the lave o'l is mine; the music said to be by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin player in Dumfries, about the beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, constantly claimed it; and by all the old musical people here is believed to be the author of it, Andrew and his cutty gun. The song to which this is set in the Museum, is mine; and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called, the Flower of Strathmore. How lang and dreary is the night. I met with some such words in a collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged; and to please you and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a stride or two across my room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the other page. Tune-" Cauld kail in Aberdeen." How lang and dreary is the night, CHORUS. For oh, her lanely nights are lang; And oh, her dreams are eerie; And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, That's absent frae her dearie. When I think on the lightsome days And now what seas between us roar, How slow ye move ye heavy hours; It was na sae, ye glinted by, Tell me how you like this. I differ from your idea of the expression of the tune. There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to your addenda airs. A lady of my ac quaintance, a noted performer, plays and sings My Eppie's voice, O vow it's sweet, Even tho' she bans and scaulds a wee; But when it's tun'd to sorrow's tale, O, haith, its doubly dear to me! Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, I'll make it bleeze a bonnie flame: Your blood is thin, ye've tint the gate, Ye should na stray sae far frae hame. "Nae hame have I, the minstrel said, Sad party strife o'erturned my ha'; And, weeping at the eve o' life, I wauder thro' a wreath o' snaw." This affecting poem is apparently incomplete. The author need not be ashamed to own himself. It is worthy of Burns, or of Macneil. at the same time so charmingly, that I shall never bear to see any of her songs sent into the world, as naked as Mr What-d'ye-call-um has done in his London collection.* These English songs gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at Duncan Gray, to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance. Tune-" Duncan Gray." LET not women e'er complain, Look abroad through Nature's range, Man should then a monster prove? Mark the winds, and mark the skies; Why then ask of silly man, To oppose great Nature's plan? We'll be constant while we canYou can be no more you know. Since the above, I have been out in the country taking a dinner with a friend, where I met with the lady whom I mentioned in the second page of this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usual, I got into song; and returning home, I composed the following. THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS. Tune-" Deil tak the wars." SLEEP ST thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature? Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray; Chants o'er the breathing flower: Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.† Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning Banishes ilka darksome shade, Nature gladdening and adorning; When absent frae my fair, The murky shades o' care With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky; But when in beauty's light, She meets my ravish'd sight, When through my very heart Her beaming glories dart; 'Tis then I wake to life, to light and joy. If you honour my verses by setting the air to them, I will vamp up the old song, and make it English enough to be understood. I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East Indian air, which you would swear was a Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, as the gentleman who brought it over is a particular acquaintance of mine. Do preserve me the copy I send you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke has set a bass to it, and I intend putting it into the Musical Museum. Here follow the verses I intend for it. THE AULD MAN. BUT lately seen in gladsome green Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers On winter blasts awa! Yet maiden May, in rich array, But my white pow, nae kindly thowe My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, Oh, age has weary days, And nights o' sleepless pain! Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, Why comest thou not again! I would be obliged to you if you would procure me a sight of Ritson's collection of English songs, which you mention in your letter. I will thank you for another information, and that as speedily as you please: whether this miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not completely tired you of my correspondence. than his meat. I wish I knew the adorable she, whose bright eyes and witching smiles have so often enraptured the Scottish bard! that I might drink her sweet health when the toast is going round. Craigie-burn wood, must certainly be adopted into my family, since she is the object of the song; but in the name of decency, I must beg a new chorus verse from you. O to be lying beyond thee, dearie, is perhaps a consummation to be wished, but will not do for singing in the company of ladies. The songs in your last will do you lasting credit, and suit the respective airs charmingly. I am perfectly of your opinion with respect to the additional airs. The idea of sending them into the world naked as they were born was ungenerous. They must all be clothed and made decent by our friend Clarke. I find I am anticipated by the friendly Cunningham, in sending you Ritson's Scottish collection. Permit me, therefore, to present you with his English collection, which you will receive by the coach. I do not find his historical essay on Scottish song interesting. Your anecdotes and miscellaneous remarks will, I am sure, be much more so. Allan has just sketched a charming design from Maggie Lauder. She is dancing with such spirit as to electrify the piper, who seems almost dancing too, while he is playing with the most exquisite glee. I am much inclined to get a small copy, and to have it engraved in the style of Ritson's prints. P. S.