though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea: so, if you please, we will let the line stand as it is. I have altered the song as follows: BANNOCK-BURN. ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled; Or to glorious victory. Now's the day, and now's the hour; Wha will be a traitor knave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee ! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw! Free-man stand, or free-man fa', Caledonian on wi' me! By oppression's woes and pains! Lay the proud usurpers low! Forward! let us do, or die! differ, but there is no disputing about hobbyhorses. I shall not fail to profit by the remarks you make; and to re-consider the whole with attention. "Daintie Davie" must be sung two stanzas together, and then the chorus-'tis the proper way. I agree with you, that there may be something of pathos, or tenderness at least, in the air of "Fee him, father," when performed with feeling; but a tender cast may be given almost to any lively air, if you sing it very slowly, expressively, and with serious words. I am, however, clearly and invariably for retaining the cheerful tunes joined to their own humorous verses, wherever the verses are passable. But the sweet song for " Fee him, father," which you began about the back of midnight, I will publish as an additional one. Mr James Balfour, the king of good fellows, and the best singer of the lively Scottish ballads that ever existed, has charmed thousands of companies with "Fee him, father," and with "Todlin hame" also, to the old words, which never should be disunited from either of these airs. Some Bacchanals I would wish to discard. "Fy let us a' to the bridal," for instance, is so coarse and vulgar, that I think it fit only to be sung in a company of drunken colliers; and" Saw ye my father" appears to me both indelicate and silly. One word more with regard to your heroic ode. I think, with great deference to the poet, that a prudent general would avoid saying any thing to his soldiers which might tend to make death more frightful than it is. Gory, presents a disagreeable image to the mind; and to tell them," Welcome to your gory bed, seems rather a discouraging address, notwithstanding the alternative which follows. I have shown the song to three friends of excellent taste, and N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from each of them objected to this line, which embolthe common stall edition of Wallace. dens me to use the freedom of bringing it again under your notice. I would suggest, "Now prepare for honour's bed, No. XLV. MR BURNS to MR THOMSON. September, 1793. WHO will decide when doctors disagree?" My ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations would, in my opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly obliged to you for putting me on re-considering it; as I think I have much improved it. Instead of "sodger! hero!" I will have it " Caledonian ! on wi' me !" I have scrutinized it, over and over; and to the world some way or other it shall go as it is. At the same time it will not in the least hurt me, should you leave it out altogether and adhere to your first intention of adopting | Where is the peace that awaited my wandering, Logan's verses.* I have finished my song to "Saw ye my father;" and in English, as you will see. That there is a syllable too much for the expression of the air, is true; but allow me to say, that the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver, is not a great matter: however, in that, I have no pretension to cope in judgment with you. Of the poetry I speak with confidence; but the music is a business where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence. The old verses have merit, though unequal, and are popular; my advice is to set the air to the old words, and let mine follow as English verses. FAIR JENNY. Tune-" Saw ye my father." Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, That danced to the lark's early song? *Mr Thomson has very properly adopted this song (if it may be so called) as the bard presented it to him. He has attached it to the air of Lewie Gordon, and perhaps among the existing airs he could not find a better; but the poetry is suited to a much higher strain of music, and may employ the genius of some Scottish Handel, if any such should in future arise. The reader will have observed, that Burns adopted the alterations proposed by his friend and correspondent in former instances with great readiness; perhaps, indeed, on all indifferent occasions. In the present instance, however, he rejected them, though repeatedly urged, with determined resolution. With every respect for the judg ment of Mr Thomson and his friends, we may be satis. fied that he did so. He who in preparing for an engagement attempts to withdraw his imagination from images of death, will probably have but imperfect success, and is not fitted to stand in the ranks of battle, where the liberties of a kingdom are at issue. Of such men the conquerors at Bannockburn were not composed. Bruce's troops were inured to war, and familiar with all its sufferings and dangers. On the eve of that me morable day, their spirits were without doubt wound up to a pitch of enthusiasm suited to the occasion; a pitch of enthusiasm at which danger becomes attractive, and the most terrific forms of death are no longer terrible. Such a strain of sentiment this heroic "welcome" may be supposed well calculated to elevate-to raise their hearts high above fear, and to nerve their arms to the utmost pitch of mortal exertion. These observations might be illustrated and supported, by a reference