it was tornBy autumn wild and winter rude!But I wad sing on wanton wing,When youthfu’ May its bloom renewed.[226]

Oh were my love yon lilac fair,Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring;And I a bird to shelter there,When wearied on my little wing!

How I wad mourn, when it was tornBy autumn wild and winter rude!But I wad sing on wanton wing,When youthfu’ May its bloom renewed.[226]

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:[224]Song CXCVI.[225]Better known as Herd’s. Wotherspoon was one of the publishers.[226]SeeSong CXCVII.

[224]Song CXCVI.

[225]Better known as Herd’s. Wotherspoon was one of the publishers.

[226]SeeSong CXCVII.

[Thomson, in his reply to the preceding letter, laments that anything should untune the feelings of the poet, and begs his acceptance of five pounds, as a small mark of his gratitude for his beautiful songs.]

July 2d, 1793.

My dear Sir,

I have just finished the following ballad, and, as I do think it in my best style, I send it you. Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs. Burns’s wood-note wild, is very fond of it, and has given it a celebrity by teaching it to some young ladies of the first fashion here. If you do not like the air enough to give it a place in your collection, please return it. The song you may keep, as I remember it.

There was a lass, and she was fair.[227]

I have some thoughts of inserting in your index, or in my notes, the names of the fair ones, the themes of my songs. I do not mean the name at full; but dashes or asterisms, so as ingenuity may find them out.

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M’Murdo, daughter to Mr. M’Murdo, of Drumlanrig, one of your subscribers. I have not painted her in the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress and character of a cottager.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:[227]Song CXCVIII.

[227]Song CXCVIII.

[Burns in this letter speaks of the pecuniary present which Thomson sent him, in a lofty and angry mood: he who published poems by subscription might surely have accepted, without any impropriety, payment for his songs.]

July, 1793.

I assure you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. However, to return it would savour of affectation; but, as to any more traffic of that debtor and creditor kind, I swear by thathonourwhich crowns the upright statue ofRobert Burns’s Integrity—on the least motion of it, I will indignantly spurn the by-past transaction, and from that moment commence entire stranger to you!Burns’scharacter for generosity of sentiment and independence of mind, will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants which the cold unfeeling ore can supply; at least, I will take care that such a character he shall deserve.

Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never did my eyes behold in any musical work such elegance and correctness. Your preface, too, is admirably written, only your partiality to me has made you say too much: however, it will bind me down to double every effort in the future progress of the work. The following are a few remarks on the songs in the list you sent me. I never copy what I write to you, so I may be often tautological, or perhaps contradictory.

“The Flowers o’ the Forest,” is charming as a poem, and should be, and must be, set to the notes; but, though out of your rule, the three stanzas beginning,

“I’ve seen the smiling of fortune beguiling,”

are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalize the author of them, who is an old lady of my acquaintance, and at this moment living in Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn, I forget of what place, but from Roxburghshire.[228]What a charming apostrophe is

“O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting,Why thus perplex us, poor sons of a day?”

The old ballad, “I wish I were where Helen lies,” is silly to contemptibility. My alteration of it, in Johnson’s, is not much better. Mr. Pinkerton, in his, what he calls, ancient ballads (many of them notorious, though beautiful enough, forgeries), has the best set. It is full of his own interpolations—but no matter.

In my next I will suggest to your consideration a few songs which may have escaped your hurried notice. In the meantime allow me to congratulate you now, as a brother of the quill. You have committed your character and fame, which will now be tried, for ages to come, by the illustrious jury of theSons and Daughters of Taste—all whom poesy can please or music charm.

Being a bard of nature, I have some pretensions to second sight; and I am warranted by the spirit to foretell and affirm, that your great-grand-child will hold up your volumes, and say, with honest pride, “This so much admired selection was the work of my ancestor!”

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:[228]Miss Rutherford, of Fernilee in Selkirkshire, by marriage Mrs. Patrick Cockburn, of Ormiston. She died in 1794, at an advanced age.

[228]Miss Rutherford, of Fernilee in Selkirkshire, by marriage Mrs. Patrick Cockburn, of Ormiston. She died in 1794, at an advanced age.

[Stephen Clarke, whose name is at this strange note, was a musician and composer; he was a clever man, and had a high opinion of his own powers.]

August, 1793.

My dear Thomson,

I hold the pen for our friend Clarke, who at present is studying the music of the spheres at my elbow. The Georgium Sidus he thinks is rather out of tune; so, until he rectify that matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial affairs.

He sends you six of therondeausubjects, and if more are wanted, he says you shall have them.

Confound your long stairs!

S. Clarke.

[“Phillis the Fair” endured much at the hands of both Burns and Clarke. The young lady had reason to complain, when the poet volunteered to sing the imaginary love of that fantastic fiddler.]

August, 1793.

Your objection, my dear Sir, to the passages in my song of “Logan Water,” is right in one instance; but it is difficult to mend it: if I can, I will. The other passage you object to does not appear in the same light to me.

I have tried my hand on “Robin Adair,” and, you will probably think, with little success; but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure, that I despair of doing anything better to it.

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