III. Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, IV. Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, V. Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, Adieu, my dear Sir! The post goes, so I shall defer some other remarks until more leisure. R. B. No. XLVI. The faulty line in "Logan-Water," I mend thus: "How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?""* The song, otherwise, will pass. As to "M'Gregoira Rua-Ruth," you will see a song of mine to it, with a set of the air superior to yours in the Museum. Vol. ii. p. 81. The song begins : "Raving winds around her blowing."+ Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are downright Irish. If they were like the " Banks of Banna," for instance, though really Irish, yet in the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to twenty-five of them in an additional number? We could easily find this quantity of charming airs; I will take care that you shall not want songs; and I assure you that you would find it the most saleable of the whole. If you do not approve of "Roy's wife," for the music's sake, we shall not insert it. "Deil tak the wars," is a charming song; so is "Saw ye my Peggy?" "There's nae luck about the house" well deserves a place. I cannot say that "O'er the hills and far awa," strikes me as equal to your selection. "This is no my ain house," is a great favourite air of mine; and, if you will send me your set of it, I will task my muse to her highest effort. What is your For "Muirland Willie," you have, in Ram-opinion of "I hae laid a herrin' in sawt?" like it much. Your Jacobite airs are pretty : say's Tea-table Miscellany, an excellent song, and there are many others of the same kind, beginning, "Ah why those tears in Nelly's You eyes?" As for "The Collier's dochter," take pretty; but you have not room for them. the following old Bacchanal:cannot, I think, insert, "Fye, let's a' to the bridal" to any other words than its own. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. September, 1793. I HAVE been turning over some volumes of songs, to find verses whose measures would suit the airs for which you have allotted me to find English songs. Deluded Swain, the Pleasure. I. Deluded swain, the pleasure The fickle fair can give thee Is but a fairy treasure- Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. II. The billows on the ocean, III. O! art thou not ashamed IV. Go, find an honest fellow; See No. XXV. where it is given correctly. What pleases me as simple and naïve disgusts you as ludicrous and low. For this reason, Fye, gie me my coggie, Sirs," "Fye, let's a' to the bridal," with several others of that cast, are, to me, highly pleasing; while, "Saw ye my Father, or saw ye my Mother?" delights me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, "Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?" pleases myself so much that I cannot try my hand at another song to the air; so I shall not attempt it. I know you will laugh at all this; but, Ilka man wears his belt his ain gait." R. B. [Burns, in the song to the air of "The Collier's Daughter," seems to have had in mind the famous old northern chant:: "Fye, gie me my coggie, sirs, And fye, gie me my coggie; The songs which the Poet enumerates in this This Song will be found in page 37.. their merits, are such as might be looked for from one who felt humour and tenderness, pathos and simplicity, with all the force of true genius. The refinement which would exclude from society such songs as 66 Fie, gie me my coggie, Sirs," ," "Fye, let us a' to the bridal," "The Auld Gudeman," "Meg o' the Mill," and others of a similar stamp, is of a very questionable kind.] No. XLVII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. October, 1793. YOUR last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed laden with heavy news. Alas! poor Erskine!* The recollection that he was a coadjutor in your publication has, till now, scared me from writing to you, or turning my thoughts on composing for you. I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air of the "Quaker's Wife;" though, by the bye, an old Highland gentleman and a deep antiquarian tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of "Leiger m' choss." The following verses, I hope, will please you, as an English song to the air: *The honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Kelly, whose melancholy death Mr. Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter which he has suppressed.