to the martial poetry of all nations, from the spirit-stirring strains of Tyrteus, to the war-song of General Wolfe. Mr Thomson's observation, that" Welcome to your gory bed, is a discouraging address" seems not sufficient. ly considered. Perhaps, indeed, it may be admitted, that the term gory is somewhat objectionable, not on account of its presenting a frightful but a disagreeable image to the mind. But a great poet uttering his conceptions on an interesting occasion, seeks always to present a picture that is vivid, and is uniformly disposed to sacrifice the delicacies of taste on the altar of the imagination. And it is the privilege of superior genius, by producing a new association, to elevate expressions that were originally low, and thus to triumph over the deficiencies of language. In how many instances might this be exemplified from the works of our immortal Shakspeare. "Who would fardels bear, It were easy to enlarge, but to suggest such reflections 1s probably sufficient. At evening the wild woods among? No more a-winding the course of yon river, Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, "How can your flinty hearts enjoy The song, otherwise, will pass. As to MGregoira 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. 181. 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 fur 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 opinion of I hae laid a herrin in sawt? I like it much. Your Jacobite airs are pretty; and there are many others of the same kind pretty-but you have not room for them. You cannot, I think, insert Fye let us a' to the bridal to any other words than its own. What pleases me, as simple and naive, disgusts you as ludicrous and low. For this reason, Fye, gie me my coggie, sirs-Fye let us 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." No. XLVII. MR BURNS to MR 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 This will be found in the latter part of this volume. +The Honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Kellv, whose melancholy death Mr Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter, which he has suppressed. 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. THINE am I, my faithful fair, To thy bosom lay my heart, There to throb and languish ; Take away these rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure: What is life when wanting love? 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, Those happy days are o'er ; O yield, illustrious beauty, yield, No longer let me mourn; And tho' victorious in the field, Thy captive do not scorn. 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 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. If at rosy dawn I choose When at night the drowsy god The rest of your letter I shall answer at some other opportunity. 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. All day, with Fashion's gaudy sons, When evening shades obscure the sky, And bring the solemn hours again, Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, 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, No. XLVIII. MR THOMSON to MR BURNS. MY DEAR SIR, 7th Nov. 1793. AFTER so long a silence, it gave me peculiar pleasure to recognise your well-known hand, for I had begun to be apprehensive that al was not well with you. I am happy to find, however, that your silence did not proceed from that cause, and that you have got among the ballads once more. I have to thank you for your English song to Leiger 'm choss, which I think extremely good, although the colouring is warm. Your friend Mr Turnbull's songs have doubtless considerable merit and as you have the command of his manuscripts, I hope you may find out some that will answer as English songs to the airs yet unprovided. No. XLIX. MR BURNS to MR THOMSON. TELL me how you like the following verses to the tune of Jo Janet. HUSBAND, husband cease your strife, "One of two must still obey, Nancy, Nancy, Is it man or woman, say, If 'tis still the lordly word, "Sad will I be so bereft, My poor heart then break it must, My last hour I'm near it : When you lay me in the dust, Think, think how you will bear it. "I will hope and trust in heaven, Well, sir, from the silent dead, Still I'll try to daunt you; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you. "I'll wed another like my dear, Air-"The Sutor's Dochter." WILT thou be my dearie : When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, I swear and vow that only thou Lassie, say thou lo'es me; Thou for thine may choose me, No. L. MR THOMSON to MR BURNS. MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, 7th April, 1794. 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 am I to find Burns saying, "Canst A letter to Mr Cunningham, to be found in p. 81. 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 Bacchanalian challenge almost frightens me, for I am a miserable weak drinker! Allan is much gratified by the good opinion of his talents. He has just begun a sketch from your Cotter's Saturday Night, and if it pleases himself in the design, he will probably etch or engrave it. In subjects of the pastoral or 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 to suit " Jo Janet" is inimitable. What think you of the air, "Within a mile of Edinburgh?" It has always struck me as a modern English imitation; but is said to be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that I believe I must include it. The verses are little better than "namby pamby." D you consider it worth a stanza or two? 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 bye. 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. |