about a year ago, a collection of your unpublished productions, religious and amorous; I know from experience how irksome it is to copy. If you will get any trusty person in Dumfries to write them over fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever money he asks for his trouble; and I certainly shall not betray your confidence. I am your hearty admirer, ANDREW ERSKINE No. XII. Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. On 26th January, 1793. I approve greatly, my dear sir, of your plans. Dr. Beattie's essay will of itself be a treasure. 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 any 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 Bal lenden, 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 devotious 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 mean time, 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 proper to have one set of Seots words to every air, and that the set of words to which the There is a naiveté, a pas notés ought to be set. toral 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. The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisition to your work. His Gregory is beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, which are at your service. Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter: that would be presumption indeed. My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity in it. LORD GREGORY. O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour An exile from her father's ha', Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, By bonnie Irwine-side, Where first I own'd that virgin-love I lang, lang had denied. How aften didst thou pledge and vow, Thou wad for aye be mine; Hard is thy heart, lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast: Thou dart of heav'n that flashest by, Ye mustering thunders from above, My most respectful compliments to the honourable gentleman, who favoured me with a postscript in your last. He shall hear from me and receive. his MSS. soon. The song of Dr. Walcott on the same subject is as follows. Ah ope, lord Gregory, thy door, A midnight wanderer sighs, Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar, Who comes with woe at this drear night Alas! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn, But should'st thou not poor Marian know, And think the storms that round me blow, It is but doing justice to Dr. Waleott to mention, that his song is the original. Mr. Burns saw it, liked it, and immediately wrote the other on the sane subject, which is derived from an old Scot tish ballad of uncertain origin. E. No. XIII. Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. 20th March, 1793. MARY MORISON. Tune-"Bide ye yet." O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour; Yestreen, when to the trembling string, I sat, but neither heard or saw : O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? My dear sir, The song prefixed 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 by. I have always looked on myself as the prince of indolent correspondents, and valued myself accordingly; and I will not, cannot bear rivalship from you, nor any body else. No. XIV. Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. March, 1793. Here awa, WANDERING WILLIE. there awa, wandering Willie, Now tired with wandering, haud awa bame; Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting; It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e: Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Wil lie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers, But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nanie, O still flow between us, thou wide-roaring main { May I never see it, may I never trow it, But dying believe that my Willie's my ain! ........ |