-CURRIE. t[We owe this song, it is said, to the charms of Clarinda. The words bear no resemblance to the old strains which accompany the air of "The Quaker's wife," to which it is adapted: "Merrily danced the Quaker's wife, Merrily danced the Quaker; Your objection to the English Song I proposed for "John Anderson, my jo," is certainly just. The following is by an old acquaintance of mine, and I think has merit. The song was never in print, which I think is so much in your favour. The more original good poetry your collection contains, it certainly has so much the more merit. SONG. BY GAVIN TURNBULL. O CONDESCEND, dear charming maid, While here, all melancholy, I heard of love, and with disdain I laugh'd at every lover's pain, But how my state is alter'd! O yield, illustrious beauty, yield! Let generous pity warm thee, My wonted peace restore; And, grateful, I shall bless thee still, And love thee more and more. The following address of Turnbull's to the Nightingale will suit as an English song to the air, "There was a lass, and she was fair." By the bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS., which I can command, if you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour; but I like some of his pieces very much : THE NIGHTINGALE. BY G. TURNBULL. THOU sweetest minstrel of the grove That ever tried the plaintive strain; Awake thy tender tale of love, And soothe a poor forsaken swain. For, tho' the muses deign to aid, And teach him smoothly to complain; Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid, Is deaf to her forsaken swain. The lover of old English poetry will perceive a resemblance between the third verse of the song of Burns, and that truly exquisite one attributed to Shakspeare: "Take, oh! take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn; But my kisses bring again, Seals of love, but sealed in vain." All day, with Fashion's gaudy sons, In sport she wanders o'er the plain ; And soothe a poor forsaken swain. I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's, which would go charmingly to 'Lewie Gordon :' LAURA. BY G. TURNBULL. LET me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still. ["Like all men of true genius," says MOTHERWELL, "Burns was the least susceptible of literary jealousy, and the first to acknowledge the claims of a co-rival to poetical distinction." In "Alexander Campbell's History of Scottish Poetry," there appears this brief notice of the work of one of whom Burns speaks in so flattering a manner : "No sooner had the Paisley press produced the poems of Mr. Ebenezer Picken, than the Poetical Essays of Gavin Turnbull, in 1778, issued from the press of Mr. David Niven of Glasgow. The Poetical Essays' of Mr. Turnbull are such as do him the highest credit. I am hopeful he will go on; for, in truth, the specimens already before the public give, so far as I understand, uncommon satisfaction. It was the peculiar felicity of Burns, on his first entrance on the literary stage, to be patronized and supported, even to a de HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife, Is it man, or woman, say, II. If 'tis still the lordly word, Service and obedience; I'll desert my sov'reign lord, And so, good b'ye, allegiance!† "Sad will I be, so bereft, Nancy, Nancy; Yet I'll try to make a shift, gree rarely the lot of the most consummate talents. It became for a time the rage, to use a fashionable phrase, to talk of him, recite his pieces, and boast of having spent an evening in company with the Ayr-shire bard. No wonder then, if the contemporaries of Burns were neglected by those who are looked up to as the umpires of literary reputation. But one consolation remained; the ingenious author escaped the most poignant mortification, usually attendant on talents unaccompanied by prudence, that is, the supercilious sneer, indicative of altered opinion, and its humiliating consequence, cold indifference. Did not Burns experience all this ?''] † VAR.-If the word is still obey, And never more come near you, III. My poor heart then break it must, Think, think, how you will bear it. "I will hope and trust in heaven, Nancy, Nancy; Strength to bear it will be given, IV. Well, sir, from the silent dead, Wilt thou be my Dearie ? Air-The Suter's Dochter. I. WILT thou be my dearie? I swear and vow that only thou II. Lassie, say thou lo'es me; * [In composing this song the Poet had in his eye the lyrics of the olden time: the more immediate object of his imitation was "My Jo Janet," in the collection of Allan Ramsay, beginning "Sweet Sir, for your courtesie, When ye come to the Bass, then For the love ye bear to me, Buy me a keeking-glass, then." "Keek into the draw well, Janet, Janet, And there ye'll see your bonnie sel,' Burns regretted that he had not sooner turned his thoughts upon lyrics of a conversational character.] † A letter to Mr. Cunningham, to be found in the correspondence, under the date of Feb. 25th, 1794. ["The painter who pleased Burns and Thomson so much OWING to the distress of our friend for the loss of his child, at the time of his receiving your admirable but melancholy letter, I had not an opportunity till lately of perusing it. How sorry I am to find Burns saying, "canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?" while he is delighting others