ble of any thing but routing and roaring. A friend of mine says he remembers to have heard one in his younger days, made of wood instead of your bone, and that the sound was abominable.* Do not, I beseech you, return any books. No. LXVIII. BURNS TO MR THOMSON. December, 1794. It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart, to do any thing to forward, or add to the value of your book; and as I agree with you that the Jacobite song in the Museum, to 'There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame,' would not so well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love-song to that air, I have just framed for you the following :— MY NANNIE'S AWA. Tune-"There'll never be peace," &c. Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays, The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, * The query put by Mr Thomson, is sufficiently answered by the lengthened note, appended to No. LXVI.; the interest which every one, curious in the history of Scottish music, must attach to it, will excuse its prolixity.-M. Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, How does this please you? As to the point of time for the expression, in your proposed print from my Sodger's Return,' it must certainly be at-" She gaz'd." The interesting dubiety and suspense taking possession of her countenance, and the gushing fondness, with a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike me as things of which a master will make a great deal. In great haste, but in great truth, yours. No. LXIX. BURNS TO MR THOMSON. January, 1795. I FEAR for my songs; however, a few may please, yet originality is a coy feature in composition, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the same style, disappears altogether. For these three thousand years, we poetic folks have been describing the spring, for instance; and as the spring continues the same, there must soon be a sameness in the imagery, &c. of these said rhyming folks. A great critic (Aikin) on songs says that love and wine are the exclusive themes for song-writing. The following is on neither subject, and consequently is no song; but The heroine of this pastoral song is supposed to be Clarinda, otherwise Mrs M'Ilhose.-M. will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme : IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY. Tune -"For a' that and a' that." Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that; Our toil's obscure, and a' that, What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that; For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that. Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that, A king can mak a belted knight,* In some editions this line runs thus:- But an honest man's aboon his might, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Then let us pray that come it may, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, It's coming yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, I do not give you the foregoing song for your book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle; for the piece is not really poetry. How will the following do for Craigieburn Wood?' CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD.* Sweet fa's the eve on Cragie-burn, Can yield me nocht but sorrow. This sweet little song savours much of the secret love displayed in the following old verses: Dinna ask me gin I luve thee? Deed I darena tell; Dinna ask me gin I luve thee? Ask it o' yoursell. When ye come to yon town end, O dinna look at me sae aft, I see the flowers and spreading trees, Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, If thou refuse to pity me, If thou shalt love anither, When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, Farewell! God bless you. For when ye look at me sae aft, I canna look at you. Dinna ask me, &c. Little ken ye but mony ane, Will say they fancy thee; That fancies nane but thee. Dinna ask me gin I luve thee,— Deed I darena tell; Dinna ask me gin I luve thee,— B. * Craigie-burn Wood is situated on the banks of the river Moffat, and about three miles distant from the village of that name, celebrated for its medicinal waters. The woods of Craigieburn and of Dumcrief, were at one time favourite haunts of our poet. It was there he met the "Lassie wi' the lint-white locks," and that he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics.-Currie. |