-Pray, what do your anecdotes say concerning Maggie Lauder? was she a real personage, and of what rank? You would surely spier for her if you ca'd at Anstruther town. No. LXII. MR BURNS to MR THOMSON. MANY thanks to you, my dear sir, for your November, 1794. present: it is a book of the utmost importance to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, &c. for your work. I intend drawing it up in the form of a letter to you, which will save me from the tedious dull business of systematic arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to say consists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps, old songs, &c. it would be impossible to give the work a beginning, a middle, and an end; which the critics insist to be absolutely necessary in a work. In my last, I told you my objections to the song you had selected for My lodging is on the cold ground. On my visit the other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic *It does not appear whether Burn completed these anecdotes, &c. Something of the kind (probably the rude draughts) was found amongst his papers, and appears in p. xxxi. name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration) | of which the measure is something similar to she suggested an idea, which I, in my return from the visit, wrought into the following song. My Chloris, mark how green the groves, The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string The princely revel may survey Our rustic dance wi' scorn; But are their hearts as light as ours Beneath the milk-white thorn? The shepherd, in the flowery glen, In shepherd's phrase will woo: The courtier tells a finer tale, But is his heart as true? These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck How do you like the simplicity and tenderness of this pastoral? I think it pretty well. I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of ma chere amie. I assure you, I was never more in earnest in my life, than in the account of that affair which I sent you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion which I deeply feel and highly venerate; but, somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion, "Where Love is liberty, and nature law.” Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet; while the last has power equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still, I am a very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness of the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul; and whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever might be the raptures they would give me, yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having these pleasures at a dishonest price; and justice forbids, and generosity disdains to purchase! Despairing of my own powers to give you variety enough in English songs, I have been turning over old collections to pick out songs what I want; and, with a little alteration, so as to suit the rhyme of the air exactly, to give you them for your work. Where the songs have hitherto been but little noticed, nor have ever been set to music, I think the shift a fair one. A song, which, under the same first verse, you will find in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany, I have cut down for an English dress to your, "Dainty Davie," as follows. SONG, ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH ONE. IT was the charming month of May, When all the flowers were fresh and gay, One morning by the break of day, The youthful, charming Chloe; From peaceful slumber she arose, CHORUS. Lovely was she by the dawn, The youthful, charming Chloe. The feather'd people you might see They hail the charming Chloe; "Till, painting gay the eastern skies, Of youthful, charming Chloe. You may think meanly of this, but take a look at the bombast original, and you will be surprised that I have made so much of it. I have finished my song to "Rothiemurchie's Rant ;" and you have Clarke to consult, as to the set of the air for singing. LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. Tune-" Rothiemurchie's Rant." CHORUS. Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Now Nature cleeds the flowery lea, P And when the welcome summer-shower When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way; Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love, my dearie (. Lassie wi', &c. And when the howling wintry blast I'll comfort thee, my dearie O.* Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, This piece has at least the merit of being a regular pastoral: the vernal morn, the summer noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter night are regularly rounded. If you like it, well: if not, I will insert it in the Museum. I am out of temper that you should set so sweet, so tender an air, as, " Deil tak the wars," to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silliness of "Saw ye my Father;" by heavens the odds is gold to brass! Besides, the old song, though now pretty well modernized into the Scottish language, is, originally, and in the early editions, a bungling low imitation of the Scottish manner, by that genius Tom D'Urfey; so has no pretensions to be a Scottish production. There is a pretty English song by Sheridan in the "Duenna," to this air, which is out of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins, "When sable night each drooping plant restoring." There is an air, "The Caledonian Hunt's delight," to which I wrote a song that you will find in Johnson. "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon;" this air, I think, might find a place among your hundred as Lear says, of his nights. Do you know the history of the air? It is curious enough. A good many years ago, Mr James Miller, writer in your good town, a gentleman whom possibly you know, was in company with our friend Clarke; and talking of Scottish music, Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve some kind of rhythm; and he would infallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is, that in a few days, Mr Miller produced the rudiments of an air, which Mr Clarke, with some touches and corrections, fashioned into the tune in