from one end of the island to the other. Like the hypochondriac who went to consult a physician upon his case-"Go," says the doctor, "and see the famous Carlini, who keeps all Paris in good humour." "Alas! Sir," replied the patient, "I am that unhappy Carlini !" Your plan for our meeting together pleases me greatly, and I trust that by some means or other it will soon take place; but your Baccha nalian challenge almost frightens me, for I an a miserable weak drinker! Allan is much gratified by your good opinion of his talents. He has just begun a sketc from your "Cotter's Saturday Night," and, it pleases himself in the design, he will pr bably etch or engrave it. In subjects of the pastoral and humorous kind, he is perhaps unrivalled by any artist living. He fails a little in giving beauty and grace to his females, and his colouring is sombre; otherwise, his paintings and drawings would be in greater request. ! I like the music of the "Sutor's dochter," and will consider whether it shall be added to the last volume; your verses to it are pretty but your humorous English song to suit "Jo Janet," is inimitable. What think you of the air, "Within a mile of Edinburgh?" It has with his shepherds and shepherdesses was David Allan he studied in Rome and in London, but acquired little fa from his classic efforts compared to what he achieved by delineations of the pastoral scenes and happy peasantry f his native country. With loveliness he could do little; give him an old cottage, with older plenishing, and older inhabitants, and he could do all but work miracles An ancient chair with a dog sleeping-or seeming to sleepunder it an old woman twirling her distaff in the sun, with her cat and her chickens around her; or an old man sitter ruminating at his own fire-side, with his Bible on his knees. inspired him at once; and in subjects such as these he has never been surpassed. His illustrations of Ramsay's Gerte Shepherd will bear out these commendations: his Gland and Symon, his Mause and Madge, are inimitable; not so ha Pate and his Peggie; his forte lay in representing humerous characters, and he failed when youth and loveliness came be fore him to be limned. His mantle, with a double porta of power, has fallen on David Wilkie."-CUNNINGBAN his I RETURN you the plates, with which I am highly pleased; I would humbly propose, instead of the younker knitting stockings, to put a stock and horn into his hands. A friend of mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the subject I have ever met with, and, though an unknown, is yet a superior, artist with the burin, is quite charmed with Allan's manner. I got him a peep of the Gentle Shepherd; and he pronounces Allan a most original artist of great excellence. For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing my favourite poem for his subject to be one of the highest compliments I have ever received. I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up in France, as it will put an entire stop to our work. Now, and for six or seven months, I shall be quite in song, as you shall see by and by. I got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls "The banks of Cree." Cree is a beautiful romantic stream: and, as her Ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it : * A portion of this letter has been left out, for reasons that will be easily imagined. ["It were to be wished,' says Currie, that instead of 'ruffian feeling' in the second verse, that the Bard had used a less rugged epithet-e. g. ruder.' Burns seldom failed to clothe his thoughts in suitable language: the sentiment put on at once its livery of words, and he was loth to make alterations. The remark of Currie strikes, not at this expres I have presented a copy of your songs to the daughter of a much-valued and much-honoured friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintray. I wrote, on the blank side of the title-page, the following address to the young lady :— Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, Accept the gift; tho' humble he who gives, Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. As modest want the tale of woe reveals; While conscious virtue all the strain endears, And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. No. LIII. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. Edinburgh, 10th August, 1794. MY DEAR SIR: I owe you an apology for having so long delayed to acknowledge the favour of your last. sion alone, but at the general language of the Poet's verse. We must take him as we find him; had he softened down his masculine energy, he would have robbed his poems of a great charm: the rose would be less lovely were its thorns removed, and how would the thistle look without its prickles? The cry of the eagle can never be tamed down into the song of the lark, nor the wild note of the blackbird sobered into that of the wren."-CUNNINGHAM.] |