question. Ritson, you know, has the same story of the black keys; but this account, which I have just given you, Mr Clarke informed me of several years ago. Now, to show you how difficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly asserted that this was an Irish air; nay, I met with an Irish gentleman who affirmed that he had heard it in Ireland among the old women; while, on the other hand, a countess informed me that the first person who introduced the air into this country, was a baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took down the notes from an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How difficult then to ascertain the truth respecting our poesy and music! I, myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads sung through the streets of Dumfries, with my name at the head of them as the author, though it was the first time I had ever seen them. I thank you for admitting Craigie-burn wood; and I shall take care to furnish you with a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my work, but a part of some old verses to the air. If I catch myself in a more than The air, if I understand the expression of it ordinarily propitious moment I shall write a properly, is the very native language of sim-new Craigie-burn wood altogether. My heart plicity, tenderness and love. I have again gone over my song to the tune as follows.t Now for my English song to "Nancy's to the Greenwood," &c.‡ • In some of the MSS. this stanza runs thus: And should the howling wintry blast See the song in its first and best dress in p. 223. Our bard remarks upon it, "I could easily throw this into an English mould; but, to my taste, in the simple and the tender of the pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scottish has an inimitable effect." Here our poet gives a new edition of the song in p. 201. of this volume, and proposes it for another tune. The alterations are unimportant. The name Maria, he changes to Eliza. Instead of the tenth and eleventh lines, as in p. 201, he introduces, "Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, is much in the theme. I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request; 'tis dunning your generosity; but in a moment when I had forgotten whether I was rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you this; but an ungracious request is doubly so, by a tedious apology. To make you some amends as soon as I have extracted the necessary information out of them, I will return you Ritson's volumes. The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so distinguished a figure in your collection, and I am not a little proud that I have Instead of the fourteenth line, which seems not perfectly grammatical as it is printed, he has, more properly, "Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me." This edition ought to have been preferred had it been observed in time. it in my power to please her so much. Lucky it is for your patience that my paper is done, for when I am in a scribbling humour, I know not when to give over. No. LXIII. MR THOMSON to MR BURNS. 15th November 1794. No. LXIV. MR BURNS to MR THOMSON. 19th November 1794. which you were pleased to praise so much. Whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not say; but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old. You see, my dear sir, what a punctual correspondent I am; though indeed you may thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you have so flattered me on my horsemanship with my favourite hobby, and have praised the grace of his ambling so much, that I MY GOOD SIR, am scarcely ever off his back. For instance, SINCE receiving your last, I have had another this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in interview with Mr Clarke, and a long consul-my walk before breakfast, I finished my duet tation. He thinks the Caledonian Hunt is more bacchanalian than amorous in its nature, and recommends it to you to match the air accordingly. Pray did it ever occur to you how peculiarly well the Scottish airs are adapted for verses, in the form of a dialogue? The first part of the air is generally low, and suited for a man's voice, and the second part, in many instances, cannot be sung, at concert pitch, but by a female voice. A song thus performed makes an agreeable variety, but few of ours are written in this form: I wish you would think of it in some of those that remain. The only one of the kind you have sent me is admirable, and will be an universal favourite. Your verses for Rothiemurchie are so sweetly pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, for Deil tak the wars, so passionately tender, that I nave sung myself into raptures with them, Your song for My lodging is on the cold ground is likewise a diamond of the first water; I am quite dazzled and delighted by it. Some of your Chlorises I suppose have flaxen hair, from your partiality for this colour; else we differ about it; for I should scarcely conceive a woman to be a beauty, on reading that she had lint-white locks! Farewell thou stream that winding flows, I think excellent, but it is much too serious to come after Nancy; at least it would seem an incongruity to provide the same air with merry Scottish and melancholy English verses! The more that the two sets of verses resemble each other in their general character, the better. Those you have manufactured for Dainty Darie, will answer charmingly. I am happy to find you have begun your anecdotes. I care not how long they be, for it is impossible that any thing from your pen can be tedious. Let me beseech you to use no ceremony in telling me when you wish to present any of your friends with the songs: the next carrier will bring you three copies, and you are as welcome to twenty as to a pinch of snuff. Tune-" The sow's tail." HE. O Philly, happy be that day SHE. O Willie, aye I bless the grove HE. As songsters of the early year And charming is my Philly. SHE. As on the brier the budding rose HE. The milder sun and bluer sky, SHE. The little swallow's wanton wing, As meeting o' my Willie. HE. The bee, that thro' the sunny hour SHE. The woodbine in the dewy weet |